by Benyamin
Valyapapan softly scraped away the wax seal. Then he opened the lid and held the box up to the light. Inside was a clay plate with someone’s hand impression. There was blue paint on it. The colour highlighted the lines, crests and troughs clearly.
‘This is the right-hand impression of our forefather John Andrapper,’ Valyapapan said, pointing at the name on the label of the rack we had opened. ‘Look at this. This is the hand that guided this family for a long time.’
I took the box from him with both hands. Then, as if it was a baby, I kept it close to my chest and looked at it for a long while. A hand impression made centuries ago. The lines of time lay deep in it. A smart person could not only read these lines to decode his life, but also the times. Who could arrange a better memory for tomorrow!
‘Tell me everything about the hasta phalakam,’ I said.
‘It is brought in on the day the head of the family dies. The box is filled with the best soil available in Diego, mixed with clean sand and glue in a particular proportion. The hand of the dead father is then imprinted on it. He leaves the world after gifting this to time. Once the clay dries up, it gets coated with blue paint, to make the impressions sharper.’
I looked at it for some more time before returning the box. Valyapapan closed the lid, resealed it with wax and put it back on the rack. Then he pulled out another box. It contained a pure-white porcelain bowl with drawings in gold on the rim. Probably a Chinese bowl. That must have been the favourite object of John Andrapper.
Valyapapan then showed me a framed picture. In typical Portuguese attire of the era, my ancestor John Andrapper solemnly looked at me.
‘The Room of Forefathers is not a museum. It’s the life of our family,’ Valyapapan said, closing the almirah. ‘Don’t go around telling people about this. We should maintain the privacy of the family.’
In front of the almirah that contained generations within it, I stood a long time, with folded hands.
Kanyabhogasooktham
VALYAPAPAN WENT BACK to his recliner. Among the books and documents in the room, I began to search for references to Diego. It was a more massive and significant collection than I had imagined. Some I opened and read, for fun.
The first one I stumbled upon was a deal struck by the French government and Diego on the official language:
Le français restera langue officielle des Dego Garcia aussi longtemps que les représentants élus de la population n’auront pas pris une décision différente.
(The French language shall remain the official language of Diego Garcia as long as the elected representatives of the people shall not decide otherwise.)
Article XXVXI of Traite de Cession
It was in violation of this deal that the British authorities, in 1975, through a decree, declared English as the official tongue. How many similar violations have there been! The history of them is called Diego!
Another file I saw had a crucial order of authority that the French East India Company handed over to the Andrapper family. Its loose English translation is:
The Andrapper Family, of Portuguese lineage from Andrew Pereira, now headed by Hormis Avira Andrapper, will be the de facto owners of Diego Garcia and the rest of the Chagos Archipelago such as Peros Banhos, the Salomon Islands, the Three Brothers (Islands), the Egmont Islands and the Great Chagos Bank.
Diego Garcia and the Chagos Archipelago will be ruled and administered by the Andrapper family, but the land will remain and serve as a coiling station for French ships at the Indian Ocean. The French East India Company does not have any plan to develop the land as a French Colony.
The family will have all the de facto authority to rule the Inhabitants, Migrants, Workers and Slaves. All the income from the land, plantations, industries and the atoll will go to the family, and no tax will be paid to the French East India Company.
This is a mutual agreement made between the Andrapper Family and the French East India Company.
Article XXVII of Traite de Cession
There were also a lot of rare books. Thomas Stephen’s History of Christ, Abraham Rogers’s translation of Bharthrihari, Fr. Roths’s Sanskrit grammar, and Fr. Zha Kalmethy’s translation of the four Vedas were among them. In the same shelf were Benjamin Bailey’s short essay Madyanirodhini, Raja Ram Mohan Roy’s interpretation of the Upanishads, and King Bhoga’s Samarangana Sutradhara. Then there was a translation of the book The story of Phulmani and Karuna, written by Catherine Hana Mullens, alongside Interesting Tales by an Outsider for India’s Women.
