by Benyamin
Another bit of news—the Sri Lankan in our class, Jesintha, I met her in Paris out of the blue. She was with a foreigner. Perhaps her husband. I was standing in a queue at the Louvre. Though I went and talked to her, she couldn’t recognize me. Or maybe she was pretending she couldn’t. You mentioned that you meet her often. Is that true? Then please find out if it was indeed her that day. Do reply. Apologies again for the misunderstanding.
Bilal
Jesintha. In Paris? Could be true. She had chosen to enjoy life. She could do anything. Go anywhere. Maybe that’s how she made a living. No one can become so prosperous in such a short time. It’s shameful to ask about that. So I decided not to go to Port Louis in the near future. If I met her, I’d end up asking her. That’s the kind of person I am. But it’s human nature to contradict one’s own decisions. I said to myself, I don’t have to see Jesintha, but I have to go to Port Louis. I have to go there, sit in that chair, have coffee. But if I saw her, I’d feel compelled to ask about Paris, so I controlled myself for two days. On day three, I went to Port Louis.
I parked my boat at the private jetty and was walking past St. Martin Church on my way to Port Louis when someone stopped me.
‘Don’t you know me?’
I couldn’t place him.
‘Shivasankar. Tamil writer. Remember, we were together at the Parana literary group?’
‘Oh, yes, sorry, now I remember. Where are you now? And how is the writing?
‘I wrote two novels. Neither did well. Now I’m into scripts. I write television serials for two channels in Madras. Anyway, did you hear about Mohandas? The Malayali. He’s won the prize for the best novel of the year given by Pentasia This Month. I, too, had submitted my work but got nothing. There are huge celebrations for him all over the place. A magazine has published four full pages about him and his novel.’
Shivasankar gave me his number before he parted. ‘We should meet again, call me soon.’
He left me crushed. Mohandas! An award for his novel! That too for the first Malayalam novel from Diego! I, too, had plans to make a submission. As my work drags on and stretches into infinity, a guy who had started his writing career with me bags the award. When he had mentioned it to me, I didn’t take it seriously. I thought I had more talent and scholarship than he had. But my writing hadn’t achieved much. I had filled my head with unnecessary issues and killed my days of productivity. Nobody was going to ask me why I hadn’t probed the reasons behind Senthil’s murder. But at least my father would ask me what I’d achieved with my literary life, what I’d contributed to Malayalam literature.
I headed straight to a bar in Seleucia and drank heavily. Danced with the bar girls. Bragged that I was Andrapper and that I was working on a novel, a masterpiece about Diego’s history. I thumped my chest and declared the novel would win the Booker or the Pulitzer, not some puny local award. I think I even made a bar girl sit with me and narrated the novel. I made her hold my hand, kiss it and say, ‘These are not man’s fingers, but God’s fingers.’ And throughout the escapade, I was burning with envy for Mohandas. I tried to mollify myself with arguments that there would be other opportunities to win awards, that awards were not the last word on anything, that the greatest works never received awards.
However, I could not convince myself. If I could have got hold of Mohan then, I would have drowned him in the sea. I felt such wrath! Then, when I was about to pass out, I called Mohan. I wanted to curse him, but I showered him with hollow praise. I told him that he had made the Malayalis of Diego proud, that he should write more, and that I was especially proud of him.
Mohandas invited me to the award ceremony the next week. I promised that I’d be in the front row. I kept on talking. I made compliments that, in recollection, make me cringe. I finally disconnected the phone and spat. All my fury was packed in the sputum.
Andrapper
MY NOVEL HAD come to a halt. So had the investigation into Senthil’s murder. Questions about the future led me to research the Andrapper family’s history. For that I went to the forefathers’ vault, sometimes with the permission of Valyapapan, sometimes without his knowledge. I spent hours and days there. I dived into the relics of Andrapper history. I dug out letters written during various periods, government records, travelogues, citations, business deals and memoirs. I studied them in detail. The family history I deciphered from them could be summarized as follows.
Among the crew of the renowned explorer Vasco da Gama, the man who had changed the history of the Indian subcontinent, was a common Portuguese sailor named Andrew Pereira. It is said that Andrew Pereira found Kerala to be a dreamland, and it took him only a few days to learn to speak Malayalam. He thus became the first European to master the language.
For the same reason, Andrew Pereira was also part of the crew of Pedro Álvares Cabral, who came to the mainland after da Gama. It was on that trip that Andrew became an influential person in the land. He was designated by Cabral to accept the reception and gifts from the then Kochi ruler Unnirama Varma Koyithamburan. His knowledge of Malayalam so impressed the king that Andrew not only won his heart, but also his permission for Portuguese shops to be set up for business. He became the chief of trade henceforth.
On Vasco da Gama’s next voyage to Kochi, Andrew was accompanied by his wife Diarus Katrina and son Diego Pereira. As soon as he landed, he met Unnirama Varma Koyithamburan and conveyed his wish to settle in this beautiful land with his family. The king was facing troubles from his local rival, the Samoothiris, and hence was more than pleased to welcome a Portuguese commander. He endowed a grandiose house in Kochi and some plots around it to the Pereira family.
