by Benyamin
‘Keep visiting, my dear. And please come with me when I go to his office next week. If there is some problem with the paperwork, you can ask them.’
‘Yes, please call me. I’ll definitely come.’
As I was leaving, for the first time, I touched Appa’s feet.
‘Why are you doing this, to me you’re like my Senthil . . .’ He pulled me up and kissed my cheek.
Actually, my promise was an apology. For telling so many lies at a stretch.
Barbecue
THAT NIGHT, WE had a rare barbecue party in our backyard. The Andrapper house had been filled with joy in the last few days. Valyapapan’s return to normal life was a major event. It was a miracle. Something that had never been expected to happen. He no longer locked himself in his room. He went for a morning walk through the palm groves. He stopped to enjoy the breeze at the canal banks. Engaged in chit-chat with workers. He once even took the boat and went to the church! I assumed the party was an extension of the joy.
Pork, lamb, beef, steak, sausages, ribs, appetizers and desserts were stocked in plenty. Papa came back home from work by afternoon. Usually, he delegated all the work, but this time he was out there leading the preparations. By around nine, guests started arriving one by one. Stephen uncle was among the first, then some more relatives, followed by Papa’s friends. There were only around twenty guests. No one had brought their families. It was a bachelor party with Mexican music and alcohol flowing, along with the food.
When the party reached a certain stage, Papa got up and requested the family and staff to leave the rest of them to discuss something confidential. Except for Valyapapan, the rest of us trooped inside. The hush-hush meeting went on for an hour. It was then that I realized the party had not been planned for Valyapapan, but for the sake of a clandestine parley.
When the guests left by around midnight, we family members gathered again: Valyapapan, Papa, Momma, Chettan, Chettathi, me.
We were all curious and it showed on our faces. Nobody asked anything, though. Neither Papa nor Valyapapan volunteered any information. Prying was looked down upon by the Andrapper family. We didn’t even go into another person’s room unnecessarily. So nobody talked about the party. The chatter was all about the house. The grandeur it had in the past. The relatives we have in Alappuzha and Changanassery. How to organize the next Flag Day better. How to bring all our relatives here for it.
Flag Day was the commemoration of Hormis Avira Andrapper’s landing in Diego. In my memory, it was usually a family get-together of about twenty people. I’d heard that unlike now, it was earlier celebrated with much pomp and glory.
In the middle of the discussion, Valyapapan dragged in the topic of my marriage. Papa said it should be only after I get a job. ‘What if he doesn’t have a job? Our palm groves are making enough to provide for him and the girl,’ said Valyapapan. ‘Nobody need worry about this, the girl has already been found,’ said Momma. ‘It can be arranged any time,’ said Chettathi. ‘That’s the only way to discipline him,’ said my brother. I was the only one who didn’t speak. For or against. In fact, I didn’t know if I should get married. The talk continued for a while. Then one by one, people started leaving, till it was only Papa and I who were left.
I thought he’d ask me about marriage or studies or my novel. But his question was about Senthil.
‘What happened to the friend who died? You’ve been chasing it for a long time.’
I was amazed. I never thought he took my investigation seriously. I was under the impression that I did my thing and he lived in his world. And after I’d ditched my chance of going to Australia, I thought he’d given up on me completely. I felt happy all of a sudden. It must have been the joy of knowing that my father had not written me off.
‘No progress, Papa. The Public Security says it’s a natural death, but I’m sure he was killed.’
‘His family knows that?’
‘No, that’s the worst part.’
‘If it’s a murder as you say, then there should be other witnesses.’
‘There are. But nobody is willing to admit it. I found one person . . . I’ll definitely prove it.’
‘I realized that you can’t continue with your writing till you get this out of the way. That’s why I left you to it. Do you think you can get some peace if you are finished with it?’
I didn’t reply to that. Instead, I asked him a question: ‘What’s the connection that the Diego government has with Pondicherry?’
Papa didn’t get the question at first. He stared at me, puzzled.
‘Do any of our officials have to visit Pondicherry for work? And for what work?’
‘There is no connection that I know of. Even if there is, that must be only for the foreign affairs department. Why this question?’
‘Nothing. A friend of mine used to visit Pondicherry regularly. I was curious to know what it was for.’
‘Must be some business. It won’t have any connection with the government.’
‘Must be,’ I said ending the topic.
Both of us sat there for some more time. We were deep into the night. Across the lake, the lights were still on. The only sound was of the occasional boat passing by. When I got up to leave, Papa held my hands.
‘My dear, a father who really loves his son can understand his mind. Your life is now at a crossroads with many roads leading to different directions. If you don’t decide which one to take, then we’ll have to decide it for you. The job I was talking about was just an excuse. They don’t understand your dream. Or my dream for you. Marriage is not important now. Writing is. A single beautiful novel can make you known to the world.’
Many roads. I was thinking about that, lying in bed. A road following Senthil. Another to marry Melvin. The road to politics, as pictured by Daniel D’Silva. The road to my soul called writing. The road to success in writing, as dreamt by Papa. Which one was my choice?
