Yellow Lights of Death

by Benyamin

  I heard the doorbell ring, but didn’t care to get up. I turned the other side, ignoring it. It was only when Momma screamed from the stairs, ‘Eda, you’ve two visitors!’ that I scrambled to get up. ‘For me? In this rain? Who could they be?’ This time, I didn’t guess. I washed my face and went downstairs.

  Melvin! And Sudha, whom I’d met earlier.

  I was amazed. ‘Come, come in. A surprise visit? In this rain?’

  ‘It’s nothing. We were just passing by. So we thought we’d drop in on you. That’s all.’

  By then, Chettathi joined us. I said, ‘Chettathi, look who’s here. You met at Mariam Church, she was with my classmate Anita. We gave them a lift, if you remember.’

  When Chettathi recognized Melvin, she embraced her as though they were long-lost friends. ‘Oh yes, now I remember. Melvin, right?’ Then she held Melvin’s hand and made her sit on the sofa, next to Momma.

  ‘Momma, I was talking about this pretty girl that day. Momma’s son is not bad, huh? See, with one meeting, he’s made her come to our house. If you want, we can even consider this a formal engagement ceremony and take things forward. What do you say?’ Chettathi laughed aloud, amused by her own comment, while Melvin and I felt uncomfortable.

  ‘Ayyo! Sudha-chechi said she wanted to meet Anita-chechi’s friend,’ an embarrassed Melvin explained to Momma.

  ‘Meet me? Sudha-chechi . . . what’s the matter?’ I asked.

  When Sudha did not say anything, Chettathi quickly figured out the situation. ‘Come, Momma, let’s prepare lunch. Let them sit and talk,’ she said.

  ‘No, no, we won’t be staying for lunch,’ Melvin hurriedly told Momma.

  ‘Why, dear? You think I don’t approve of your visit?’ Momma said, unusually teasing. ‘My only worry is what will someone who sleeps till noon do with a pretty wife like you?’

  Everyone laughed. But Melvin seemed on the verge of tears. Often, our actions are interpreted in ways that we would never even have thought of. When that happens, what else can you do but become helpless, like Melvin?

  Chettathi took Momma inside.

  I was contrite. ‘Melvin, I am sorry. I apologize for the misunderstanding. It’s a problem with the Andrapper house.’

  ‘That’s okay. They were not abusing me,’ said a conciliated Melvin.

  ‘Why did you want to see me?’ I asked Sudha.

  She continued to be silent. Then she gathered herself and said, ‘For the past few days, I have been thinking of the case that Anita’s friend mentioned.’

  ‘What case?’

  ‘That murder. What I told you then was a lie. Actually, I was present when the case was being attended to.’

  I stared at her in disbelief.

  ‘I attended to the man’s case. He had died before he reached the hospital. We didn’t have much to do other than filling the forms for the mortuary. I did that. I don’t know the rest. I was scared to admit it last time. But then I couldn’t sleep in peace. I don’t know if it’s right in terms of medical ethics and the law here. I wanted to tell you. That’s why I’ve dragged Melvin here and come to see you.’

  Sudha said all this in one breath. The pressure that had been caused by the cover-up was pretty evident.

  ‘Are you sure he was shot?’

  ‘Yes, the doctor identified the wound. We recovered two bullets.’

  ‘Was that what you entered in the medical file?’

  ‘Yes. I saw what the doctor noted down.’

  ‘Then how come the case is missing from the hospital files?’

  ‘That I don’t know. Only they can answer that.’

  ‘Who was the doctor in charge?’

  Sudha paused and then said, ‘Doctor Iqbal.’

  ‘We heard of it from Sudha-chechi. When we came to know that there was some mystery about this case, we kept quiet. Why would we get ourselves into trouble? That’s why we denied knowing anything. Sorry,’ Melvin said.

  ‘You haven’t done anything wrong! Even the Public Security is trying to erase this case. I just casually asked about it that day.’

  ‘Who told you about this?’ Melvin whispered as if we were discussing a secret.

  ‘I was witness to it.’

  ‘Witness?’

  ‘Yeah, I was present when the incident took place. I even came to City Hospital. But after that, the case totally vanished. I was curious about it. Also, the guy who died was an old classmate of mine.’

  The conversation ended there.

