by Benyamin
Benyamin
Yellow Lights of Death
Translated from the Malayalam
by Sajeev Kumarapuram
Contents
About the Author
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Author’s Acknowledgements
Follow Penguin
Copyright
PENGUIN BOOKS
YELLOW LIGHTS OF DEATH
Benyamin has published seventeen books in Malayalam, including seven novels, three short-story collections, a travelogue and memoirs. His most famous work, Aadujeevitham, is a bestseller in Malayalam, and has been translated into many languages like English, Arabic, Thai, Nepali, Oriya, Tamil and Kannada. It is a textbook for many universities, and has received the Kerala Sahitya Akademi Award in 2009, and was longlisted for the Man Asian Literature Prize 2013 and shortlisted for the DSC Prize for South Asian Literature in 2014. The Arabic translation of the book is banned in Saudi Arabia and the UAE. His other major works include Euthanasia, Pravachakanmarude Randam Pustakam, Akkapporinte Irupatu Nasrani Varshangal and Manjaveyil Maranangal. His latest work, Al Arabian Novel Factory, is banned in the UAE.
Sajeev Kumarapuram has served editorial stints in reputed media houses, including Times of India, Miami Herald, New Indian Express and Businessworld, and now specializes in infographic design, which enables him to equitably distribute his love for two forms of expression: lines and letters. Raised in Thiruvananthapuram and living in New Delhi, the thirty-three-year-old has donned plenty of hats in his career—an award-winning investigati ve reporter, a columnist, an artist, an illustrator and a photographer. Yellow Lights of Death is his maiden attempt at translation.
To all my friends
1
Udayamperoor
WE DIDN’T HAVE to ask for directions at Udayamperoor; the descriptions in Andrapper’s book were detailed and accurate enough. There were scores of churches along the right side of the road. The oldest one among them had a board that said, ‘Oh, Gervasiuses and Protasius Kandeesangals, please pray for us.’ Next to it stood an antique stone cross guarded by figurines of a winged lion, a vulture, a bull and a man. Half a furlong ahead, on the left, was Kochuparu Stores, where we halted for some refreshing lemonade. Nearby was a large ground with the Nadakkavu Bhagavati temple at the centre. We took the road that forked towards the right and headed east. It was there that a dog ran across in front of our vehicle. A few minutes later, I saw tall brick walls that reminded me of a heavily guarded prison.
‘We have reached,’ I said. My voice betrayed my apprehension.
Anil slowed down the car and stopped on the unpaved sidewalk.
Close to the gate was a small stone slab embedded in the wall. If Andrapper hadn’t mentioned it in his book, I probably wouldn’t have noticed it. It was covered with moss. Slowly, I deciphered the faded letters: Valyedathu Veedu! I had butterflies in my stomach. But I kept a lid on my emotions. The gate was wide open. Anil drove inside. An ancient, double-storeyed mansion came into view. The courtyard was paved with white pebbles. In front of the majestic building was a pala tree, which looked like it had stood there for centuries. We parked the car in its shadow.
A man jogged out of the front door towards us.
‘We are here for the rites,’ said Anil, getting out of the car.
‘Was it booked in advance?’
‘Yeah . . . I had called last week.’
‘OK. Please come in.’
He guided us into a spacious reception and started checking a logbook. We were the only people in the room. I was surprised because I had expected a large crowd.
‘In whose name was it booked?’ he asked, furiously flipping through the pages.
‘Anil Vengode,’ I replied.
‘You’ve brought the cash, right?’ He must have found Anil’s name in the register.
‘Yes.’
‘Then, please place an amount not less than 10,000 rupees here, with prayers,’ he said, pointing to a brass plate on a teapoy. Anil placed there an envelope that had Rs 10,000 in notes and a one-rupee coin.
The man covered the money with a red cloth. ‘This will remain here,’ he said. ‘If you are not convinced by the results, you can take it back when you leave.’
This is a good practice that should be followed everywhere, I said to myself.
‘Please be seated, I’ll call you soon.’ He closed the logbook and stepped inside.
Like every other traditional old house, the reception room was chock-a-block with rich woodwork. Sculptures, figurines, photographs in large frames, a small flowerpot, an old wooden bowl and a telephone stand. It was evident that a gifted interior designer had been at work. Nothing was missing. Nothing looked out of place. This is my ideal reception room, I told Anil.
After a while, a young man stepped out. ‘Meljo!’ I whispered, half to Anil and half to myself. ‘Photocopy,’ Anil murmured.
‘Are you the people who called last week?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’ We rose slowly.
‘What is the case?’
‘We are searching for someone.’
‘Come,’ he welcomed us inside.
When Anil picked up his bag and camera, the young man said, ‘Leave these things here. Nothing is permitted inside.’
As we walked inside, he asked, ‘Where are you coming from?’
‘Thrissur,’ I lied, looking at Anil.
‘There are a lot of abbeys in that area, then why here?’
I wavered for a while, not knowing what to say. Anil came to the rescue. ‘His father’s been here, and what he needed was done,’ he said. ‘Hence the belief.’
