The Legend of Pradeep Mathew (9 page)

The memory of the Burgher girl at Galle Face Hotel Dinner Dance 1963, the girl on the bus to Kotahena, takes what little blood I have in my brain and sends it elsewhere. I barely manage a grunt.

‘From morning… ringing… ringing… Y2K… Millennium… Sivanathan… Mathew…’

I first saw her on the night of 31 December at Galle Face, when my friend asked her to dance, while I sulked at the bar. She was going steady with a trainee reporter, apprenticed with me at the
Daily News
under Mr Herbert Hulugalle. For six months, I pretended to live in Kotahena, even though I was boarded in Nugegoda on the other side of town.

Once, we both happened to be standing in a packed bus. Every time her bosom brushed my arm, she apologised, politely and sweetly.

After six months of buses to Kotahena, I gave the fair girl a letter. A poem by the Lord Byron which I passed off as my own. I then plundered the Lords Keats, Blake and Shelley, typed them on scented paper, and signed as Gamini Karuna.

After five letters, she replied. ‘I may betray my boyfriend for someone at some point, but it won’t be today and it won’t be you.’ She was only right about the first part. After seventeen more letters, she agreed to go to the film hall with me.

The phone rings again. Sheila picks up and sits up.

‘Hello… No… Y2Komputers… Mr Mathew… is… is… mathewing… your mother.’

She pulls the phone out of the socket.

‘Gamini. Are you sure this isn’t one of your things? I know you’ve been drinking again. What did the doctor say last check-up?’

After the film, the fair girl with the polite bosom told me she liked my letters but that I should find my own style and stop stealing from the
MD Gunasena Treasury of English Verse.
I married her a year later. My friend screamed to the world that I had stolen Sheila from him, and he was right.

I begin replugging the phone and deflecting the question.

‘What did you say about Mathew?’

‘I knew it was you. What are you up to, Gamini? Do you know this Mathew Pradeep fellow?’

The phone rings as soon as I plug it in. I am saved by Lanka Bell.

‘Is that Y2Komputers?’

A man’s voice. A man who sounds too wide awake for 6.37 a.m. on a Sunday.

‘No. Sorry. Wrong number.’

‘Is Mr Mathew there?’

‘Who?’

‘Mr Pradeep Sivanathan Mathew. You see, I run a small import–export company…’

‘What do you want with Pradeep Mathew?’

‘My operations are fully computerised. Do you install the software as well…’

An hour and twenty-seven calls later, I unplug the phone and open the
Sunday Observer
classifieds. Amidst cars and houses and brides for sale is the personal section and the ad I have placed.

All morning I get enquiries for Mathew and millennium bugs. Sheila goes next door to Ari’s to escape the din. After lunch I pick up the newspaper and I see an ad spilling over from the electronics section.

I receive close to 200 calls that Sunday. And a further 200 during the week. Each wanting Sri Lanka’s greatest left-arm spinner to debug their office networks. And then on Thursday:

‘Hello. Mr W.G., please.’

‘Speaking.’

‘I call about ad about Pradeep…’

‘Sorry. That was a mistake. We do not do Y2K viruses.’

‘I call…’

‘Sorry for the inconvenience.’

‘I call… because I coach him at Royal in ’82 and ’83…’

‘That is absurd,’ screams Brian. ‘Production has begun. We have done the script, built the sets.’

‘Here, don’t bullshit, Brian.’ Danila’s boss, Jayantha Punchipala, MD of the SLBCC, has invited us for a fight. ‘You haven’t built any sets.’

Punchipala’s office looks nothing like the dingy ITL meeting rooms. After the death of Minister Tyronne Cooray in a suicide attack in 1994, the post of Cricket Board chief attracted many pretenders. Punchipala’s betting empire financed his successful bid over more qualified candidates. Within a year he would be replaced by an interim committee, but that afternoon, he was very much in control.

Most Sri Lankans smile when they are angry or ill at ease. The MD grins with his whole face. He is a thickset man, dark as a West Indian, with Elvis hair and shiny cufflinks. He directs the tea boy towards us.

‘I like the concept. But what is the meaning of this production cost?’ says Punchipala. ‘Y’all are hiring Spielberg?’

He laughs at his own joke.

‘Also, the script needs to be revised.’ He looks at me. ‘Am I right?’

