Yellow Lights of Death

by Benyamin

  A search for St. Joseph’s, Seleucia, yielded an instant result. By then, eighty-eight people had joined the community. We went through the profiles of each one of them.

  We looked for someone who could be identified as a novelist or be connected to the story. But we didn’t find anything.

  ‘He said he created the community, right? Look at the founder’s name. That must be him,’ said Mashu. It was something that hadn’t struck any of us till then! We checked that too. Unfortunately, no one had taken ownership of founding the community.

  ‘He has done everything possible to protect his identity. There’s no use searching for him,’ Nibu said.

  Pattar then came up with another more promising solution. ‘Let’s send a message with the subject “Andrapper” to all the members of the St. Joseph’s community. Just this: “I’ve got the first part. Do you have the second? Mail me.” Other than the person who has the second part, nobody will understand anything.’ All of us agreed that it was a good idea.

  We created a new email ID and sent messages to all the eighty-eight members. There was nothing at all for a week. We were beginning to lose hope when a reply came with an attachment: Part 2.

  As he directed, I’m sending this from a temporary ID.

  Please don’t bother me hereafter.

  X

  (A) (E) (K)

  I WAS MOTIVATED by Papa’s words. Writing is my field; therein shall lie my success. And if I don’t work towards it, even if I claim to have contributed something else elsewhere, I won’t be a part of history. I won’t be a success in the eyes of the world. I freshened up the next morning and went back to my desk. Saluting my ancestors, who ignored distractions with a rigorous application of the mind, and reaped success, I began my day at the desk.

  My desk, which had otherwise been a mess, was neat and uncluttered while I wrote: papers stacked in order, pens and pencils in their stand, the phone in a corner. Only the one pencil with which I write was kept apart. Not even a teacup. I couldn’t tolerate tea stains. There were two diaries containing notes on one corner of the desk. I referred to them occasionally if required.

  Every now and then, I’d take a break from the writing and walk around the room. I also stopped to observe my face in the mirror behind the desk. I’d take out a comb and fix my hair, and make sure I looked handsome and pleasant. While writing the lengthier chapters, this behaviour might be repeated many times.

  I wrote my first draft on ruled paper, using a pencil—a short one as I could never stand a longish, upright pencil. I wrote only on one side of the paper, leaving the other side blank. While writing, or after, or while taking a walk later carrying what I had written, if I felt like inserting a word or a sentence in between, I’d draw an arrow mark and write (A), (E), (K), etc. Then, on the reverse side, I’d mark the same (A) or (E) and jot down the insertion. All that would be scribbled in an illegible hand that only I could read.

  I made the second draft with my best handwriting. I couldn’t bear even a single mistake in it. If I had to, I’d rather change the paper altogether and start all over again.

  Once or twice, I tried to type directly on the computer keyboard. There were the advantages of copying, pasting and replacing words and sentences, and changing the style, alignment, etc. But whenever I tried it, a dead language came out from me. Which meant that my writing body did not react well to the machine. It was more of a habit. My mind would flow only through a pen or a pencil, and onto a paper. My words are hidden on my fingertips. The forefinger was everything; my thumb or middle finger or ring finger or little finger simply did not have the talent to deliver words.

  After I think I’ve completed one chapter, I’d draw a rule at the bottom, leave the room and play with my old toys for a while. Or I’d go to the kitchen and cook with Momma. Or go to a friend’s shop and get vocal about a recently released movie. Or take the boat and cruise fast to some place—wherever it took me.

  I wrote non-stop for three days. Reams of it. I didn’t leave the house at all. I kept on writing—as determined and disciplined as a boy trying to come first in an exam. On the evening of the third day, as I drew a rule at the end of the thirteenth chapter, a title rose up in my mind. The title of my novel: The Book of Forefathers. I glowed in the reflected glory of the title. Where did it come from? What was its origin? I didn’t know. The Book of Forefathers. The Book of Forefathers. I kept on repeating the title. Mohandas, this is definitely more beautiful than your Archipelago. It was one of those moments when I admired the talent within me. Inspired, I took the boat and travelled swiftly for a long distance. Finally, it stopped on its own at the Oothukkuli boat jetty in Cherar Peruntheruvu.

