of Garfield and of our history of silences. I think about opportunities squandered. I think about Sathasivam. And then I start typing.
I quickly realise that everything – Satha, Garfield, even this Jinadasa typewriter – isa product of its era. The Jinadasa company was propped up by the Sri Lanka Freedom Party, under the assonant slogan ‘Stationers to the Nation’. The products were hardy and underpriced. But after just three months of free market capitalism under the United National Party, the company collapsed spectacularly in 1978.
They say countries with the word democratic in them usually aren’t. Throughout the 1970s, the SLFP’s policies involved the culling of economic freedoms. For most of the 1990s, the UNP have been hopelessly divided.
Back to Satha. He was perhaps the most elegant cricketer of them all. A gentleman drunk, a playboy who could play. Notorious for turning up at games minutes before the first ball, attired in the previous night’s evening dress, smelling of alcohol and someone else’s wife, Satha would order eggs and bacon at the clubhouse, shower, knock back a hair-of-the-dog scotch and score a scintillating double century.
Writing at the speed of arrack, turning article to voice-over is easier than I thought. Then we pick out as many friendly commentators, coaches, has-beens and current players as we can think of, and post them questionnaires for interviews. The rest would be up to Brian and Ari.
When Garfield barges in, I have finished the questionnaire and written eight profiles. I am also pretty tanked up. He brings Sheila and I know I can no longer avoid this. I stop jabbing at the Jinadasa and remove my glasses.
‘Sorry to disturb, Gamini,’ says my darling wife. ‘Juices are flowing today, no?’
She looks at the typewritten sheets on the table and thankfully, not at the empty bottle by my chair. ‘Garfield wants to talk to you.’
They sit on the cane chairs by the window. I swivel around and light myself a cigarette.
‘I thought you gave up?’
‘Writing, no?’ I grin.
Smoking history of W.G. Karunasena:
Years 0–16: 0 cigarettes.
17–48: 12 a day, sometimes 25.
49–59: 0 cigarettes.
As of last year: 2 a day. Before writing and after.
Sheila shakes her head and says nothing. She points her chin towards our son. ‘So. Tell, tell.’
Garfield doesn’t look me in the eye. His eyes dart along the books on the floor and rest on the empty bottle of Old Reserve. ‘I want to do an engineering course in India.’
It takes all the muscles in my lower body to stop me from falling off my chair. ‘Without science subjects?’
‘They need good A-level marks. They don’t care what subjects.’
‘So will you get good marks?’
Garfield looks at me for the first time and nods.
‘You can study Japanese and become an engineer?’
Sheila butts in. ‘He wants to study sound engineering.’
‘Sound engineering? Like Sony Walkmans? That’s why you need Japanese?’
I only mean to smile kindly. I end up letting out a high-pitched giggle.
My son gives me a look. A look I recognise instantly as one I gave my teachers and elder siblings. A look I frequently got slapped for.
‘Putha, go and check if the kettle has boiled,’ says Sheila, as our son exits. She stares at me. Despite my behaviour, I’m in a good mood. Good booze, a good day’s work, my son having not impregnated a Japanese teenager.
‘OK. OK. How much?’
‘Airfare and fees will come to three–four lakhs. Then accommodation…’
‘Sheila, I don’t have anything. We sold the family plot to buy this house.’
‘What about the leftovers?’
‘Nothing’s left over.’
‘I have a bit I saved up.’
‘Where money for you?’
She puts her hands in her lap. There is no raising of voices. She has obviously prepared for battle. ‘I saved, Gamini, I didn’t waste.’
Sheila didn’t like me going overseas on assignments, unless the newspaper or the sponsor paid my expenses. Sadly, the per
I quickly realise that everything – Satha, Garfield, even this Jinadasa typewriter – isa product of its era. The Jinadasa company was propped up by the Sri Lanka Freedom Party, under the assonant slogan ‘Stationers to the Nation’. The products were hardy and underpriced. But after just three months of free market capitalism under the United National Party, the company collapsed spectacularly in 1978.
They say countries with the word democratic in them usually aren’t. Throughout the 1970s, the SLFP’s policies involved the culling of economic freedoms. For most of the 1990s, the UNP have been hopelessly divided.
Back to Satha. He was perhaps the most elegant cricketer of them all. A gentleman drunk, a playboy who could play. Notorious for turning up at games minutes before the first ball, attired in the previous night’s evening dress, smelling of alcohol and someone else’s wife, Satha would order eggs and bacon at the clubhouse, shower, knock back a hair-of-the-dog scotch and score a scintillating double century.
Writing at the speed of arrack, turning article to voice-over is easier than I thought. Then we pick out as many friendly commentators, coaches, has-beens and current players as we can think of, and post them questionnaires for interviews. The rest would be up to Brian and Ari.
When Garfield barges in, I have finished the questionnaire and written eight profiles. I am also pretty tanked up. He brings Sheila and I know I can no longer avoid this. I stop jabbing at the Jinadasa and remove my glasses.
‘Sorry to disturb, Gamini,’ says my darling wife. ‘Juices are flowing today, no?’
She looks at the typewritten sheets on the table and thankfully, not at the empty bottle by my chair. ‘Garfield wants to talk to you.’
They sit on the cane chairs by the window. I swivel around and light myself a cigarette.
‘I thought you gave up?’
‘Writing, no?’ I grin.
Smoking history of W.G. Karunasena:
Years 0–16: 0 cigarettes.
17–48: 12 a day, sometimes 25.
49–59: 0 cigarettes.
As of last year: 2 a day. Before writing and after.
Sheila shakes her head and says nothing. She points her chin towards our son. ‘So. Tell, tell.’
Garfield doesn’t look me in the eye. His eyes dart along the books on the floor and rest on the empty bottle of Old Reserve. ‘I want to do an engineering course in India.’
It takes all the muscles in my lower body to stop me from falling off my chair. ‘Without science subjects?’
‘They need good A-level marks. They don’t care what subjects.’
‘So will you get good marks?’
Garfield looks at me for the first time and nods.
‘You can study Japanese and become an engineer?’
Sheila butts in. ‘He wants to study sound engineering.’
‘Sound engineering? Like Sony Walkmans? That’s why you need Japanese?’
I only mean to smile kindly. I end up letting out a high-pitched giggle.
My son gives me a look. A look I recognise instantly as one I gave my teachers and elder siblings. A look I frequently got slapped for.
‘Putha, go and check if the kettle has boiled,’ says Sheila, as our son exits. She stares at me. Despite my behaviour, I’m in a good mood. Good booze, a good day’s work, my son having not impregnated a Japanese teenager.
‘OK. OK. How much?’
‘Airfare and fees will come to three–four lakhs. Then accommodation…’
‘Sheila, I don’t have anything. We sold the family plot to buy this house.’
‘What about the leftovers?’
‘Nothing’s left over.’
‘I have a bit I saved up.’
‘Where money for you?’
She puts her hands in her lap. There is no raising of voices. She has obviously prepared for battle. ‘I saved, Gamini, I didn’t waste.’
Sheila didn’t like me going overseas on assignments, unless the newspaper or the sponsor paid my expenses. Sadly, the per
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