‘The old priest is still there, I hope,’ I added.
The young man turned and stared at me. ‘No, Appachan died recently,’ he said. ‘I’m in charge now. Don’t you have faith in me?
‘What happened to him?’ Anil and I asked in tandem.
‘Don’t you have faith in me?’ his voice betrayed a seriousness and maturity beyond his age.
‘Nothing like that . . . I was just curious about the doctor,’ I replied.
‘Then, please stand in front of that lamp and pray with your eyes closed. I’ll call you,’ he said, pointing towards a flickering stone lamp. He stepped inside another room and closed the door.
Even as I pretended to pray in front of the lamp, I surveyed my surroundings.
This must be where the festival described in Andrapper’s book had taken place. Only then could someone have witnessed it from the upper floor. I looked up. Which was the room where he had been hiding that night? From where had he seen the whole thing? What happened to him after that?
Meljo, the new custodian of Valyedathu Veedu, I whispered to myself. I won’t leave without getting satisfactory answers to these questions—I swear before this stone lamp!
A few minutes later, Meljo returned. There was a red cloth wrapped around his waist and a towel on his shoulder.
‘Take a little oil from the lamp, smear it on your forehead, and follow me,’ Meljo said.
He took us to a prayer room. It resembled the altar of a small church. There were plenty of candles and lamps lit in front of a statue—a woman adorned with garlands.
I recognized her. Thaikkattamma! The goddess of Thaikkattu!
I looked at her and prayed without thinking. Anybody could have mistaken her for the Virgin Mary. But the skin tone was dark. The face didn’t display love or tenderness. It was full of fury.
There was a wick lamp flickering at
the centre of the room. Meljo asked us to sit before it, and took the spot opposite us.
He touched the lamp and prayed. He meditated for a while. Then a barrage of questions started.
‘Do you know that Thaikkattamma rules the land and water of Udayamperoor?’
‘Yes, we know,’ I said.
‘Do you have faith in Thaikkattamma?’
‘Yes, we have faith.’
‘Do you have faith in the powers of Thaikkattamma?’
‘Yes, we have faith.’
‘Do you have faith that Thaikkattamma will fulfil your pursuit?’
‘Yes, we have faith.’
‘Have you come to Thaikkattamma to wish misfortune upon anyone?’
‘No.’
‘Are you aware that Thaikkattamma blesses in abundance if pleased and flares up in fury if angered?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you have faith that Thaikkattamma will appear before this lamp and to us?’
‘Yes, we have faith.’
‘Do you have faith in Thaikkattamma?’
‘Yes, we have faith.’
‘Do you have faith in Thaikkattamma?’
‘Yes, we have faith.’
‘Do you have faith in Thaikkattamma?’
‘Yes, we have faith.’
‘Now, repeat this prayer as I chant:
Hail gracious Mother, almighty Thaikkattamma,
To thee we pledge our body, our soul and our thoughts,
And our actions, our life and our death.
O Mother, Thaikkattamma, queen of the Nazarenes,
Beyond anything, with all our heart,
We hold thee close to us.
With the blessings of your Lord Jesus,
Grace us with thy presence, we beseech thee,
Despise not our petitions.
(Both of you think about your petitions.)
Hail gracious Mother, almighty Thaikkattamma,
By the power of your Father and our Lord Jesus,
Pour forth mercy and blessings towards us.
Gift us all thy blessings, we humbly pray
O Mother, Thaikkattamma,
Grace us with thy presence, we beseech thee,
Hear and answer our petitions.
He chanted some more prayers and hymns for a while.
‘Now, tell me. Why have you come?’ he asked as he stretched both his hands and placed them together above the lamp.
‘One of our friends is missing. We want to know where he is.’
‘How long has he been missing?’
‘For almost a year.’
‘Where is he from?’
‘Diego Garcia.’
‘Diego Garcia!’
‘Yes.’
‘What is his name?’
‘Andrapper.’
He withdrew his hands in a flash, as if he had burnt his fingers, and blew out the lamp.
‘What happened?’ I asked anxiously.
‘Thaikkattamma doesn’t like to know where he is now. That’s all. Get up!’ He was already on his feet.
‘No.’ Anil pulled me back as I was about to rise. ‘We need to know where he is. We paid good money to find that out. We are not leaving without the truth.’
‘You can take the money back when you leave. Don’t argue against the decisions of Thaikkattamma.’
‘The money wasn’t paid to be returned, but to fulfil our need. Whether Thaikkattamma likes it or not, Meljo, you will have to tell us the truth.’ Anil was adamant.
All of a sudden, Meljo rushed towards one of the doors and rang the bell next to it. We could hear the commotion inside. All the doors to the prayer room were latched on the outside.
‘Tell me the truth. Who are you? Why did you come here? What is it that you want?’ he asked in a soft but angry tone.
I wavered a bit, scrambling for answers. Once again, Anil came to the rescue. ‘Meljo, we haven’t promised anyone that we will return from this trip alive,’ he warned. ‘But some of our friends know that we were headed here. So don’t try to scare us off. I’m Anil. This is Benyamin, a writer. We are Andrapper’s friends. We are searching for him and that’s how we landed here. We need clear answers.’