  Momma had made meatball pasta for them. A special dish for our guests. Melvin tried to slip away, but Momma was adamant. I hadn’t seen her so affectionately insistent. It looked like she believed Chettathi’s every word. Momma had accepted Melvin as my girl!

  Mass Amnesia

  MY BOAT STOPPED in front of City Hospital. Sudha’s account had energized me. Things were falling into place, I felt. When one makes multiple attempts to hit a target, at least one has to succeed. One person finally agreed that I wasn’t hallucinating about Senthil getting shot. And it wasn’t just any person but the nurse who had attended his case. What better proof could one want! Mr Vijay Mullikratnam, I’ll prove you wrong. I’ll go to any extent to do that. The next step was Dr Iqbal, the doctor who had attended to Senthil along with Sudha.

  I headed straight to Emergency. Someone there told me Dr Iqbal was in the outpatient ward. I roamed around for an hour before going to his room. Patients, their relatives, scurrying nurses, attendants, trollies, drip stands, wheelchairs, plastered legs, wrapped-up bellies, vomiting, Band-Aids—the verandah was overflowing. I waded through it to the doctor’s room. Though it was past noon, there was a crowd outside his room. I went and sat with the patients.

  An overweight nurse mistook me for a medical representative. ‘No time to spare for you today. Come on Tuesday.’

  ‘This is a personal visit.’

  ‘If it’s personal, then meet him at his house.’ She turned her back like an angry elephant and marched inside.

  I wondered what makes some nurses so grumpy once they get into their uniforms. When she came out to call the next patient, she saw me again. ‘Haven’t you left yet? Whatever you say, don’t think I’ll let anyone inside without an admission card!’

  Patients were looking at me with some sympathy mixed with a degree of contempt.

  ‘Sister, please. I request you to help me. It’ll be more crowded at his house. That’s why I’m here. I’ll take just five minutes of his time.’

  She faltered at my pleading. ‘Hmm . . . Haven’t you seen the number of patients waiting? If there is time in between, I’ll call you. Don’t disturb me till then, okay?’

  ‘Yeah, okay.’

  I walked past the partition and sat in the verandah. The flow of patients to the room was slow. The doctor took a minimum of fifteen minutes on each of them. If this continued, I wouldn’t be able to meet him for another three hours.

  While I was sitting there, I noticed one of the patients—an African—looking at me often. It was as if he had something to tell me. There was a friendliness to him, but I couldn’t place him. After some time, he came up to me and asked, ‘Aren’t you Andrapper?’ When I nodded, he continued. ‘We were together at St. Joseph’s. I’m Mohammad Mustafa.’ Suddenly, as if a blanket had been whipped off my memory, a number of images came to mind. The guy who stood next to me in our fifth standard photo. Mohammad Mustafa. The one who, during a fight in sixth standard, stabbed a compass into Seyfu’s chest. Mohammad Mustafa. One who could never get his shirt buttoned straight. Mohammad Mustafa. He who used to pronounce ‘helicopter’ as ‘helicottepar’ and ‘bucket’ as ‘buttekk’, and ‘Adis Ababa’ as ‘Acid Ababa’. Mohammad Mustafa. The victim of our group song, ‘Yellow, yellow, dirty fellow sitting on a buffalo’. The curly-haired Mohammad Mustafa!

  ‘Why are you here?’ I asked.

  ‘Hey, man, why am I at the hospital? To get a shave!’ He laughed with impish glee, revealing his gums. I joined him, a bit shamefaced.


  ‘I come at least twice a month to meet this doctor. I’ve a horrible disease: sickle-cell anaemia. I have terrible body pain and have to take medication. Some doctors don’t prescribe the required dose. But this man is different. Just give him a little extra and he’ll recommend any dose. I tried ganja, but it wasn’t strong enough to numb the pain. Morphine is better. I can ignore the pain and swim in that high. That swimming has become my fate.’

  Sickle-cell disease. Pain. Morphine. Fate. I couldn’t comprehend it fully. Before I could ask anything, the fat nurse called out his name. As patients leave the doctor’s room through another door, I couldn’t meet him later. I continued to wait but not for long. When the nurse called out a number and couldn’t find the patient, she gestured to me to go in. I said an extravagantly humble thanks, to which she responded with a stingy smile.