‘Revised, how?’ I ask, as if I am a drunk in a bar wielding a bottle.

‘Pradeep Mathew,’ says Danila, shaking her head.

‘That fool was a troublemaker,’ says the MD, smiling at his cufflinks. ‘Also, he left debts to the Cricket Board.’

‘What sort of debts?’

‘Bigger than all your annual salaries put together, Uncle. Broke his contract and left loans. The SLBCC does not wish to promote such a character.’

‘Where is he now?’ asks Ari.

The MD shrugs. ‘Ask Dhani, Pradeep was her friend, no?’

Danila smiles and says nothing.

‘If I knew where he was, I would personally break his face,’ says the MD with a smile.

Brian has been seething in a corner for some time. He controls his voice. ‘If you like we will remove the Mathew segment. But you cannot cancel funding. Graham Snow promised these gentlemen…’

‘No offence, Brian,’ says Danila. ‘Graham Snow makes a lot of promises when he’s drunk. If we funded every one of them, we’d be bankrupt.’

‘Seven lakhs, no, Wije? We have it in writing.’

The MD pours himself some coffee. ‘There are many sports shows wanting grants. We cannot put all our eggs in one basket.’

The walls have photos of great cricketers of eras past and a few bats with signatures on them. On the antique desk is a photo of Punchipala’s wife and two sons. Next to it is a giant TV screen showing the highlights of Sri Lanka’s surprise win over Australia in the Benson and Hedges World Series. This is the reason for the meeting starting thirty-nine minutes late or at 0.39 SLT.

Under a framed photo of Madam President, the TV replays Kalu belting Glenn McGrath. It distracts us for a moment. I breathe in air that has been conditioned and freshened, listen to the low hum of the TV, and speak. ‘I suggest we call Graham Snow. It’s his money. We have invested time into this project. If anyone is to pull the plug, it should be him.’

At first there is resistance. Danila places her hand on Punchipala’s forearm and suggests this may be a wise course of action. He calls his secretary. A toy is placed on the table, black with flashing red lights. We are told that it may take a while to get Graham Snow on the line.

‘Bugger must be full busy. NSPN have extended his contract,’ says Brian, not without envy.

‘How are our boys? You think they will get into finals?’ The MD turns up the TV and steers us in the direction of all Sri Lankan conversations this holiday season.

Despite the future of our documentary being in tatters, Ari cannot resist. ‘MD. This is only our second win. We have to win all remaining games to get to the finals.’

Neither can I. ‘No. No. We will win. Our team is pumped up. They are playing for Murali.’

‘Now they have cleared Murali, no?’ says Rakwana.

‘Real umpires haven’t no-balled him,’ says Mrs Kolombage. ‘Only that fellow Hair. Must cut that hair. Hee. Hee. You saw that, Doctor? Watch. Watch. McGrath is shouting at our Kalu. Next three balls, Kalu whacks him for fours.’

It is more words than she has spoken in all previous meetings combined.

‘Hello. Graham Snow speaking.’

His voice crackles from the toy on the table. The static is worse than my Samyo radio, which gives me perfect reception from Lord’s, Barbados and Cape Town, but can only offer broken signals from neighbouring Mumbai. Danila reaches for the remote and kills the TV.

‘Hi, Graham. This is Jayantha Punchipala. Sri Lanka Cricket Board.’

‘Hi, Jayantha.’

‘We have your friends, Karunasena and Byrd.’

‘Hello, chaps. Sorry for being out of touch. My schedule’s been mental. Love those scripts. Magnificent work. Can’t wait to see the films.’

‘We have my advertising manager, Danila…’

‘Hi, Dhani.’

‘My accounts manager, Yasmin…’

‘Look, Jayantha, could we skip the roll call? I’m really busy.’

The MD drops his accent. ‘Graham. I am sorry but the Cricket Board cannot approve a script with Pradeep Mathew.’

‘Why not?’

The MD explains. Graham responds.

‘I don’t understand what you’re saying. Look. Let’s shoot all ten. We can choose which ones we run.’

‘I’m sorry, Graham, but that is not advantageous.’

‘Look here. I’m providing funding. Either you give the money to W.G. and Ari or I donate it to the Bangladeshis.’

Danila winks at me and places her hand on the MD’s shoulder. He brushes it off. Brian, Ari and I resist the urge to punch the air.

