by Benyamin
‘Don’t worry, dude. You are experiencing the delusions of a teenager! It’ll be all right when you get married. Anyway, since you’ve come here, give a written petition that your friend has gone missing. Only if you insist you want to. Then let me investigate.’
With much reluctance, I submitted a written complaint that Senthil was missing. The reason for my reluctance was that Senthil was not ‘missing’.
Masterpiece
I WAS NOT at all satisfied with that visit. Especially the conversation with Vijay Mullikratnam. I had not gone there to complain about Senthil’s disappearance. I also didn’t want the ‘missing’ person to be Senthil. I was merely reporting an incident. One that I had witnessed. One that had not been reported by any media the next day. And my strange experiences at City Hospital when I inquired about the incident. But Mullikratnam took it all so lightly. Was his indifference natural or was it purposeful? If it was natural, didn’t that mean I had failed to communicate the seriousness of the incident to him? If I couldn’t convince even one person about something, how was I going to write a novel that would influence society? But if Mullikratnam’s indifference was on purpose . . .? That meant the Public Security department had something to hide. Someone, if not Senthil, had been gunned down in Port Louis. And the Public Security didn’t want anyone to know about it. What was the reason for it?
The more I dug, the more mysterious it became. To loosen the tangle a bit, I needed to confirm if it was indeed Senthil who was killed. And whoever it was, I needed to know why no complaint had been filed at the Public Security department about it.
I took another look at my school photo. It was to see Senthil again. However familiar we are with them, however much we may have seen them, most faces are not known to us in their details. Mostly they stay in our mind as schemas. Some special aspects. A nose. A neck. A head. A brow. Eyes. So, any one similarity can lead to mistaken identities. As I kept staring at Senthil’s face in that old photo, it seemed like it was different from the face I had in mind. When I compared this face with the one I had seen outside the ICU, I felt it was indeed Senthil, and then again I thought it wasn’t him. I was losing my mind.
Momma had noticed the change in me. I, who usually stayed in my room or terrace with a book, I, whom she shouted at asking if I was also planning to become like Valyapapan, had not been home in the past few days. But she didn’t know where I was going or what I was up to. She knew only that I had been a bit disturbed for some days.
I was experiencing the repercussions of going out for a day and facing one incident. What would be the situation of someone who constantly interacts with society and partakes in its issues? What would be the range of his experiences? I got the sense that it was a person who goes through a lot of such experiences regularly who ought to become a novelist, and not those who writhe as a result of one experience, like me. What would be the stories they could tell you? What would be the power of their writing?
After a long time, probably for the first time since my Thiruvananthapuram days, I went out and got drunk. Seleucia had no scarcity of bars. Every jetty had a bar. And there were bars that one could step into straight from the boat.
When I returned, unusually, Papa was waiting for me.
He took me to the bar on the top floor. ‘I don’t want anything to drink. I had a little when I was out,’ I said to him when he took out a bottle.
‘I know that you have the capacity to have one more.’
Our relationship was not constrained, not like a normal father–son bond. I could say anything to him, and he never tried to impose his likes on me. Each one should decide for himself what he wants to be in life, that was his policy. Though he had not really supported my decision of going to Thiruvananthapuram to learn Malayalam, he was the only one in the family who didn’t oppose it. He was never a dreamer like Valyapapan. He was studying in Paris when power changed hands in Diego. He did not regret the Andrappers not inheriting the power to rule from the French. He completed his studies and joined what could be called Diego’s Reserve Bank. He held a senior position there. He was past retirement age, but the government didn’t want him leave. He lived well, on a middling salary. A pure bureaucratic gentleman.
‘How old are you?’ he asked, offering a whisky with soda. That was not his usual type of question. It was a toehold for some serious discussion.
‘You know it better than me,’ I retorted.
‘I know it, but I asked to make sure you remember it. I believe that whatever be the field, one should have started work on one’s masterpiece before the age of thirty. If he hasn’t, that means he is not a genius. You don’t have many years left to discover that, do you?’