  Inside was a fair, handsome man. The prayer bump on his forehead was prominent. Then the hairy ears, the cute bald head and the long nose.

  He welcomed me, pointing at his watch. ‘It’s time for me to pray. The only routine I manage to keep among the vast number of things I don’t.’

  ‘I won’t disturb you. I just wanted to check on something small and I’m out.’

  He smiled gently. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I’ll come straight to the point. I’m doing a thesis. “Island: Its Lives and Minds”, that’s the subject.’

  ‘Very interesting. What do you mean by it?’

  ‘What are the difference between people who live on islands and those on the mainland? Do the limitations of an island change a person? Does his perspective become restricted? Is a person’s level of tolerance related to the vastness of nature? How does living on an island shape one’s mind? These are the avenues I’m pursuing.’

  ‘Nice and distinctive topic. All the best. As far as I know, being on an island does affect our viewpoint. We don’t take the long view, we see only short distances. So, myopia is very common. It’s yet to be studied how myopia influences a man’s intellectual insight and creativity. If you explore that, it’ll be a success.’

  ‘Are there any diseases specific to our island?’

  ‘Some skin diseases due to the constant contact with sea breeze . . .’

  ‘Sir, what’s this sickle-cell disease?’

  ‘Oh right, there’s that. It’s a hereditary disease, which we can say is the result of the social restrictions on the island. A rare disorder of red-blood corpuscles that causes extreme pain in the joints. It is mostly found in communities that marry only among themselves. Here it’s prominent among the Chagos. It’s because of the island’s boundaries forcing them to marry only among themselves. That’s why now our government is promoting marriages with outsiders.’

  ‘Why do they ask for morphine, sir?’ I asked, thinking about Mohammad Mustafa.

  ‘There is no cure for that disease. One has to writhe in pain one’s entire life. The affected use morphine or any such drug to forget the pain. No other way to live.’

  ‘Sir, now to the third part of the thesis, “Islands: Accidents and Murders”. Doctor, you must remember that last month, a young man was bought here with gunshot wounds.’ I dived into my topic of interest.

  ‘Gunshot wounds? Don’t remember!’

  ‘But I remember you handling it. You were in the Emergency and attended to the case.’

  The expression on his face changed suddenly. And as if to hide it, he sat kneading his forehead. ‘In OP, Emergency and at my house, I attend around a thousand cases a month. I don’t have such a sharp memory as you young men.’

  ‘That may be true, doctor. When the job is just a duty, it’s normal that we don’t remember everything about it. But the exceptional cases, —those we don’t forget. I think this is one of them.’

  ‘It is the person himself who has to decide what to remember and what to forget, others can’t do it for him. What is important for you may not be relevant for me. I, too, have the freedom to remember and forget, right?’

  ‘Of course! But if everyone forgets something that everyone is supposed to remember, then we should assume we have a problem. Don’t you agree, sir? Like short sight, a disease called short memory. Is it because we live on an island? Have you ever felt so, doctor?’

  His face had turned dark.

  ‘My duty is to prescribe the right treatment to my patients. I’m doing that. The rest is beyond me. I don’t think I can help you in any way. It’s also getting late,’ he looked at his watch again.

  ‘I’ll come again, doctor. Perhaps you’ll have a better recollection of what happened, then.’

  ‘There is no medical book that says we can recollect events about which we’ve absolutely no clue. So another visit will be useless,’ he said as if it was the last word on the subject.

  I left without thanking him. Gratitude is for people who deserve it.

  The Room of Forefathers

  SOMETIMES, IT’S LIKE that. From the hotbed of experiences, I return to the writing desk. It could be that writers become weakened by the very intensity of their experiences. Like diseases, weaknesses, too, are in our blood. There could be rare instances of writers flexing their muscle, but is there any writer around known for his fitness and strength?

  It was one of those days for me. By evening, after returning from the hospital, the spirit of the written word had infected me. A spirit that affects one all of a sudden, without any external stimulus. Under that influence, I wrote a lot, and almost without any breaks. As I was writing, I felt the need for some reference books on Diego. I knew that the best place to get them would not be any library in Diego, but a room on the second floor of my house. We used to call it the Room of Forefathers. It was in that closed room that every historical record of the Andrapper family was kept. Many years ago, I’d gone into the room a few times with Valyappachan. I could only recall the smell of old books on the shelves, and the darkness. I wanted to enter the room again. The key was with Valyapapan. I went upstairs. Valyapapan was seated near the window, an open book on his lap, his eyes fixed on the lake, lost in some thought. When he turned to me, I made my request.