‘Here! What’s his connection to Valyedathu Veedu?’ Meljo feigned ignorance.
‘Nothing at all?’ asked Anil. ‘Meljo, don’t try to fool us. We know you. We know this house. We know all about Andrapper’s ties with this house. This is the last place that he visited. Don’t lie to us in front of the family deity, Thaikkattamma.’
Meljo deflated visibly. He went and opened the door, gesturing at those guarding it to leave. Then he asked us to follow him.
He led us back to the reception room. ‘How do you know him?’ Meljo asked as he sat down. ‘What’s between him and you two?’
‘The novel that he was writing—The Book of Forefathers—is with Benyamin. It has all the details of his life. He has elaborately described the roads he had taken and the places he had visited. Valyedathu Veedu plays a prominent role in those pages.’
Meljo looked defeated; resting his chin on his hand, he said, ‘I’ve also been searching for that cheat for so long . . .’
‘Cheat?’ That took us by surprise.
‘Yes. He promised me and my Valyapapan that he would return soon. We waited for a long time, but he didn’t come. We rang him up many times, but he didn’t pick up the phone. He deceived this family. He betrayed our love for him.’
‘No, Meljo. If what he’s written in the book is true, he didn’t cheat you. He left meaning to return,’ I said.
‘How did you get hold of his book?’ Meljo wondered. ‘I’ll tell you.’
Sipping the tea that his servant brought, I began to narrate parts of the story to him.
The Preface
ONE FINE MORNING, I received an email from a stranger. Its contents went something like this:
Dear author,
I have bittersweet emotions as I write this mail. I happened to read your novel that was published recently. I consider it one of the best novels I have ever read. I’m still enjoying the hangover of the experience. Reading it inspired me with strength and energy. I can draw upon them to face any challenge.
I’d like to meet you someday. I have a story to tell. I strongly believe that if you listen to the story, you won’t be able to resist the temptation to write about it. In fact, it is a story that I wanted to write. But due to unforeseen circumstances, I don’t think I’ll be able to write it.
Of late, I have been living under immense stress. I have no clue what’s going to happen tomorrow. In such a situation, I don’t think I can write anything. I assume you write about the desert heat sitting in an air-conditioned room. Nothing wrong in that. Stories are not penned by those who experience them, but by those who listen to them. Only they can write stories.
To acknowledge that you have read my mail, please update your Orkut status message to: ‘I don’t believe for a moment that creativity is a neurotic symptom’ (Aldous Huxley). I’ll understand from it that you have read my mail. Please don’t try to reply to this address. This is a disposable email ID. Within an hour, this account will disappear.
Because of some personal issues, I cannot reveal my identity or give you my real email address. Hope you will understand.
Wishing you all the best to write more wonderful works.
—A reader
Honestly, I didn’t give much importance to the mail. For starters, I don’t take such fraud mails seriously. I believe that people who can’t reveal their identities don’t deserve any consideration. Another thing, after my last novel was published, I have been bombarded with dozens of mails from readers who wanted me to hear their stories. Each one of them bored me to death with their clichés and repetitions. I felt sick at the very thought of reading another one. On top of that, I had a lot of pending work. So I didn’t bother too much about that mail.
I had forgotten all about it. Months later, I got another mail from a different account.
Dear novelist,
I don’t know whether you remember me. I had sent you a mail some months ago. I mentioned that I had a story to tell you. But I’m afraid that the mail must have got lost in the hundreds that reach your inbox every day.
I’m going through days that are a hundred times more stressful and terrible. I have forgotten the story I wanted to write. But I tried my hand at writing about my life. About the experiences I had to endure and the situations I had to face. There is no order or chronology to it. I just scribbled something. I’ve kept them as notes. I’ve no clue whether the jottings are in the form of an autobiography or a novel or an essay. But whatever has been written, there is no exaggeration in it. No imagination either.
Dear author, with much affection, I send you the first part of my life story. Whenever you get some free time from your busy schedule, please have a look. You’ll definitely find it useful.
Unfortunately, I won’t be able to send the remaining parts of my story. There are many reasons for it. One, you ignored my request to acknowledge the receipt of my first mail. Two, because of that, I don’t know how considerate you are about my life and words. Three, if by any chance, you misplace it, my life story will be lost forever. Four, if you are a coward, you will hand it over to the police. That will endanger my life further.
So, I’m sending the remaining part of the story to the people mentioned in the story, and who I think are trustworthy. If the first part piques your interest, you can collect the rest from the others and combine everything. My autobiography will be complete only when all the parts are together. Again, due to reasons of security, I don’t wish to disclose my identity or theirs. Please don’t think that I don’t trust you. As you read, you’ll understand my reasons.
Dear author, it was my dream to write a novel and see it become the best and most read novel ever published in Malayalam. How many years have I wasted on that dream! But my destiny did not want me to become a novelist. My destiny held something else.
If you ever succeed in collecting the parts of my story, don’t turn it into a novel. Publish it as my autobiography.