After that, Andrew Pereira acted as a mediator and translator in all the trade deals between the king and the Portuguese. Meanwhile, the king wished to train his army in western-style warfare. So, Pereira took over the additional responsibility of training the Nair infantry. Within days, he became closer to the king and won the respect of the Nair brigade. He never abandoned the spices of Kochi and life in Kerala. The descendants of Andrew Pereira—the one who came from Portugal’s Lisbon to win the heart of the king and of the natives of Kochi, to live and die there—constituted the Andrapper dynasty.
The history doesn’t end there. In 1545, Andrew’s son Diego Pereira was instated as a chieftain by the Kochi king. The Andrappers were the only family with foreign origins among the seventy-two families who held the same honour. On the mainland, the glory of the Andrapper family flourished for some two hundred years, till 1754, when King Marthanda Varma attacked the region and merged it with Travancore. But our great grandfather Hormis Avira Andrapper had reached Diego Garcia before that.
In the 1660s, the mainland saw the Dutch gaining supremacy, and the Portuguese losing it. One 8 January 1663, the Dutch army conquered the Kochi Fort. With that, all the possessions in the name of the Portuguese king changed hands to the Dutch. The waning of his dynasty and its fading relations with its roots resulted in Mathew Andrapper dying of a broken heart. For the Andrapper family in the mainland, it was the dusk of glory. But in Diego, it was a dawn.
Mathew Andrapper’s fifth son Hormis Avira Andrapper was capable of rising from the ashes. Not willing to submit to the Dutch, he shifted to Pondicherry with his family, and engaged in farming and trade. He did well. The founder of modern Pondicherry was this great-grandfather of mine: Hormis Avira Andrapper. But the history books in the mainland assign credit to the French. Not much later, in 1674, the French East India Company reached Pondicherry. Its first governor general, Francis Martin, struck a deal with Hormis Andrapper: that the French East India Company would take over trade in Pondicherry in return for a country for him to rule, a country named Diego. He would have full freedom to till the land and do business there. The entire power over Diego would be in his hands. In return, the French would be able to halt and fuel their ships in Diego.
Actually, it was a great test. To give up the growing business and the yielding land, and leave for an unknown pl
ace. Like an aimless voyage in search of treasure. Like trading a completed poem for a blank sheet of paper. But if it turned out to be successful, Hormis Avira Andrapper would own a country! He would have total control over it. He bravely took the chance. He was the grandson of Andrew Pereira, who had made journeys into the unknown; he was my great-great-grandfather who would be filling the blank sheet with words a long time later.
He ceded Pondicherry and accepted Diego. That’s how Hormis Andrapper, with his family, thousands of slaves and servants, and with machinery, boats and vessels landed in Diego.
It is in the memory of this that the Arch of Diego was erected on the north bank of Seleucia. My great-grandfather’s name is clearly chiselled on it. Not just that, his body lies buried in Diego’s main Catholic church of St. Antony’s.
The rest of the history is known by heart to every soul in Diego. It was not only a history of growth and development, but also a history of broken bonds.
Unfortunately, the French East India Company was dissolved in 1769 and taken over by the French government. After that, the French converted Diego from a stoppage point for ships passing by to a full-fledged naval base. They had bigger ambitions in the Indian Ocean. Diego was an excellent base to lead them to success. Though their initial attempt to conquer Madagascar was a failure, their invasion of Mauritius also happened via Diego. Throughout, the Andrappers were loyal servants to the French. Without contesting or combating the French, the Andrappers hung on as backwater monarchs. It must be because of that that Valyapapan couldn’t take the French treachery. They had dismissed many years of loyalty.
I went to Valyapapan’s room. He was snoozing on the recliner. The crown he had got from Hyderabad was there next to him.
Rajanbabu
I REACHED EARLY to grab a front-row seat at the award ceremony for Mohandas. Many authors from various language backgrounds were present. Malayalam was represented by Perumbadavam, and Tamil by Thoppil Mohammad Meeran. Romesh Gunesekera from Sri Lanka and Richard Kunsman from South Africa were among the dignitaries.
I felt jealous. I hadn’t thought Pentasia This Month could organize such a brilliant function, else I would have made the effort to submit a novel to the contest.
Mohan introduced himself to every guest writer present. I, too, wanted to acquaint myself with them. But who was I? How could I present myself? As someone who was working on a novel? They were all famous. People swimming fluidly in words. If they heard of the difficulty I experienced in writing my novel, they might laugh at me. I made space for myself in a corner.
Seeing me, Mohan came over and gave a hug.
‘I’m happy you’ve come. I invited everyone in the Parana group. Nobody has turned up. Jealous, what else! None of them thought I’ll win this award.’
He kept talking—about the Parana group’s contribution to the award, how his literary life grew, and how much effort he had put in. He was proud of himself. I listened to him and showered him with compliments. His hard work and dedication to writing deserved to be appreciated, howsoever reluctant I was. His discipline versus my laziness. But I didn’t like acknowledging my weakness. I liked to consider myself perfect on all counts. I told myself, Mohan, none of your great prizes can destroy my ego. I’ll always be above awards. Till I die. Even after death . . .