  Cherar Peruntheruvu

  SUDDENLY, THE MYSTERY named Senthil, which lay clogged in me for three days, sprung to life. I don’t know whether it was a quick burst of energy or an anonymous force that made this happen. But when I left the house, there had been no Senthil or Cherar Peruntheruvu in my mind. Whatever it was, here I was in Cherar Peruntheruvu. Now, how could I leave without inquiring about Senthil?

  If someone has died, even if no one else knows about the death, his parents must be aware of it. But why didn’t they complain to the Public Security? Or didn’t they know about it yet? In that case, what could I tell them? If, instead, they thought he had just gone missing, would my visit cause suspicion?

  Doubts and questions are of no use. If I’ve to find his parents, I’ll have to look for them. But where was Senthil’s house? I had a slight memory of him once saying that he and Jesintha were neighbours in Cherar Peruntheruvu. But how could I find him with just that? Who knew how many Senthils there were in Tamil Colony? How would I identify this particular Senthil? But there could be only one Senthil who died recently.

  Non-Tamils in Diego usually didn’t venture into the Tamil stronghold. I’d been to that street once or twice before. That gave me some familiarity. Everything about the street had a Tamil touch. There was a huge board, Oothukkuli Padakukuzhaam, right at the jetty. The radios played loud songs, and uttapam stalls were all around. ‘Dey’ and ‘poda’ greetings abounded, along with provocative stares of young men. In short, it resembled a movie set. The area evoked artificiality even at first sight.

  There was a history to the street’s name, Cherar Peruntheruvu. The Tamils there believed that it was the Sangam period Cherar king Velkezhukuttavan who was the first to set foot in Diego and establish a kingdom. He earned the title Kadalpurakottiya as an honour for finding Diego. Before the advent of the Portuguese, the region was called Ilam Cherarnadu. They also believed that Velkezhukuttavan’s elder son, Irumporai, was the first king of this land. The natives say the place is mentioned in Paranar’s Anchampathu and Ottakoothar’s Takkayakapparani. It has long been the Tamils’ emotional plea to reinstate the old name of Ilam Cherarnadu instead of the French name Diego Garcia. They put forth this demand during every Senate election.

  I stepped into a tea shop at the corner of the street. I asked the old man at the counter if anyone had recently died in the area.

  ‘Ayya . . . those who are born have to die someday.’ The gaffer got excited. ‘Four last week. Our Kuppuswami had been ill for long. Good that he died. Then our Murukappan. It was some liver disease. It’s only good for us if we don’t drink too much. Then there was one teenager in the next street. Don’t know his name.’

  Diego’s Tamils talk a mix of Malayalam and Tamil. They can easily understand Malayalam. That was a blessing for me. ‘Was his name Senthil?’ I asked.

  ‘Senthil, Kinthil—who knows! If death happens at a young age, what can we do? One hears he was well educated. Then there was Selva. Our Kolanji’s wife. Suicide. Nobody knows the reason. Only the smart ones can know a woman’s mind. By the way, why are you asking?’

  ‘It’s my friend who died. Need to go to his house. That’s why I came. Where is his house?’

  ‘Oh lord, his Appa’s and Amma’s tears have still not dried up. The fourth street from here, where the Ch
eramannan Kuravai Koothu used to be held. And the eighth lane from there. There is a statue of Periyar there. Ask someone there. It was there that Selva . . .’

  Following his directions, I walked through the Kuravai Koothu street, thinking about the last time I’d been at Cherar Peruntheruvu. The well-known Tamil writer Charu Nivedita had been with me.

  Kuravai Koothu and Vadakkirikkal are the two major festivals of the Tamil here. Both are related to the Sangam period, say historians. If a king or warrior kills his opponent in the battlefield, they quit fighting and start dancing. That’s Kuravai Koothu. Its variant Thunangai Koothu is also popular here, with women too participating in it. When Adu Kottu Pattu Cheralathan, the heir of Vel Kezhu Kuttavan, who is mentioned in the sixth book of the Ettuthokai anthology of Sangam poems, visited Ilam Cherarnadu to feast with his brother Irumporai, he came to know of his army’s victory over the Ay kings. He celebrated it by dancing on these streets, and Kuravai Koothu is a reminder of that, according to legend. Charu Nivedita had come to Diego to see the original dance form, which had become extinct in Tamil Nadu. I got to know him through some common friends in Thiruvananthapuram.

