Tale of maverick spinner a real page turner

Simon Barnes Chief Sports Writer - The Times

Sri Lanka played a great tournament at the cricket World Cup, but alas they fell at the last, beaten by their mighty neighbour. The great juggernaut rumbled over the maverick genius of a small island and, though I love India very much, I feel very sad for Sri Lanka.

But sports passes while great literature is forever, so even as I mourn Sri Lanka’s defeat, I would like to celebrate the arrival of the Great Sri Lankan Novel - Chinaman by Shehan Karunatilaka. I have just read it in proof; it has been published on the sub-continent to great acclaim and it will be out here this month.

The Chinaman in question is, of course, left-arm wrist spin, as purveyed by Pradeep S Mathew, the greatest cricketer that ever drew breath, a Sri Lankan maverick genius (they are thick on the ground on that island) whose records have been mysteriously expunged, whose very existence is questioned, while anyone who tries to seek him out is met with objections, opposition and dire threats.

The tale, in so far as it is a tale, is mostly narrated by a drunken sports writer (you can tell this is a work of fiction) call WG, who races to complete his investigation against the death sentence enforced by the state of his liver.

Mathew is brilliant, elusive, evasive, coarse, subtle, romantic, and obstinate and easily swayed a perpetual underdog. He is also a Tamil (like Muttiah Muralitharan) on an island dominated by the Sinhalese. He is morally upright, he makes many mistakes. He can bowl like anybody, left-arm or right-arm, and it take him an age to find his individual brilliance.

Even after he has done so, he meets enmity and resentment.

His greatest triumphing performance of all time, according to WG – is seen by only a handful of people who for ever after deny it. Mathew turns on the Sri Lankan authorities and then vanishes. He is always an underdog.

In a sense, then, Mathew is Sri Lanka: flawed brilliance self-stifled on an island seldom at peace with itself. This book leaps madly from point to point, in a manner superficially chaotic but ultimately coherent. It has some of the flaws of Mathew and WG; it has most of their brilliance as well.

This is the only bit of cricket fiction I have read that has serious ambitions and that carries real weight. It is also a great read. Cricket is a sport full of book; this is as good as anything I have on my shelves. A mixture of, say CLR James, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Fernando Pessoa and Sri Lankan arrack. The last is a thrillingly dangerous drink distilled from the sap of unopened coconut flowers.

There is a copious list of acknowledgements at the back of the book and I was delighted to find myself among them. Don’t know what I did, but I’m glad I did it.

I also found a highly resonant name: NBDS Wijesekera. For a moment I wondered if this was my old, late, friend Nalin, self-styled (an styled by many others too, mostly bearing the same name) as the black sheep of the family.

Nalin was, like WG, a maverick genius of a journo with a great fondness for arrack. I stayed at his house in Sri Lanka and we met often in England, where we drank whisky. I contacted Karunatilaka, who said that Nalin was his mother’s cousin, though he is not one of the Wijesekeras in the acknowledgements. Still, it’s a connection of a sort, and I relished the book more for that.

The Sri Lankan cricket team is on their way to this country to play three Tests and five one-day internationals. I look forward to a great series. I hope, dear reader, that you enjoy it, and that you enjoy Chinaman as well. Both experiences are essential to anyone with a taste for maverick genius.