Who among my ancestors had been such a lover of books? A man interested in collecting books? It could not have been Valyappachan Rostin Andrapper. There was no proof of his interest in literature. It must have been someone before him. Felix Andrapper? Samuel Andrapper? Stanley Andrapper? Whoever it was, it must be from him that I got my love for books. The stories he had wanted to write might finally be written by me. These desires never die. They get transferred, through one’s genes, down through generations, till they manifest at some point.
I also found valuable documents of Diego Garcia’s history from the Room of Forefathers. A logbook titled A French Ship’s Journey to India—1642 was the most remarkable of them.
To the east of Venecia’s St. Raphael Airport lies a small village called Sanchi. Most of its inhabitants are Buddhist refugees from Sri Lanka. A bodhi tree with large, spreading branches is the landmark of Sanchi. Believers claim the tree is over two thousand years old. According to the Buddhists in Diego, Mahendra and Sanghamitra, who left the subcontinent to spread the religion in Sri Lanka, lost their way and first landed in Diego. They were said to have planted a branch of the bodhi tree here, and another one in Sri Lanka. As they were from a place called Sanchi, this region also came to be called under the same name, according to legend.
The Buddhists of Diego rely on this logbook as evidence to prove that they were the first inhabitants of the island. It was because of this book that they enjoyed special status and Senate positions.
I flipped through the pages with interest. It was a travelogue by Vice Admiral Theogin, captain of the French war vessel La Favorite that had been to many countries. The voyage began at Le Havre in France and continued to various ports such as Rabath, Banchu, Seytna and Tholanaro, before the ship went to Goa. It finally anchored at Diego’s eastern side in May 1642. Theogin refers to Sanchi as Seynchi.
He mentions visiting the eastern islands of Seynchi, home of the ruler of the Garcia Islands, Maharaja Veeravardhanan. He spoke fluently the Buddhists’ language of Pali, and most people in the region followed Buddhism. There was a beautiful monastery built on a cliff facing the sea. The king told Theogin that he had not allowed the Portuguese to step on to his soil and that he wished to be a French ally. He angrily asked Theogin why the French kings were not trying to defeat the evil Portuguese at sea.
Nowhere in our history had a King Veeravardhanan ruled Diego. But Theogin’s logs clearly record a meeting with a ruler of that name. Is he saying that that ruler belonged to the Andrapper lineage?
Before I left the room, I stood before the forefathers’ almirah once again. I felt intensely curious about the favourite objects of each one of them. I knew I was breaking Valyapapan’s trust and the Andrapper family rules, but I couldn’t resist the temptation.
I peeped out of the door to see if Valyapapan was standing guard somewhere. He had dozed off on his recliner. I could open the racks in peace. I went back into the room, slowly opened the topmost rack, which belonged to my Valyappachan Rostin Andrapper, and took out the box with his favourite object. There was an ashtray made of glass, and a set of pipes. I remembered that he was a chain-smoker. What else could be his favourite objects but an ashtray and pipes!
The next one was that of Felix Andrapper’s. His favourite was a nutcracker, which had intricate woodwork and gold enamel work. I wondered about an epoch when a nutcracker could be considered the most interesting artefact.
Then came Samuel Andrapper’s rack. It had an
elephant tusk with goldwork and a long gold chain.
Stanley Andrapper’s box contained the best of surprises. It had a book, yellow with age, with torn edges and pages almost eaten up by silverfish. I eagerly flipped through it. There were just twelve pages to it. In a Malayalam so ancient that I read the title with great difficulty: Kanyabhogasooktham.
I was extremely eager to know its contents. But then I heard Valyapapan yelling, ‘Aren’t you done with your search? Stop it for now. Continue later.’ I quickly closed the almirah, but I didn’t feel like parting with the book. I was dying to read it. I hid it from Valyapapan by inserting it into the French travelogue, and briskly walked back to my room.
Once inside, I latched the door. I tried to read the text. It was hard work.
