The Legend of Pradeep Mathew by Shehan Karunatilaka Read Free Book Online

Graham leads us to the lift. All that is left of the party are empty bottles, fallen ashtrays and broken furniture.
    ‘You know, WeeJay, when I asked you to come at 10, I meant tomorrow morning,’ smiles Graham.
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘I never drink with the press or let them see me drunk.’ ‘But you said come at 10…’
    ‘Doesn’t matter.’ Graham lifts his hand. ‘Was a pleasure meeting you both. Can I trust you not to write about my personal life?’
    ‘Definitely.’
    Ari looks smitten and does not let go of Graham’s hand. I wonder if I should leave them alone for a goodnight kiss.
    ‘We didn’t get to talk business. Will you be at home tomorrow?’
    Ari and I say yes at the same time.
    ‘Where do you live?’
    This time I let Ari say it by himself. ‘17/5 de Saram Road, Mount Lavinia.’
    ‘Shall we say 10?’ says Graham to the closing lift doors.
    While drinking and talking cricket till 2 a.m. may offer the illusion of friendship, I was not expecting to hear from Graham Snow ever again. Many people have promised the world over bottles and delivered little more than nothing. I am one of them, and they are one of you.
    The next morning I’m arguing with the urchins playing cricket on my road. It is the second ball to hit my windows and I’m in the process of confiscating it.
    ‘Let them play,’ calls out Ari from the next-door balcony. ‘We must nurture cricket at street level.’
    When Graham Snow’s 4WD pulls up, the urchins gaze in awe. Graham rolls down the window. He is wearing a suit and a frown.
    ‘Sorry, chaps,’ he mutters. ‘Just got called to the airport, problem with NSPN, need to be in Mumbai.’
    He hands me a huge purple file. It is filled with legal documents with Snow’s signature. Ari has run down in his sarong and shouts for the whole neighbourhood to hear. ‘Ah. My good friend. Mr Graham Snow. How? How?’
    ‘Hello, Aree. Gotta rush. No time to explain. You’re the blokes I’ve been looking for. I’m recommending you for the Graham Snow Commonwealth Cricket Grant.’
    The urchins have stopped their game. Housewives are peeping from balconies. A crow drops a watery turd on my gate.
    ‘Go to the Sri Lanka Cricket Board and speak to Danila Guneratne. She’ll give you the details. Tell her I have picked you and Aree for the grant.’
    ‘How much is the grant?’ asks Ari.
    Graham’s driver revs his engine. ‘Gotta go. See ya. My card’s there.’
    ‘How much is the grant?’
    ‘Speak to Danila. Good luck.’
    His jeep speeds off, leaving me and Ari with a purple file and a requisition for…
    ‘Seven lakhs!’ gasps Ari.
    The number is scrawled in a fancy font on a certificate that carries the Queen’s seal.
    The urchins resist the urge to chase after the jeep, and, sensing gossip, walk towards us. I throw them their ball and pull Ari to the veranda. ‘It says here we have to make five half-hour documentaries.’
    ‘So? Let’s do it. I saw this video camera for sale in the Observer….’
    ‘But what do you know about making documentary films?’
    ‘How many documentaries I have seen. How hard can it be?’
    Harder than we thought. It was three years before those documentaries aired. By that time, kingdoms had been won and lost. The bubble of Sri Lankan cricket had ballooned and burst. And sadly, so had W.G. Karunasena.
Strange Ways to Die
    91 per cent of all dismissals are caused by bowlers hitting wickets, fielders taking catches, batsmen obstructing stumps and runners falling short of their ground. Bowled, caught, LBW and run-out are to cricket what cancer, heart disease, stroke and road accidents are to life.
    But there are more unusual ways of surrendering your wicket. You can be out for handling the ball, hitting the ball twice, obstructing the field, not coming out on time, or falling on your wicket. All of these occurred in the 1994 Sri Lanka vs Zimbabwe series. You-know-who featured prominently.
The First Meeting
    At the first meeting, everyone