‘A rare flow of philosophy from Papa,’ I teased him.
‘Anyone who looks at life with a realistic eye will have a little bit of philosophy to share. You studied Malayalam for three years. What’s the contribution you gave back to Malayalam? You went there to learn it. That’s fine. That’s what you wanted. But have you or the language got anything fruitful out of it? Okay, you said you wanted to become a novelist. An ambition of very few people. Good choice. Any father would be proud to have a gentleman-writer as their son. But you could have written in the universal language of English. You have the talent for that. It would bring you fame and prestige. But then, you said you wanted to write in Malayalam. To back it up, you cited the case of the African authors who moved to England and France, and continue to write in their mother tongue. They have only a small readership. I didn’t say anything. Okay, but where is your contribution to Malayalam?’
‘Papa, in a single day, one can become a ruler. A chancellor. A dacoit. A rich man. Even an accountant like you, Papa. But it is impossible to become a novelist overnight.’
‘Impossible. Unless you have dedication. An extreme desire to excel in the chosen field. You don’t have it. You can write in any language. If it’s good, the world will find your book and read it. But it has to be written. Or else, it can’t be read. Momma said you haven’t been at your desk for a week now. You are never at home. You are roaming around unnecessarily. Did you go to meet Stephen today?’
‘Oh, okay. So, that is the gist of this long discourse, right? Why did I go to meet Stephen uncle? You must have got the answer from your source. Why should I give it to you?’
‘Did you file any complaint with the Public Security department?’
‘Yes, I did. That one of my friends has gone missing.’
‘You should withdraw it tomorrow.’
‘Did they get any information on him?’
‘Whether they find him or not, what’s your interest in it? Who is he to you? Son, complaints should always be given by those who have a claim on the missing person.’
‘Papa, this is not a missing-person case as you think. It is a murder. I saw it with my own eyes. It wasn’t just me, at least a hundred people were witness to it. Or can’t we talk about it in this country?’
‘Why don’t the others open their mouth? Because it’s none of their business. If you want to be a writer, become one. Remove everything else from your mind. Why should you take up unnecessary issues? What’s your benefit in that?’
‘But I have not committed any mistake, Papa.’
‘You should never go to Public Security to get into the affairs of someone who is a stranger to you. You don’t know the complications involved. We’ll get dragged into a huge mess. Don’t you know the rules of the land? You won’t be able to even leave the country without clearing the mess.’
‘That’s okay. I’m not going to leave the country any time soon.’
‘Says who? I’ve decided to send you to Canada or Australia or Portugal. For some higher studies. You know the achievements of your classmates.’
‘But Papa knows that I’m writing my novel.’
‘Who said you can’t do that too? But you haven’t proved yet that you can earn a living just by being a writer. Not that there are no such writers. There are. Dan Brown, Rol
and Barthes, Paulo Coelho, Orhan Pamuk and many others. But you don’t have their discipline or style or their marketing. And son, wherever you are in the world, you will be able to write what is destined to be written by you. You said the novel is about Diego. It’s better to write it from outside the country than from within. Then the work will have new perspectives. New views. It’ll then be known as an international novel rather than just a regional novel.’
‘I know these are not your concerns. This has got to do with the complaint I’ve filed. Someone has fired up Papa. Or Papa is a supporter of the Public Security department. All you guys have something to hide . . .’
‘No, I’m your supporter. Your victories mean a lot to me. I can’t stand you losing focus. Ours is a collapsing family. In the common man’s eye, we are still rich. Our fall is visible only when we compare our current assets with those before the French retreat. When we compare ourselves to the status of a newly rich man in Cornish, we are mere worms. You’re the one who’ll change our status, that’s my dream. But now I fear for you. History proves that one who takes on others’ deeds has always failed.’
I didn’t want to extend the conversation further. I got up and went to my room.
