by Benyamin
‘I did a more practical thing,’ Salim said. ‘I got in touch with Charu Nivedita. According to Andrapper, Charu has been to Diego. He remembers meeting Andrapper and being hosted by the family. Charu said the Andrapper house was one of the biggest there. He also gave me the number of one Shivasankar, who writes scripts for Tamil serials from Diego. I called him and he gave me some good news. Apparently, some days ago, he met our Andrapper on the streets. He even chatted with him. Shivasankar has promised to ask around about him and update us. That means Andrapper is within our arm’s reach!’
When Salim stopped, we all clapped. There was no way Salim’s effort could have gone unrecognized.
‘Nobody has heard what I did,’ Biju said, peeping from behind Nattapranthan.
‘Ayyo da, we forgot about Pattar,’ Anil said. ‘Okay, let’s hear your findings.’
‘I mailed Rahim and Bilal. Both of them replied. Rahim says Andrapper has changed drastically. During their schooldays, they spoke about girls a lot. But Andrapper has now become a serious person. He even emailed Bilal disapproving of Rahim’s behaviour. He claimed that Rahim hadn’t changed while he himself had become an angel. Rahim wrote that he knows nothing about Andrapper and does not wish to answer anything about him.
‘According to Bilal, they all thought Andrapper would grow up to be the most successful among them—a business magnate or a minister or a chancellor. However, while the rest of the classmates have all settled down with jobs, Andrapper, even at twenty-eight, is jobless and roaming around aimless. Rahim had invited him to France many times but he didn’t go. According to Rahim, Andrapper likes to be bone idle. He doesn’t know where Andrapper is now. Either he must have gone mad like his grandfather or must have committed suicide.
‘This is what the two have to say about Andrapper,’ Biju concluded.
There was a minute’s silence. Could Bilal’s words be true? Were we searching for a story that ends in lunacy or suicide? If so, what was the point of the quest?
‘I’ve another bit of significant information,’ Biju said. We turned to him anxiously. ‘From now on, we don’t have to call him Pachu Andrapper or Chuang Tzu Andrapper or P.C. Andrapper. His real name is Christy. Christy Andrapper.’
‘Christy Andrapper . . . How do you know?’ I asked.
‘Very easy. It was in Bilal’s mail.’
‘For this precious information, here’s a kiss from me.’ Baldy kissed Biju.
‘All these details are useful. They’ll help us get closer to him. But none of your observations tell us how to locate the next segment,’ I said.
‘Benyamin, there is one thing going for us. He doesn’t want to hide the remaining sections of the manuscript from us, he definitely wants us to get them. That means we don’t have to think too hard. The route is likely to be easier than we expect. I’m sure about it. Let’s wait,’ Mashu said.
‘When we don’t have the answers, everyone tends to reach this conclusion: Wait for the next part.’ Nibu was annoyed. ‘If we have failed to crack the puzzles conjured up by the ordinary brain of Andrapper, we should admit it, and not come up with stupid excuses.’
‘Let’s not bicker over this,’ Mashu said soothingly.
‘We are still waiting for some replies. From Shivasankar. From Melvin. Maybe even from Chuang Tzu. Those are bound to be of some help to us. If anyone identifies a clue in the text or gets a promising response we can meet, or let’s wait until next Thursday,’ Anil said.
The Cultural Ambulance ferried them away. To be honest, I felt let down. I had expected these daredevils to come up with something. That has not happened. I have to wait. It would be great if Shivasankar decided to visit the Andrapper house. If Melvin accepted Baldy’s ‘friend’ request, then, as he said, the next part was likely to be with her. But why was I waiting for Baldy to get a response, why couldn’t I send her a message? He must have mentioned my name to her. It was better to get in touch directly. I logged on to Orkut, found Chuang Tzu, and via him, reached Melvin. I was stunned to see her profile photo. If it wasn’t some film star’s picture, then she was really pretty. I felt envious of Christy Andrapper. Now I was less bothered about gathering information about him, I just wanted to be her friend. I quickly send her a friend request.