Author: Ittooppa Paili Avarkal. Not for sale. Printed at Madirasi Press.
The first page had these details, apart from the title. My curiosity grew manifold as it was written by a Christian, when usually these kind of books bore the name of sages.
Unlike the title Kanyabhogasooktham, or the Rules of Virgin Pleasure, which hinted that it was for those who wanted to enjoy women, the book was actually for women who wanted to be enjoyed, according to the foreword. ‘This is a concise version of the archaic work written on palm leaves by my legendary ancestor Itti Korata, keeping in mind those chaste women who want to make love before they get married. We express our gratitude to the Christian missionary who helped us in bringing it out.’
There was no mention of the name of the missionary. No clue of the year of publication. The foreword said that the idea of publishing the book was inspired by Samkshepavedartham, another book printed by the Madirasi Press. So, it could be assumed that this came out during the late 1700s or early 1800s. Very interesting things were mentioned in the book; although half of it was lost to silverfish and fungus, I soldiered on. The crux of the book was on how to choose a man if an unmarried and healthy woman wanted to have sex. It was advised right at the start that only if the woman could not control her feelings through prayers, fasting, fantasizing, self-stimulation, hard work and spirituality—only then should she invite a man to her bed. If the act could give the woman feelings of regret, sin, self-despair, abstinence or depression, she should preferably wait till she gets a husband.
Don’t choose men younger or of the same age, was the first instruction. The reason given was that these men are impatient, impulsive and ignorant of the subtleties of sex. They are incapable of satisfying women; instead, they will focus on their own pleasure. Their haste and inexperience will hurt you beyond limits. No pleasure, but only pain can come from them.
Don’t chose old and unmarried men—they have wrong notions about sex and lack confidence. You cannot get what you expect from them. Sex with them will make you depressed and averse to it.
Middle-aged married men are the best. More than looking for their pleasure, they will seek yours. Their knowledge will help avoid pain. Their patience will make you happy. Their experience will protect you from getting pregnant.
But beware of men with more than four children: they lack control. Beware of those with children in quick succession: they are easily satisfied. Beware of the fat ones: they are lazy. Beware of men who fight with their wives: they will be dishonest. Beware of junkies: they are irritating. It was a long list. My favourite among them was: Beware of scholars, lawyers and artists—they are crazy sex freaks, but incapable of ‘doing anything’.
I wanted to read the entire book without skipping a word. But Chettathi came to my room to ask for something. I had to quickly hide the book under the tablecloth. I couldn’t get back to it for the rest of the day.
That night, for no reason, my mind was awash with memories of Anpu. Senthil’s sister, Anpu.
Cardiac Arrest
I stayed in bed longer than usual, unable to free myself from the previous night’s dreams. Usually, dreams fade away by the next morning. But those particular dreams remained vivid in my memory. I began to doubt as to which version of me was more real: the person in my dream, or the person in reality. For me, both are experiences—dream and reality. The mind engages with both with the same intensity. How can we say which is true and which is fake? And sometimes, we do wish for dreams to continue into life and life to continue into dreams. I tried to fulfil the wish by daydreaming. But that didn’t help much. I had to meet Anpu to gain some control over my dreams. I freshened up and left for Cherar Peruntheruvu.
Senthil’s house was dead silent after all the hullabaloo of after-death ceremonies. The only reminder of a death was a small pandal stretching out of the house. When I rang the bell, Senthil’s father opened the door. He was surprised to see me. ‘Kanna, you are here so early in the morning.’ He stepped on to the verandah, hugged me and took me inside.
‘I had to come this way for something, so I thought of popping in for a short while.’
‘Good, good, I’m glad to see you. Nobody visits us. Only you two classmates come. The house has gone silent. Anpu, look who is here!’
Anpu came into the hall. Either she had woken up late or gone back to bed after getting up. She looked drowsy as she bundled up her hair. But it only added to her beauty. Truly beautiful girls look even better unadorned. I felt lucky to have seen Anpu in such a state.
