The Legend of Pradeep Mathew by Shehan Karunatilaka

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.’
Chinese Rolls
    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.
Yellow Card
    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