The call is ended. The MD looks like he’s just been run-out without facing a ball. He snatches a chequebook from Danila and begins scribbling.

‘We are washing our hands of this. OK? From now on you deal direct with Graham.’

Brian lets out a yelp. ‘Excuse me, sir. The agreed fee was seven lakhs.’

‘Who agreed on seven lakhs?’ asks Danila.

I am more worried by the familiarity with which she handles the MD’s briefcase than with her changing allegiance.

‘This is an insult,’ yelps Brian, getting to his feet. ‘We have written proof.’

Ari extracts the signed requisition from our files and passes it to Brian.

Brian bangs it on the table. ‘See.’ And we do.

Rs 100,000 Only

‘Is that a 7?’ asks the mousey girl.

Ari grabs it. ‘My dear, it is quite clearly a…’ He narrows his eyes and looks at me.

The MD has donned his suit jacket. Danila is holding his briefcase. They are evidently departing together. He shoos us from his office. ‘Sort it out with your good friend Graham.’

We are back to meeting at ITL. We are served Chinese rolls and tea with floating lumps of milk powder. I have stopped wearing polished shoes and combing my hair. Brian has stopped calling us names. Ari has stopped cursing Graham Snow.

‘Bottom line,’ says Cassim. ‘ITL will require at least four and a half lakhs to shoot ten shows.’

Rakwana no longer attends meetings.

‘Also, if you are using footage,’ says Mrs Kolombage, ‘there is a fee.’

‘What about sponsors?’ asks Ari, trying to look hopeful.

‘If you can find, of course, why not?’ says Cassim.

‘Can you help?’ I ask.

‘ITL is only contracted for production,’ says Mrs Kolombage.

I liked her better when she was a parrot. How could two wretched old men find sponsors? How many logos would Brian need to wear on his undies? Brian no longer talks at meetings. He is typing on his mobile phone and shaking his head. He has sulked all afternoon. He still blames Ari and me for not checking the cheque.

At Ari’s insistence, we fork out Rs 49,750 for the footage. The sight of two boxes of videotapes is more than he can resist. The long walk to the ITL cashier’s is done to the soundtrack of Brian bitching.

‘You can’t even shoot a hand-held porn film with Rs 50,000. That’s it, Uncles. I’m done with this.’

‘Just wait, Brian. I think W.G. should write to Graham,’ says Ari. ‘Tell him the budget.’

‘Why me?’

‘You’re the writer.’

At the cashier’s we are told that the government no longer subsidises ITL’s refreshment expenses. We are required to fork out a further Rs 50 each for the tea and short eats. Brian is livid.

He refuses to carry the two dusty boxes and will not allow us to transport them in his Datsun. He waits while we negotiate with a three-wheeler and says he is thinking of going back to radio. He also tells me that Jayantha Punchipala’s wife stormed into the Cricket Board office last week and called Danila Guneratne many unsavoury names.

‘Call me when you find sponsors,’ he says.

‘You will also look?’ I ask.

He puts the car into gear and avoids my eye. ‘Definitely,’ he says and drives off.

These days I only smoke when I write. Drink, however, is a different story. If I could I would drink in my sleep. I know men younger and healthier who have suffered the inconvenience of multiple bypasses. I know drinkers whose bodies were unable to keep up. Who exchanged the bottle for sobriety and the permanent frown it brings.

I have watched drinking acquaintances find solace in religion and family. I have seen men go from being life-and-soul-of-the-party to disagreeable old teetotaller. I have seen diabetic thirty-year-olds convinced that they were cursed.

I, on the other hand, have been blessed. For the mornings and afternoons of my working life, I have treated myself to a compulsory shot, and have treated breakfast and lunch as optional extravagances. And, contrary to chemistry and biology, for sixty years my bill of health has been clean.

And while Sheila and Ari argue that alcohol cost me jobs at the
Daily News
and the
Island,
they do not know of what they speak. Alcohol has enhanced my life and the world I inhabit. It has given me insight, jocularity and escape. I would not be who I am without it.

It begins with the swellings around my stomach and legs. Then I am unable to sleep. Then I shit droplets of blood. I tell no one about my visit to Nawasiri or the tests that I took or how much they cost. I take it as a warning. A yellow card. If I behave myself, I may not have to miss any games.

We have almost given up on sponsors and of ever getting through to Graham. I return home empty-handed and Garfield stops talking to me.