The Legend of Pradeep Mathew by Shehan Karunatilaka Page B

career, it does not clarify why a mother of four would travel all the way from Angulana for a badly typeset newspaper ad. Nor why she would volunteer her life story to strangers.
    ‘Pradeepan visited when the children were born. Didn’t talk about his cricket.’
    Ari administers the questions and I watch her and try to ascertain why my gut tells me that she is lying through her teeth.
    ‘When did Pradeep start playing cricket?’
    Mrs Sabi has an uncanny knack of relating any answer to the story of her mother and her.
    ‘One Christmas, Appa got him a bat and a ball. I got a Yamaha keyboard. Amma never learned music when she was a girl. So I had to go for piano classes.’
    ‘Did anyone coach him?’
    She bares her palms and shrugs. ‘He was always playing with those thugs from the flats, or the street kids. He was never home. Neither was I. Ballet, sewing and elocution classes…’
    I look at her deportment, her dress and hear her uneven accent. Ari pours tea and the woman keeps jabbering.
    She hardly saw Pradeep but was aware that he had secured a job at Sampath National Bank and played occasionally for Sri Lanka. Appa was right; hard work didn’t kill him, it just left him paralysed. The stroke came in 1991 and drained the family coffers. Pradeep had no money of his own, so Sabi, emboldened by funds sent by her husband from Dubai, came to the rescue.
    ‘Amma and Appa were against my marriage and my husband. In the end it was Indi’s money that looked after them,’ she says. Not without triumph.
    ‘Later Pradeepan also made money and he would send us, but I hardly saw him. I was busy with the children. Every time Indi came from Dubai, he would leave me with a bump.’ She rubs her tummy and allows herself a chuckle.
    ‘Did Pradeepan take loans from the Cricket Board?’
    The grin freezes on her face. The eyes hold their expression. The change in manner is switch-like. ‘Is that what this is about?’
    ‘I beg your pardon?’ says Ari.
    ‘Are you with Kuga or with the SLBCC?’
    ‘Who is…’ I begin.
    ‘We’re with Kuga,’ says Ari and puffs his chest out.
    I attempt damage control. ‘No. No. We’re doing a documentary on your brother.’
    ‘I know my brother wasn’t so famous to do a documentary on.’ She shuffles to her feet.
    ‘If only you knew, Mrs Sabi,’ I say. ‘My colleague and I believe he was the greatest Sri Lankan cricketer ever.’
    ‘I am not a Chinaman with a ponytail.’ She is someone whose voice lowers when they are angry.
    She walks to the table with all our cuttings and waves a wand-like finger. ‘This is documentary? My brother is dead. You better leave him alone.’
    ‘Kuga is willing to leave him alone, Mrs Sabi.’ I shake my head at Ari.
    But the buffoon has already begun strutting like Perry Mason. ‘Mrs Sabi. How did Pradeep die?’
    She hands me an envelope and pulls a yellow umbrella from her handbag. ‘Mr Karunasena. Please tell your boss to tell their boss that Pradeepan Sivanathan has nothing left to give.’
    She walks past stacks of newspapers that are waiting to be scrapped. She barks at the puzzled-looking Ari leaning by the doorway. ‘We’re not scared of your Kuga. Or your Cricket Board. We also have connections.’
    Perhaps she expected a fight or at least a show of machismo. Anything but two scared old men. Suddenly there is a flash of light. I blink to find Ari holding his miniature washing machine. A piece of paper comes out of it. This is the sort of bravery that garners Victoria Crosses.
    ‘Give me that,’ shouts Mrs Sabi.
    ‘See. See. It is blank,’ shows Ari. This time he does not flap it.
    She storms off to the veranda and looks at the sunbeams scorching my driveway. She opens her umbrella, considers, then lowers her voice to a whisper. ‘The Moratuwa Police DIG and the Mayor of Panadura are both old customers at our bakery. Our partner Bharatha Malinda is a powerful man. If your people come near my family, you be careful.’
    She walks