Days passed. I didn’t get to hear from her. Nobody got any replies. Salim called Shivasankar one more time. He got the depressing news that not even Andrapper’s relatives knew about his whereabouts. So, that route was closed. More days passed. We held a couple more Thursday Assemblies. Nobody managed to get anything. The investigation had come to a dead end. I returned to writing my novel, Nedumbassery, which had been delayed for a while. But even after spending hours at it, I couldn’t write a single satisfactory line. My mind was full of Christy Andrapper. His life and The Book of Forefathers. I understood that I’d be restless till I get the rest of the parts. I read the portions I had again and again, a thousand times, with the hope of finding hidden clues. Nothing. I was afraid that Mashu’s prediction was coming true. Was the ghost of Andrapper eating up my Nedumbassery? Was it going to disturb my otherwise disciplined literary life? No, no. I tried to compose myself. But my fear was becoming a reality. My writing came to a stop. My novel came to a stop.
It was then that I fell sick. I had to spend almost a month at a hospital in Ernakulam. One day, a friend, Ajay, who came to visit me brought a stack of books. In it was Archipelago by Mohandas Purameri. A book about Diego Garcia. A book that I started to read despite the high fever. There was a preface by its editor, Srikumar, about the novel and its publication. It also described his trip to Diego to collect an award for the novel, and about meeting a couple of expat authors there, including Mohandas Purameri. He expressed his hope that some of their works would find their way to his publishing house Z Books, and for diaspora literature in Malayalam to scale new heights. I felt a shiver of excitement. Srikumar had been to Diego. He had met writers there, and talked about their work. It was possible that Christy had been one among them. Wouldn’t they have talked about his novel? Was it possible he had handed over a portion to Srikumar? I was restless with queries. I had to call Srikumar.
When I got through to him, I began by asking about Archipelago. Like the previous time, Srikumar championed it passionately. I asked him about his Diego experience.
‘I’d gone along with our Perumbadavam sir,’ Srikumar said. ‘I met Mohan Das there.’
‘You say in your foreword that you met other writers too?’
‘Yes. I am going to publish two of them soon.’
‘Did you meet someone called Christy Andrapper?’ My voice trembled in anticipation.
‘Christy Andrapper? How do you know him?’
‘We are Orkut friends.’
‘Oh, I see. Any idea where he is now?’ Srikumar asked.
That was a let-down. ‘I called you to ask the same,’ I said.
‘How I met him is an interesting story,’ Srikumar said. ‘I had gone to a bar in Diego. It was a barmaid there who told me about him and his book. And I tracked him down at the award function for Archipelago. When I asked him about the novel, he was taken aback. He gave me the publishing rights for his work.’
‘Did he send you his novel?’
‘What did you say was your name?’
‘I am Benyamin.’
‘Oh, Benyamin? Where are you calling from?’ Srikumar got excited.
I narrated my hospital story to him.
‘He didn’t give the whole thing, Benyamin. He sent me one part of it, for me to read. He said the novel is with you for editing, and when you ask, I should send the portion I have to you.’
‘You still have it with you, right?’
‘Oh, I’ll have to check. There are hundreds of manuscripts here in this office.’
‘Please find it for me.’
‘Yes, I will,’ Srikumar promised.
I was nearly jumping with joy. The next section was finally on its way to me.
‘Has Andrapper been in t
ouch with you after that meeting?’
‘We met one more time. Quite unexpectedly, when he had come to Ernakulam. He had come to attend a friend’s funeral. We went there together. I had to leave soon. He was supposed to give me a call afterwards. Never did. Then there was no news of him. And I forgot about it. It’s when you called that it all came back to me.’
‘How can I get the papers?’
‘I’ll drop them off.’
One evening a few days later, Srikumar, along with the poet V.M. Girija, visited me at the hospital. He had with him the envelope with the papers. I literally grabbed it from him. I could barely lend an ear to Srikumar’s inquiries about my health. My mind was wholly focused on The Book of Forefathers. As soon as Srikumar left, I started reading.
Parallel Country
FOR THE NEXT two days, I couldn’t think about the papers the Public Security officers had given Anpu to sign. I was being scolded, sometimes almost shouted at, by one family member after another. The one who dampened our hopes, the one who screwed up his future, the one who is defiant, useless and hopeless, and other similar curses were showered on me. They seemed to believe that going to Australia was akin to going to heaven.
