The Legend of Pradeep Mathew by Shehan Karunatilaka Page A

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.
Ambarella Juice
    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.
    Unfortunately, Sheila doesn’t. I have to convince her that I am working even when I am staring out of the window. My morning hangover muffles her shrieks. Unable to fight back, I let the moment pass and it always does. I wonder if cricketers have money troubles or screeching wives.
    Saturday night is spent like most Saturday nights. On Ari’s balcony with bottles. Ari’s balcony is the only one on de Saram Road with a clear view of the sea. We watch stray cats negotiate the tiles of rooftops. There is barely enough room to swing one of them on this ledge with parapets. I am drinking my usual and Ari has a glass of what looks like urine.
    ‘Ambarella juice. Rochelle gave Manouri a blender. Have some. Good for your insides, Wije.’
    I sip some through the straw. The type a drowning man would clutch at.
    The drink is not as putrid as I thought. I want to tell Ari that my insides are rotting, and even though this is the place, it is perhaps not the time.
    ‘Rochelle is getting married, no? Do you Burgher buggers have to give dowry?’
    ‘Nope,’ says Ari, pouring the urine-coloured ambarella into the glass-coloured glass. ‘We just put on booze and fry cutlets.’
    Cushioned in sea breeze, Ari and I discuss the possibility of an ambidextrous bowler. Ari thinks the idea is nonsense and even though I argue, I secretly agree. We reminisce about 1983, the year Sheila and I and little Garfield moved to Mount Lavinia, next door to Ari, his first wife Norma, and the girls.
    We talk about the riots. Our friends Krish and Nathan who fled to Canada. We talk about Kapil Dev’s high catch to dismiss the great Viv Richards, how he plucked the World Cup seemingly out of the air. I tell him how Kapil refused me a one-on-one because I wrote India off in my preview of the final. We savour the warm air and toast to memories.
    ‘Some fellow has called you?’
    ‘Satyakumar Gokulanath. Old Tamil gentleman. Former Royal fielding coach. Can we chat with him at your place?’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Sheila doesn’t like me drinking at home.’
    ‘But you still do.’
    ‘Not that. Were you at the ’83 Royal–Thomian?’
    ‘Of course. I had liver problems that year. Remember?’
    Ari is now pouring arrack and I am swimming in my thoughts.
    ‘I didn’t know you then. We only met in July when they came to burn Nathan’s house.’
    ‘Ah. Right. Right. The Royal–Tho was in March… obviously. My first sober Big Match since 1952.’ He grins. ‘′52 I got cockered. Thora won. ′53 I got even more cockered and we won by an innings!’
    The pre-poya moon casts a white glow on Ari’s balcony and reflects off his bald spot. In the distance, the sea snores.
    ‘I got