However, any hope of support from either Stephen Pereira Andrapper or the Public Security died that night.
2
Thursday Market
I FELT A sort of fondness and favour towards this half-baked story that I never had for the dozens of stories I had heard before. It was not because there was something novel about the story, but there was no extravagant exaggeration stuffed in it to grab my attention. Because of that, I was curious to know what happened later.
Where could I get the rest of his life story? Whom should I approach for it? After having written the opening section so well, what fearful thing had happened to stop him? Had the police snatched him?
Had he hidden clues in the first section as to who had the rest of the manuscript? To be honest, even after reading it many times, I couldn’t find any clues. In the portion that he sent, he has mentioned the names of more than twenty people, from Mohandas to Mullikratnam. How would I know who among the lot has the next part? Even if I come to know, how would I contact them from this far? I was in the dark.
That’s how I presented it at the Thursday Market. This was our name for a group of close friends. From global warming to the increasing cost of cashew nuts, from Idi Amin to Iyob’s books, everything comes to the table at our Thursday Market. Anil, E.A. Salim, Nibu whom we call Achachan (Grandfather), Sudhi Mashu, Pattar Biju, Saju who blogs under the name of Nattapranthan (Mad Man), and I, that’s all of us. During a discussion about my new novel, I brought this topic before them, as a challenge to their investigative skills. Then everyone wanted to listen to the story. I took a printout and brought it to the assembly. Mashu read it aloud.
‘A stupid guy good enough to become a novelist!’ Achachan Nibu was the first to respond. No one reacted for or against it. Nibu explained his comment. ‘If I was in his shoes, before approaching the police, I would have done three things. One,’ he said, counting with his fingers, ‘I would have caught the murder visuals with my mobile phone. Two, as any citizen journalist, I would send that video to a channel for telecast. Three, if no one was willing to show it, I’d have posted it on YouTube. Any of these actions would have naturally put the police on the defensive.’
‘Nibu, that’s logical when we sit here and think about it calmly,’ Anil said. ‘But, for these three things to happen, he should have had a mobile phone with camera. He should also have been aware that the police was not going to take up the case. But that’s not what happened.’
‘From what we know, he belongs to an extremely rich family in the country. A leaner elephant is also an elephant. So, let’s leave the camera phone part,’ E.M. Salim said. ‘But I agree with what Anil said next. He couldn’t have thought of such a thing then.’
‘He had another option,’ Nattapranthan said. ‘He could have blogged about what happened. Then, the people who had witnessed or heard of the event would have posted comments, and perhaps helped him out. Why didn’t he do that?’
‘We are now debating how he should have reacted to a particular incident in his life,’ I interfered. ‘That’s not my point. How can we get the rest of the story? Which character do you think has possession of it? What’s the hidden clue, and where is it?’
The assembly calmed down for a while. There was a shadow of inefficacy in that silence.
‘Benyamin, are you taking this seriously?’ Sudhi Mashu asked me after some time.
‘Yes, why?’
‘The novelist mentioned in this . . . what’s his name? We don’t know. Let’s call him Mr Andrapper for now. You are going to face the same problem that he did.’
‘I don’t understand what you mean,’ said Salim.
‘Our man is working on a new novel. If in the middle of it, he goes after this story, he won’t be able to complete the novel. We don’t have a Papa here to give him a telling-off.’
Mashu was worried about the novel I was working on—set in the Nedumbassery airport and the lives around it. In fact, Andrapper’s father’s words had motivated me to get back to my novel.
‘If all of you cooperate in unravelling this mystery, I can manage the novel,’ I said.
‘Well, we can start a blog on behalf of Andrapper and publish what we have. We might get responses,’ Nattapranthan said.
‘The idea is fine,’ Biju said, ‘but there is a catch. This was sent to Benyamin in secret. We shouldn’t make it public. Not just that, the blog may not reach the person whom we want to contact. Also, we’ll be in danger if the wrong person reads it. We don’t know who this guy is or what else he has written.’