Love Marriage
ANPU CALLED IN the morning. ‘Appa and I are going to my brother’s office today. Will you also come with us?’
‘Sure. What time?’
‘Around nine.’
‘Fine. Wait at Uthukkuli jetty, I’ll come there.’
‘Okay.’
It was already eight. I quickly got ready.
‘Where are you off to?’ Momma asked at the breakfast table.
‘To an office in Pentasia.’
‘Will you be back soon?’
‘Let me see.’
She hovered around me, which was unusual. I understood she had something to say or ask. But I was in a rush. So I ignored the rest of her questions as if they were irrelevant, finished my tea and left.
I reached Uthukkuli jetty five minutes before nine. I could see Anpu and her father at a distance.
‘You’ve been waiting for long?’ Appa picked up pace on seeing me.
‘No, I just got here.’
‘Good morning!’ Anpu said with a wide smile.
We struggled a bit to park the boat at Pentasia as it was office hours. We got a slot far away and that too paid parking. Half a franc for an hour. Wherever there is a chance, the government stares at people’s pockets. I didn’t have change, so Anpu paid. I felt awkward but there was no other option. The fine was ten francs.
Senthil’s office was a long walk from there. We walked slowly amidst people who were streaming ahead to reach the office on time. Appa walked in front, and Anpu and I behind. There was a tantalizing fragrance of jasmine about her. I walked close to her.
Someone who was coming from the opposite direction stopped on seeing Appa. It seemed that they knew each other. Appa’s face widened with joy. While they were talking, Anpu and I waited by the side.
Suddenly, the two men turned towards us.
‘Oh, isn’t that your daughter? She’s married . . . what’s his name?’
Appa turned pale, not knowing what to say. Anpu was silent.
I told the man my name.
‘What is this, sir? You
r girl’s husband is not from our caste. Was it a love marriage?’
We were dumbstruck.
‘Yes, love marriage. I like him a lot. Why not? Should we fall in love only within our own caste?’ Anpu intervened.
This time, the man was the one who was taken aback. He bade us a quick farewell.
I looked at Anpu in disbelief. She winked at me and laughed it off. But Appa was feeling awkward to face me. He started walking ahead of us.
Offices in Diego open at nine. But when we reached there at quarter to ten, the employees were still pouring in. We sat on a bench in the verandah. It took another half an hour for Senthil’s boss to arrive. Seeing Appa, he greeted him warmly and took us to his room. He made us sit and organized coffee for us. He apologized for his lateness and reminisced about Senthil.
Just as he was about to ask me something, Appa chipped in. ‘This is Senthil’s close friend. He’s like my son. These two are not married.’ The officer must have been amused by his panic. I looked at Anpu. She couldn’t stop laughing.
Senthil’s boss seemed to like me. The rest of his conversation was with me. He explained that the forms that were initially filled had mistakes and that they should be redone. Once they are submitted, the cash will be released in a week, he promised.
He opened a file on his table, and patiently pointed out the mistakes in those papers, one by one. My phone rang. It was Melvin. I was supposed to meet her last evening, but I’d forgotten about it. She was probably calling to check on me. I couldn’t take the call as I had to pay attention to the long list of minor errors. The phone rang again after some time. Melvin again. The officer stopped talking and looked at the wall behind us. My eyes followed his. There was a board that said, ‘Kindly switch off mobile phones before entering this office’. I apologized to him and turned it off.
I meant to switch it on as soon as I got out, and call Melvin. But it slipped my mind. We don’t need reasons to forget; we need them only to remember. It was much later—after we had coffee and got some Ayurvedic medicines for Appa, after I dropped him and Anpu off at the Uthukkuli jetty—that I remembered Melvin. When I switched on the phone, ten missed-call messages beeped in a row. The first two were from Melvin. The rest were from Anita. Melvin and then Anita? What was the emergency? I quickly called back. Anita’s reply was a loud howl.
5
Virtual Garden
THE FOURTH PART of The Book of Forefathers was a gift to the Thursday Market from me, after I left the hospital. I had neither told anyone about it nor shown it to anyone when they visited me in the hospital. When they asked how I managed to get it despite being laid up in bed, I told them that some things we don’t have to chase, they come in search of us. I gave them some theories and fooled around for a while. Then I told them about Archipelago, the foreword and Srikumar, and they were suitably surprised.
No one made any deductions or observations after the reading session. Everyone looked at each other, as if asking the other to speak if they could figure out any clue. There was nothing from anyone. Let Benyamin rest, we’ll meet later, they said. The Thursday Market dispersed.
After I had recuperated for some more days, I tried once again to return to my novel, Nedumbassery. My time in the hospital had given me some good leads to follow. The ideas were there in my mind. And the critical moments that constitute a novel. But I was unable to write. Whenever I sat in front of the screen, The Book of Forefathers popped up in my mind. Where could I get the rest of the manuscript? What would it have? What happened to Christy Andrapper while he was writing it? Who killed Senthil? What’s Jesintha’s role in it? Why did Melvin want to meet Christy urgently? Why did Anita scream? Where did Vinod disappear from the Public Security office? Why did Christy come to Alappuzha? Who among his friends had died at Ernakulam? These were the questions I asked myself. They strangled my Nedumbassery. They stopped me from writing. I couldn’t get any peace without finding these answers. It became my need more than Andrapper’s to find them. I felt angry. I even cursed him for spoiling my peace of mind. Christy, I am not a detective to spend my time identifying your hints and tracing your near ones through such clues. I don’t have that kind of an investigative brain. Until now it had been luck and the Thursday Market’s smartness. But even they had declared a surrender this time. What could I do?