When he started talking about Archipelago, I twitched. I shook a bit. Oh God . . . Had he written the story that I had left incomplete? He had stolen my title . . . and perhaps the story too . . . That terrified me more than my not completing the novel or losing an award. If that was the case, then what was the point of my novel? Even if the words were entirely different, the plot might be the same. But who would believe me? People will believe the one who finished writing it first, and won an award.
As soon as he finished his first sentence about his novel, I excused myself and walked towards the exit. No, ran, to be precise. I could not stand it. It was enough to stop my heart. I could not bear to hear that my novel had come out from another’s pen.
As I imagined Mohandas standing perplexed at my sudden exit, I ran into Rajanbabu climbing the stairs of the hall.
Rajanbabu! The most reputed journalist in Diego. The editor of Diego Daily for the past twenty-five years and the special head of the Malayalam section. He also headed more than seven Malayali associations in Diego, and was the managing partner of over forty-five institutions. It was said that his proximity to the people in power had aided his growth. Whatever be the truth of that, his name topped the list of media persons in Diego. He had strong links with the British authorities as well as the big shots in the Senate. His followers said that whenever there was a problem, he came to the rescue. He used his contacts to effect solutions.
Rajanbabu had been the chief guest of that year’s Parana Literary Summit. He spent a lot of time with us discussing literature and listening to our stories. He left only after promising support to such a distinguished group. I had been instrumental in inviting him to the summit. (I had used the Andrapper family connections.) But after the group disintegrated, I stopped meeting him. I tended to avoid him if we both happened to be at the same conference. But now, I couldn’t get away. He had already seen me.
He was in a hurry. Haste was his signature. But even in the midst of his rush, he spotted me.
‘Aha . . . you? It’s been a very long time.’ He stopped me, grabbing my hands.
I was surprised that a celebrity of his calibre remembered and recognized me.
‘At that Parana Summit, I felt you were the most talented. Did you stop writing? I thought you’d have participated in this contest.’
I couldn’t respond to his comments and questions.
‘I saw a great writer in you. I hoped that you would groom that talent. But for you kids, it must have been just a joke.’
‘No, writing is not a joke for me, sir. I will write a beautiful novel about Diego. One which Diego can be proud of. It’s in me—half on paper, and the rest in my mind. Whatever happens, I’ll complete it. Nothing can stop that—be it another novel by anybody or another award for anybody or another incident. If my novel doesn’t exist, I won’t exist.’ I sounded mad.
For a while, he stared at me. ‘Good. This is the confidence I was looking for from young men like you. Once you complete it, please come and show it to me. I wish to serialize it in my weekly.’
‘Certainly, sir. But before that, I need to see you once. I have something urgent to discuss with you.’
‘You are most welcome to drop in. Just give me a call before coming.’
He walked inside in a hurry.
My thoughts were on Senthil.
Publisher
I WANTED TO leave quickly. But there were a lot of acquaintances, colleagues in literature, all equally sad. Some who couldn’t send a novel to the contest. Some who hadn’t won the contest. But none talked about the contest or Mohandas. The discussions ranged from Ben Okri, Leela Soma and Kaavya Viswanathan to activism and blogging, and the Paris Poetry Festival and the Man Booker Prize. I joined them. I wanted to uproot any thoughts about Mohan and his novel from my mind. Else, they would lie there undigested and eat me up.
We were standing in groups and chatting when someone pointed out that somebody was calling out my name.
‘I’m Srikumar, from Kochi. I’ve come with Perumbadavam sir.’
Hearing ‘Kochi’, our eyes widened. Any place name in the mainland and the presence of anyone from there, widened our eyes. We welcomed him, heartily shaking hands.
‘Can I talk to you alone for a minute?’ he asked me.
‘Of course.’
We moved away a bit.
‘I’m the editor-in-charge of Z Books, which is a medium-sized publishing house in Ernakulam. I usually attend all the book festivals. I know I can find interesting writers at these gatherings. Rarely have I got it wrong. Rather than publishing the second-rate stories of celebrated writers, I like to go with the first work of fresh, raw talent. If the writer is talented, it’s
visible in their debut. It may go unnoticed, and the print run and sales may be low, but it will stand out from the rest. I was sure I could find such a person here too.’ He kept talking. ‘More than works that win awards, I like the manuscripts which get rejected. Most of the time, those are better than the one that won. I met a couple of people yesterday. To be honest, it sounded as though their work might be better than Mohan’s Archipelago. Awards are won by compromised works that accede to the status quo, which won’t annoy anyone. Such works don’t interest me. And yesterday, I happened to hear about your new novel. I liked what I heard. I’ve been looking for you since then. If we hadn’t met here, I would have found your house and come there. I am that intrigued! Please publish your work with me.’
More than the sudden offer, it astonished me that he had come to hear about the story of the novel.
‘Who told you that I was working on a novel?’
‘That was what I meant by unexpected. I now feel like I came to Diego only to meet you.’
‘Tell me who told you?’
‘What does it matter? Won’t you please agree to publish your novel with me? I don’t promise you awards or reviews by famous critics or a high print run. But I can find you the best readers. You’ve to trust me on that.’