  Vadakkirikkal is a week-long mourning. Warriors consider it despicable to be wounded on the back. If it happens to someone, he has to observe a fast, holding an open sword, facing the west. On the seventh day, he would fall on the sword. The festival laments the suicide of Uthiyan Cheralathan, who was wounded on his back during the Venni battle with Karingala Cholan. The fast honouring his memory extends to seven days. It is said that till recently, people would leap on the sword and die, or injure themselves with it. After the British came to Diego, they banned the festival through a decree. That led to huge riots in Diego during the late 1970s. The government was persuaded to allow the festival but without the ritual suicide. All under the watchful eyes of the Public Security. During Charu Nivedita’s visit, he had spoken to some elders who had memories of someone or the other from their families having died by the sword.

  Many of the customs that are extinct in our native mainland still live on among the migrants. To see the soul of our ancient culture, one would have to go to Diego, Sri Lanka, Malaysia or Singapore, Charu Nivedita later wrote in Kalachuvadu.

  A chap, who was chewing paan standing beside Periyar’s statue, helped me find Senthil’s house.

  Anpu

  SENTHIL’S HOUSE HAD an extended porch. It was bigger than what I’d expected, and had been smartened up recently. Two or three elders were sitting outside, chatting. I walked towards them. Seeing a stranger, they paused in their conversation and looked at me. I recognized one of them as Senthil’s Appa. It was only because of the similarity in their faces. Though dead, the face I saw in the hospital had strongly resembled the one before me.

  ‘Senthil’s Appa . . .?’ I grasped his hand and asked.

  ‘No, his Chittappa. Who are you? Haven’t seen you before.’ He got up slowly.

  ‘I was his friend. I came to know about this just recently.’

  ‘I see. You were working together . . .’

  ‘No, we studied together at St. Joseph’s.’

  ‘Oh, okay. That was a long time ago. He had finished studies, got a nice job and was happy. Hah. Everything is god’s will.’ He sighed. ‘Anybody inside. . .? Senthil’s friend has come . . .’

  He pulled up a chair for me. I sat. He inquired about me—name, place, studies and job. Except my Andrapper connection, I told him everything.

  A few minutes later, someone older than I’d expected stepped out of the house. I was sure it was Senthil’s Appa.

  Seeing him, I got up. He stared at my face. I felt a strange fear. Didn’t you just stand there when my son got shot? When the Public Security came, didn’t you evade being a witness? Isn’t that why they are now giving excuses for not finding his killers? Why did you come here? Aren’t you one of them? Many such questions would arise, I feared. I felt an urge to scoot off before that happened.

  He held my shoulder and started crying. ‘Left us . . . he left us all . . . without saying a word . . . he left . . .’

  I tried to hold him close and comfort him. He stood weeping on my shoulder as though he had found a refuge.

  However, he quickly composed himself and wiped away his tears. He then addressed the people sitting around: ‘Don’t you know him? He is our Andrapper’s child. Was my son’s best friend. They were together in school. Don’t you know? Senthil always used to talk about him.’

  When he mentioned the Andrapper name, the group’s suspicious looks gave way to that of respect.

  Senthil’s father turned towards the house. ‘Can’t you see that Andrapper’s child has come? Get him something to drink!’

  ‘No, it’s fine.’ I tried to stop him. But he went inside. I walked back to the others.

  ‘You know Senthil?’ one of them said. ‘He was well educated. Soon after Plus Two, he went to Madras. Studied there for five years. Came back and got a job immediately. You know, right? At the Accountant General’s office. His marriage had been arranged. Should have taken place in two months. Who thought it will all end up like this!’

  So, all of them had come to know of everything. I, with all those unnecessary doubts stuffed in my head, had walked up and down to the Public Security department. What a blunder! I should have come here straight.

  ‘Any idea what actually happened?’ I asked.

  ‘It was a cardiac arrest.’

  ‘What?’ I got up in shock.

  ‘Yeah. It was a cardiac arrest. He’d left in the morning for work. Couldn’t make it to the office—he died on the boat. Then, just as a formality, the body was taken to the hospital. That’s all.’

  ‘Who said this?’