What surprised me more was that even when I’d chosen to study at Thiruvananthapuram, there had been no such ruckus. Usually, students from Diego go to Bangalore, Pune or Mangalore for higher studies. The richer lot chooses Cape Town or Port Elizabeth in South Africa. Or Lisbon in Portugal. Or they go to France or England. The family had decided to send me to France. But I was firm in my choice of Thiruvananthapuram. Since then, all my faults and follies and my joblessness had been blamed on that choice.
Papa and Momma were getting more anxious about my ability to achieve success in life as I grew older. But I could interpret their reaction only as a conspiracy to create a dreadful atmosphere in the house and push me out of it. For, I couldn’t consider the possibility of moving out of the house or the island. I had things to do. I had to stay back till I’d accomplished them. So I faced everything with absolute silence. It went on until the night when Papa got more drunk than usual, stood in the courtyard and trumpeted: ‘He has decided to destroy his life. No one should try to stop him from that. A man’s fate is not decided by God. He chooses it himself. Let him be.’ Momma carried on with her muttering and tears till noon the next day, but that too stopped.
Once calm returned, I thought of Anpu’s papers. I took a look at them again. Even a blind person could have sensed that there was something fraudulent in it had he known that Senthil was killed; otherwise, they were like any other government papers. How was I going to stop Anpu’s father from signing these at least for a short while? I decided to rely on measures such as not talking to him, not visiting him and not answering the phone if he called.
My probe into Senthil’s murder had come almost to a standstill. There had been no progress in my writing either. I couldn’t concentrate on anything. My thoughts were scattered. I couldn’t pummel and shape them into orderly structures of words. And there was nothing else to do. If I stayed home, Momma’s worries and complaints followed me around. I’d get ready in the morning and leave the house to wander around the streets of Pentasia or Seleucia. Those wanderings revised my opinion that I knew all the streets and bylanes of this small island where I had grown up. Exploring became fun. I found alternative routes and shortcuts to reach various familiar destinations and shops. I saw for the first time the Liberty Beach, where only the British had been allowed entry in the past, the Jew Street of the French times, the Dhivehi Language Institute and the British military camp. I got to know my island better.
It was amazing how Garcia had evolved in the last decade. During my high-school days, the roads of Diego had looked like the roads of an average village. Over the years, many rural locales had become urban. They now had skyscrapers, and each building had spacious boat-parking facilities, wide waterways leading to them, etc. I got lost at many places. I didn’t belong there, I felt a kind of strangeness. Places affordable only to the new rich were gaining prominence in Diego.
One day, while walking through one such crowded street of Seleucia’s Du Norde, I heard someone call out my name. I turned around to see someone clapping his hands in a nearby juice shop. At first, I doubted if it was for me, and then I went close.
‘Don’t you recognize me? I’m Babu. We studied together.’
‘Babu! Why are you here?’
‘Here? This is my shop.’
‘Oh, I see. But I haven’t seen you before . . .’
‘You’ll see me only if you come this way. Well, why would you rich guys come this way? This is a fake goods market for the poorer lot.’
‘How is your business?
‘It’s okay. What will you have? Mango, musambi, grapes, pineapple, kiwi?’
‘Thank you. I don’t want anything.’
‘Oh, don’t act pricey. Come, sit . . . Hey, man, make a special mango juice for him. By the way, I forgot to ask. What do you do now?’
‘I’m a novelist.’
‘Novelist? You still have the old craziness, huh?’
‘Some craziness is not to be junked.’
‘You still have the stamp collection?’
That reminded me of the hobby I’d once had. I had a huge collection. Almost three-fourths of it was Babu’s contribution. He made me pay for it. Bugger. It had taken me a long time to figure out that all his stamps were fake. That they were pictures cut out from foreign magazines. I was such an idiot.
‘You fooled me with those duplicate stamps,’ I said.
‘True. I was thinking the same! You were my first victim. Not because you were a simpleton but because you were the richest in our group. Now I fool the richest people in the world. Not with this juice business, okay? There is no fraud in that. But this is just a side business. The real deal is somewhere else.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Don’t ask. I’ve done all the fraud and forgery possible in the world. Fake phone-recharge coupon, fake channel recharge, resale of cable TV, duplicate computer programmes, movie piracy, music piracy, blue film business . . . Then at a slightly higher level, duplicate ID cards, passports, ATM cards, that’s another section altogether . . . There is nothing I don’t do.’