We were quiet. Pattar Biju was right.
‘One week!’ said Salim. ‘This puzzle, I’m now naming it Operation Diego Garcia—we’ll come up with a solution before our next Thursday Market.’
On that note, we split. About three days after that, Pattar called me. ‘Benya, I see some light. Yesterday, I came across this new catalogue of Z Books in Ernakulam. Listed in it is the novel Archipelago by Mohandas Purameri! This Mohandas and his book might be able to help in our Operation Diego Garcia. We can contact Z and get his number.’
It was luck. Otherwise, that catalogue wouldn’t have caught the attention of Biju. I immediately contacted Z Books and was put through to its editor-in-charge, Srikumar.
‘There is a novel titled Archipelago in your catalogue. I am curious about it,’ I said.
‘Yes, it’s one of the best among the new crop,’ Srikumar said.
‘This Mohandas Purameri, where is he from?’
‘From a country called Diego Garcia. He’s an expat. You know him?
‘I may have read his stories.’
‘Yeah, they’ve appeared in weeklies. This novel has won a contest organized by a magazine there. You should read it. There has never been such a beautiful work in Malayalam about the islands.’
‘I’ll certainly read it. Can I have his number? I want to get in touch with him.’
Srikumar readily gave me the number. I hung up and started dialling the number almost simultaneously.
0123456789
When I heard the long ringtone on the other side, either because of fervour or fear, my hand started shaking.
‘Is this Mohandas Purameri? The author of Archipelago?’
‘Yes, yes. Tell me, who is this?’
‘My name is Raju. I read Archipelago. There has never been such a beautiful work in Malayalam about the islands. Really great.’
‘Oh, thank you. I’ve been getting many calls from the mainland. It’s three years of my hard work, and that’s evident. The subcontinent has a lot of talented writers, but there’s no hard work. That’s the problem. Do you know how much research I did for the novel? Archaeology, psychology, quantum physics, history, sociology, anthropology, applied maths, global warming . . . I’ve incorporated everythi
ng. Only then will a novel become rich . . . but the young in your mainland . . .’ he went on talking.
‘I called to ask you about something,’ I interrupted. Otherwise, he’d never stop talking.
‘Is there a writer by the name of Andrapper in Diego?’
‘Andrapper? A writer? Not to my knowledge, no. There’s no such person.’
‘I heard that you were both part of the Parana literary group.’
‘Parana? Very old history. Oh, oh, oh. Him . . . Andrapper . . . Is it about him?’
‘Yes, yes, the same person. Do you know him?’ I was very excited.
‘Is he a writer? Good joke. He’s a fraud! He came to Parana just to show off. For someone like him to become a writer, it’ll take more than six generations of toil and sweat.’
‘Do you know where he’s now?’
‘Who cares about him! Spiteful guy. I’d invited him for my award ceremony. He attended for the sake of it and left quickly. Contempt, what else? I don’t keep in touch with people who can’t support literature or writers. Why are you looking for him?’
‘It’s for a friend in Thiruvananthapuram. Is there any chance of getting his number?’
‘I used to have it. Let me look for it. Can you call after five minutes?’
Exactly five minutes later, I called him. He gave me a number.
‘Thank you, thank you.’ I was full of gratitude. I might be able to contact him before the Thursday Market.
‘One more thing. Isn’t Andrapper a surname? What’s his full name?’
‘No idea. I only know him as Andrapper.’
I tried the number many times, but to no avail. Either it was ‘out of coverage area’ or ‘switched off’. The road of high hopes was thus closed.
When the Thursday Market convened, I shared with the others Mohandas Purameri’s opinion of Andrapper. Leave it then, Mashu advised again. Let’s somehow get the second chapter too, and then stop this probe , Salim said. ‘His search began on Orkut. Why don’t we also start from there?’ Anil suggested. Everyone agreed. Without delay, led by Pattar, we moved to a computer.