  ‘Who said, as in . . .?’ They looked at each other for a minute, unable to comprehend my question.

  I quickly realized my folly. Before they could ask or I could say anything more, fortunately, a girl walked into the scene with a tumbler and a jar of water.

  They turned to her. I did too. She was so beautiful that I couldn’t turn my eyes away. My mind briefly lost its poise. She poured some water into the tumbler and gave it to me.

  ‘Aren’t you my brother’s friend? I know you. Do you recognize me?’ she asked, with a smile loaded with sadness.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I was also there in St. Joseph’s. Senthil’s sister. Anpu.’

  Yes. Anpu. Anpu. Anpu. Her name and face rushed to my memory. A name and face that shouldn’t have been forgotten, but had been forgotten. She was our junior in school and was beautiful even back then. Senthil, Anpu and Jesintha used to come together to school. During lunch, she would come to our classroom and share the food from Senthil’s plate. There was an intensity to the brother–sister relationship. To see her, the boys would scramble around the classroom during lunch. And here I was, not being able to identify her!

  My mind was stirred up by what I had just heard. Cardiac arrest! What an idiotic tale! Who made them believe that? Haven’t any of them heard that Senthil was shot? I finished the water that Anpu gave in one gulp.

  ‘More?’

  ‘Um.’

  She poured another glass of water. I finished that too at one go.

  ‘More?’

  ‘Um.’

  I drank that too in a gulp.

  ‘More?’

  ‘Um.’

  She stared at me in disbelief. As if I had come from a place without water.

  ‘More?’

  ‘No, thanks.’ I handed over the tumbler. She went back inside. I wanted to see Senthil’s Amma. But she never came out. I sat there for some more time.

  The rest of their discussion was about the chances of getting a heart attack at such a young age. I didn’t have anything to contribute to it. After a while, I got up to leave.

  Senthil’s Chittappa looked inside the house and shouted, ‘Anpu! Senthil’s friend is leaving.’ She came out running. I said bye to her.

  She accompanied me to the end of the s
treet. We didn’t utter a word to each other. Just before parting, I said we’ll meet again later, and left.

  Yeah, left. It was one kind of leaving. I don’t remember getting into the boat and reaching home. My mind was completely muddled. I felt a strange fear. I latched the door to my room and went to bed. For the next four days, I had high fever.

  Wedding Cassette

  MOMMA DIDN’T LET me go out for two days after I recovered from the fever. ‘I told him not to sit idle in the house. My mistake. And so he goes roaming around east and west. That too in the damn sea breeze. As Papa says, show some responsibility and write something.’ Momma was all over me.

  I did try. To be responsible. To be a writer. To sit tight and write. But I did not succeed much. The enigma of Senthil had wrapped itself around my mind like a viper, making it impossible for me to think about anything else. Cardiac arrest! The relatives of someone who had been shot dead in public were made to believe that he had died of a heart attack. How could I tell them the fact? Even if I tried, would they believe it? What proof did I have to present to them? Nothing, not a single thing.

  I was going crazy sitting in the closed room. I went out for a walk along the lakeside.

  Children were playing cricket in a field nearby. Diego’s new generation had turned to cricket, following the changes in the mainland. During my childhood, India, Pakistan and Sri Lanka were winning world cups. Back then, when the new migrants from the mainland ardently watched cricket, all our games were carried out in water. In fact, Diego’s national game was water polo. We were into swimming, rowing, water volleyball, diving and bellyflopping. Today’s children had come out of the water, to the ground. I stood there for a while watching them play.

  They were playing with a bat they’d made out of wood, and a rubber ball. Three not-so-straight branches had been stripped to make the stumps. A game that was played at the international level—with the players ensconced in protective guards—was being played fearlessly by the children. Their enthusiasm bowled me over. How sincerely they enjoyed the game! The most surprising aspect was that there was no umpire to control their game. The players were themselves the observers. The non-striker called the no-ball. The bowler decided if the batsman was out LBW or not. He even consulted with the batsman. Most of the decisions were made without a fuss. If it was a crucial call—a run-out or a catch or a stumping—they would discuss among themselves to reach a decision. The player who was given out accepted the outcome without getting upset. I was amazed by the honesty in their play. I felt contempt for the professionals and their games.