‘What news?’ she asked me with a smile tinged with sorrow.
‘Nothing. I’m fine.’
Thus ended the conversation. It was like none of us had anything to say. We were each of us lonely in our own tent of memories. Why did I rush here? Yeah, to see Anpu, but I also had some questions in mind about Senthil. However, at that point I couldn’t recall any of them. ‘I dropped in while passing by. See you later,’ I said, getting up.
‘I’ll make some coffee,’ Anpu said.
‘No. It’s fine.’
‘Ennada, kanna, why are you in such a hurry? Anpu, go and get him coffee.’ Senthil’s father did not want me to leave. I sat again, humbled by the affection.
Anpu went inside.
We returned to silence.
‘Can someone have a cardiac arrest at his age?’ he asked me suddenly.
I was shocked. ‘Any age . . .’ My hands were shaking as I said that.
‘When a cardiac arrest happens, won’t the person feel something, anything, before that? No pain, nothing?’ he asked.
‘Yes, there will be pain.’
‘When?’ He would not let go.
‘Don’t know for sure. But I’ve heard that for some the pain could start a few hours before the actual event.’ I was squirming in my chair by then.
‘He must have kept quiet, right? Stupid guy.’
I almost got up to rush to him and scream, ‘No, no! He did not die of a cardiac arrest!’ But Anpu was already at the door with coffee. I reached out and drank it greedily.
Later, I realized it must have been weird. What would Anpu have thought of me? The first time I had come, I snatched the glass of water. The second time, the coffee. Would she think of me as a glutton? By the time I finished the coffee, it was pouring cats and dogs. I stepped out to the verandah. I couldn’t have run to the jetty without an umbrella. I just needed to get to the boat, where there was a raincoat.
‘Anpu, please do me a favour. Give me an umbrella. I need it to get to the jetty.’
‘Let the rain stop, kanna. You wait,’ said Senthil’s father.
‘No, Appa, I’m in a hurry.’
‘Okay, Anpu, drop him at the jetty.’
Anpu came with two umbrellas. We walked into the rain. She repeated what her father had said. ‘Anna had lots of friends, but none of them comes here now. Only you two come.’ It seemed as though she was crying.
‘Appa said the same. Who’s the other visitor?’ I asked.
‘Akka. Jesintha.’
‘Who?’
‘Don’t you know Jesintha? She was in your class. Earlier, we lived on the same street. Now Akka’s family stays at Cornish.’
‘You mean Jesintha came here
to see you?’ I found it hard to believe.
‘Yes, she was here even a few days ago. After Anna’s death, she’s been coming quite often. When she sees me, she starts crying. The two of them were friends since childhood.’
‘Yeah, yeah . . .’ I began to shiver in the rain. ‘You have her number?’
‘Yes.’ She knew it by heart. ‘9876543210.’
I saved it on my phone and told her, ‘I need to meet you alone someday. When you come to Seleucia, call me for sure. Wherever I am, I’ll come and meet you. This is my phone number.’ I gave back the umbrella after stepping into the boat.
‘Sure, I’ll call. Please come this way again. Appa likes you a lot.’
‘I’ll come.’
She waved at me.
After the boat was on its way, I took out my phone and called Jesintha’s number. Instead of a normal ringtone, I heard a new Tamil song.
Deceit
JESINTHA TALKED AS if we had met just the previous day. I thought she might panic on getting a call from me, and that she’d disconnect it. But she made small talk, told me some of the gossip going around the port, and asked about my writing.
‘I need to meet you urgently,’ I said in a heavy tone.
‘Why not? Tomorrow morning, if it’s not raining, shall we meet at the same place? Or any other coffee shop of your preference. Or do you want to meet today?
‘No, tomorrow is fine.’ I hung up. I had been hoping that she would try to evade me and I could trap her, but she disappointed me. Where is the thrill for an investigating officer if the suspect comes to his office and surrenders! Still, I dreamt all night about grilling Jesintha.