  ‘It’s not a room that anyone can enter casually. Our ancestors made some rules and regulations for it. Every senior member in the Andrapper family should be in the know about the entry, the person who wants to enter should record his name and signature in the register, and the room can be opened only in the presence of two witnesses. They should certify that nothing was taken out of the room. Even now, these rules are mandatory for everyone.’

  ‘Valyapapan, all these rules were made when there was a lot of wealth and power. To stop people stealing stuff. What’s there to steal now? Give me that key. I need to refer to some books,’ I said lightly.

  ‘It’s not a storehouse for wealth and treasures. It’s the Room of Forefathers. It stores the memories of the many generations that lived before us. It’s a holy place. Only those who know the value of it can be allowed to enter.’ Valyapapan became more serious.

  ‘I promise that I won’t do anything harmful to its sanctity.’ I became humble.

  ‘Okay. This is the first and last time. Never ask for it again. One more thing. Every rule has to be followed. Just that we don’t have any witnesses. Instead, let your conscience be the guard.’ Valyapapan handed over the key.

  I couldn’t ignore those words. I wrote and signed my name in the register outside the room before opening the door. The scent of oldness wafted into my nose. I remembered the day I had held Valyappachan’s hand and stepped into the room. Now, when I stepped inside, I sensed the gravity of Valyapapan’s words. It was not just an ordinary room—generations were stacked in those shelves.

  To one side was a pile of old records, in palm-leaf manuscripts and leather sheets. Another side had books, files and documents in paper. In exactly the middle of the room was a huge almirah, its racks labelled with the name of each forefather—it resembled a family cemetery. Hormis Avira Andrapper was at the extreme bottom. Above him were twelve
ancestors: Philip Avira Andrapper, Antony Avira Andrapper, Joseph Andrapper, Stephen Andrapper, John Andrapper, Andrew Andrapper, Mathew Andrapper, Stanley Andrapper, Samuel Andrapper, Felix Andrapper, and at the very top, my Valyappachan, Rostin Andrapper.

  For the generations to follow, there were empty racks waiting. From the next generation, Valyapapan Joseph Andrapper, from mine, my brother Jeff Andrapper because Valyapapan didn’t have any sons. I was not fortunate enough to be in the series. Only the firstborns of each generation were entitled to the glory.

  I was curious to know what was inside the racks. I touched the handle of the almirah with great care when suddenly I heard the door bang. It was Valyapapan.

  ‘You said you only wanted books. There are no books in the almirah. Don’t take advantage of my affection for you.’

  ‘Valyapapan, it’s just out of curiosity. I’ve been staying in this house for all these years and if I haven’t seen this place, how can I be proud of being an Andrapper?’

  ‘If you’re interested, there is no harm in seeing it. But you ought to be reverential.’ He pulled open a rack for me. ‘In the memory of our forefathers, we keep three things in these racks. One, the portrait of the forefather, drawn by the best artist available in Diego at the time. Two, his most favourite object. Some choose the object when they’re alive. When I die, you should keep the crown in this room. That meaningless crown symbolizes my life.’

  What would Jeff choose to be kept in this room? It would be his favourite laptop, what else? What would I choose if I get a chance? The novel which is to be written!

  ‘The third item is the most important thing,’ Valyapapan said. ‘It’s called the hasta phalakam.’

  ‘Hasta phalakam? What’s that?’ I was eager to know.

  From the rack, Valyapapan pulled out a small wooden casket. Its lid was sealed with wax.

  ‘This is the hasta phalakam box. It is believed that this was the idea of Hormis Avira Andrapper, who was extremely intelligent, a visionary. He must have envisioned every generation that would follow him. That each one of them should leave a distinct mark on this earth. That’s why he introduced this hasta phalakam box as a mandatory custom in the Andrapper family. Only someone who could see ahead in time could have come up with such an idea. Those who think only of the contemporary world can’t grasp his logic.’