The Legend of Pradeep Mathew by Shehan Karunatilaka Page B

cockered every year for the next thirty years, but only two more results. We won in ’64, they won in ’69. Then in ’83 I had my hepatitis scare. Must look after the liver, no? You lose your liver, you can’t live.’
    Ari is so engrossed in his chatter he fails to notice the look on my face.
    ‘So in 1983 I stay sober. And the year I am sober those beggars thrash us.’
    Ari grins.
    ‘Now I realise that in life and in cricket, whether I booze or not, what will be, will be.’
    We croak a few refrains of ‘Que Sera’ and I lift my glass to the being of what will be.
    Ari’s eyes narrow. ‘You know that Royal cheated?’
    I roll my eyes.
    ‘Listen to this. The whole Royal team were wearing blue and yellow caps when they were bowling. Who does that?’ ‘Blue and gold.’
    ‘Yellow. If that is gold, I’m a Chinaman with a ponytail. Wije, do you know what I saw?’
    ‘The Royalists raping your little girls in style?’
    ‘Apart from that. Everyone said I am sour grapes, that I was drunk. Bullshit. I was fully sober. I saw what I saw.’
    ‘What, so?’
    ‘There were five bowlers in the Royal team. Their spinner took 5 wickets, their pacey took 3. According to the records, that is.’
    ‘So?’
    ‘I swear to this day. On Norma’s grave, rest her soul.’ He crosses himself. ‘In the second innings, there was a sixth bowler on that field. He took all the wickets. No one noticed except me.’
Satyakumar Gokulanath
    When he tramples Manouri’s flowerpots, I know there is going to be trouble. Ari, not noticing, leads us up his garden path to the chairs on the lawn. We take seats around a formica table, sheltered by araliya trees. It is the place where Ari sees guests he doesn’t want his wife to see.
    With Satyakumar Gokulanath, there is plenty not to see. He mumbles and shakes. His face is all jowls and his hair is dyed oily black. He wears a faded Chinese collar shirt adorned with multiple food stains. His slacks are tented over his twig legs and his sandals are covered in Manouri’s compost. He looks like he has spent his whole life painting houses without ever bothering to change clothes.
    I have seen him before at the Visible Bar in Katubedda and at the Kaanuwa in Moratumulla. He is one of those drunks who stand at the bar talking to no one. At the Kaanuwa, everyone stands – the carpenters, the trishaw drivers, the sportswriters who miss their buses. I have seen Gokulanath bare his beedi-stained teeth at four-finger widths of neat gal arrack and knock it back in one gulp. Gal is a close relative of turpentine and just as tasty. Strange for this creature to be coaching a Colombo 7 school.
    The day is pleasant. Drinks cool, sunshine bright, grass green, company peculiar. Ari has put on a spread of rambutan, shelled and deseeded so as not to offend our fragile teeth. I could not think of a worse hell than living in a house with six ladies, but I see it has its advantages. Our guest has arrived drunk and is demanding more. Before we begin, he wants to finalise the fee.
    Mr S. Gokulanath was the assistant coach of the Royal 2nd XI from 1968 to 1997. He taught PT and environmental studies at Royal to Forms 2–3. When the government changed in ’70, he taught PE and social studies to Grades 7–8. When the government changed again in ’77, he was teaching saramba and parisaraya to Years 8–9. There is a Sinhalese phrase which translated reads: ‘The changing of the pillow will not cure the headache.’
    Gokulanath is a skeletal man with bad posture. He is a Jaffna Tamil who speaks impeccable Sinhalese, but shaky English. I have translated, paraphrased and attempted to replicate.
    He spends a full hour tanking up on booze while Ari ribs me about Sunday’s classified debacle. Gokulanath tells us the reason he was reading the Sunday classifieds that day was to look for work. After twenty-nine years of service, he was sacked from Royal College on a false allegation and was not given his thirty-year bonus or