‘You’ve become a god of fraud! Don’t you know all this is illegal?’
‘Illegal! What’s legal? Whose law made by whom? The law for the rich to become richer, what else? Do you know how many cheap services are sold for big money with government help? Can any poor man afford to pay the price they ask? No. That means none of the facilities will reach poor people . . . We don’t want to rot and die without knowing and enjoying these things. So, we snatch them for ourselves using all possible tricks. Why do telephone companies need such huge profit margins every year? Nothing will happen if it dips a bit. So I sell fake recharge coupons. What do TV companies think? That we poor shouldn’t watch the major channels? So I sell duplicate cards. When they think we don’t have to update our computers or learn new techniques, we make sure we do. So pirated programmes are sold. Don’t these film stars take crores to preach against pirated cassettes? Why should we go to theatres, pay through our nose and make them richer? Damn them. I’ll sell duplicates. The rich can buy the original and watch. Nobody in the world should live on a poor man’s money. You come with me . . .’ He took me to a nearby shop. It had an extensive collection of vintage goods. ‘This is also mine.’
I walked around, looking at the artefacts, wondering how he had got so many antique items in Diego.
‘How old do you think this is?’ he asked me, showing me a wooden sculpture of the Buddha.
‘Some forty years? Sixty? Hundred?’
‘Around eighty years old. You want this?’
‘How much is it for?’
‘Eight hundred francs.’
‘That’s a good deal.’
He laughed. ‘No, you are a dumbo. I’d fooled you when we were children. Enough of that,’
he said, taking my hand and stepping out of the shop. ‘Actually, that is just three days old. After it is made, it’s dipped in mud, scratched with sandpaper, etc. Anyone will easily think it’s a hundred years old. More than enough to dupe fools like you. They will grab it and proudly exhibit it in their living room. Nothing feels better than fooling a rich man who brags.’
He laughed again.
When a nation conspires to loot its poor people, they, in turn, defy it with parallel nations, like this business in fakes.
The juice that Babu served me was too sweet.
Sputum
I LOGGED ON to the Internet after a long time. There were invites to join some four or five amusing Orkut groups. One was a group of people with names starting with C. Another for lovers of pink. A ‘lazy lot’ group. A left-handers’ group. One for stamp collectors. Another for people who like the game ituly. One for those who puke after drinking. Strange are the ways that people find to connect with each other.
There were also two ‘friend’ requests. One was from an old associate. The other from Melvin. I was pleasantly surprised. After her visit to my house, I wasn’t sure if she’d ever want to see me again. She wrote: Hi, haven’t seen you around. Have you forgotten us?
I added her as a friend, and replied: How can I? I’ll drop in sometime. I’ve been a bit busy.
There were four, five other scraps. Random greetings that didn’t deserve a reply. But one of them was from Bilal: ‘I’ve sent a mail. Make sure you read it.’ I wasn’t too pleased to see it. When he had come to Diego, I’d tried to meet him. His response had been disheartening. Even the mention of Senthil’s death was turned into a joke. Why this mail now? I opened it half-heartedly.
Christy, I ignored your calls and gave you the cold shoulder because of a misunderstanding. If an old friend or a relative who hadn’t been keeping touch makes a call to an expat in town, it is because he is a salesman of insurance or mutual funds. This has been proved right a hundred out of hundred times. I’ve been proved wrong only in your case. I initially thought that you were calling me to trap me in some such venture. It was later that Rahim said you weren’t involved in any fraud, and that you were actually a writer. I’m sorry. We’ll meet next time I come. Oh, I didn’t tell you—I’ve left Australia for France. Higher studies. Let me tell you, you should say goodbye to your novelist ambitions and come to France and study some more. This is a good time for that. I am pursuing my education here with the money I made working for those four or five years in Australia. In your case, I know money won’t be an issue. France was my dream, that’s why I came here. If you are coming, please let me know. I’ll arrange everything. Stop loafing around. Get serious.