I convened a couple of more Thursday meetings in the hope that their talents would yield some clues. They shared their thoughts and doubts and possibilities. But no conclusions were reached. Mashu’s suggestion was the most practical: ‘Andrapper has presented many characters in these four portions we’ve got. Let’s try to get in touch with more of them using our contacts and connections, and get to know about him better.’
First, I called Srikumar. I asked if Andrapper had said anything at all about the other portions of his manuscript. Srikumar said he had written that they were with you. I asked if he knew whose funeral Andrapper had come to attend. ‘Some girl. Don’t remember the name. Seems like they were closely related,’ Srikumar said.
A girl who died? Andrapper’s friend? Who could it be? Not Jyoti. She was unwell and in a hospital now, according to Salu. Perhaps it was someone who had not appeared till now? I went over the four sections of The Book of Forefathers. Other than Jyoti, there was Leena, Supriya, little Anita . . . Could it be one of them? Anita? But whoever it is, how did they die? I got panicky. The panic of a thirst for knowledge.
Many days went by without anything happening. Then one day, I was riding with Nibu Achachan to a relative’s house near Kollam. In a village on the way, there was a huge meeting. Crowds filled the road. Someone loud was on the mike. From the pillion, I looked at the dais. A row of members of the khadi brigade. A large banner read: ‘Welcome to Rajanbabu, the pride of Thonakkadu’. I thought it was some politician. But then the words of the orator stopped me: ‘Our dear Rajan has completed twenty-five years abroad. This is not a short duration in a human life. Rajan is not just one of the thousands who left their homeland. He is a presence in the place he reached. He always lends a helping hand to the poor. Anyone at any time could run to him. These are not fancy words, there is no one in Diego Garcia today who doesn’t know Rajan, or doesn’t need his help. Even the rulers crave for his affection and support. He has helped thousands of youngsters from our place and given them a life. There is not a single household here that hasn’t got his love. This crowd is a proof of it. Rajan is an exemplary model of what a journalist ought to be . . .’
I touched Nibu’s shoulder. Achachan got the hint. We parked the bike in a corner.
We waited there till the function got over. When he was stepping down from the dais, Nibu ran up to him. Whereas I was worried about how to introduce ourselves to him, Nibu was smart. His crisp words were: ‘Sir, we are representatives of Pravasalokam.com. We want to interview you.’
He seemed apprehensive.
‘We have come from Thiruvananthapuram to attend this function. We heard about it, and inquired about you in Diego. The reports made us very proud of you. The world should know about you. We mostly focus on NRIs who have made it big in life. We are proud that you’re one of them.’
He fell for Nibu’s praises. ‘No problem, no problem, please come home,’ he invited us.
We followed his car home. After somehow managing to part from visitors and well-wishers, he sat before us. Nibu took out a notepad and pen from the bike’s pocket, and transformed into a serious interviewer. He had the experience of reporting sports for a local daily. I felt bad about fooling such a good man. I consoled myself with the thought that it was for a good cause. Childhood, the circumstances at home, schooling, experiences abroad, and as a journalist . . . Nibu conducted the interview with great professionalism.
‘Our idea is to make Pravasalokam a platform showcasing the varied experiences of migrants across the world,’ Nibu said, concluding the interview. ‘Do you know anyone else in Diego whom you would recommend?’
Rajanbabu named some social activists and
club organizers.
‘Is there a family named Andrapper or something? Are they Malayalis?’ Nibu asked.
‘It is said they have roots in Kerala. Some say they came directly from Portugal. Whatever may be the truth, they migrated a long time ago. They were once big estate owners in Diego. Now everything is gone. They have nothing.’
‘One of them had written a story for our site. Do you know him, sir? His name is Christy Andrapper.’
‘Oh, Christy. A brilliant boy. I like him very much.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘Must be somewhere there. I keep running into him at some function or other.’
‘We had got an email from him saying there had been a murder there and that we should report the news. Do you know anything about that?’
‘Oh, he wrote to you too? He came to me about it. I had it investigated. It’s a manufactured story. Diego is a country with a strict law and order system. We cannot compare it with the neighbouring African countries. No one there can commit a murder and then live in peace. To be frank, that case was the result of a political game from within his family. They were once the rulers of Diego . . . that ended a long time ago. But they still have this craving for power. It comes out as allegations against Diego. Their intention is to prove the law and order situation is in a wreck. I’ve been in that country for more than twenty-five years now. I know how strict the laws are. If such a murder had taken place, the criminals would have been caught immediately. No doubt about it. The new chancellor, His Excellency Charles Dominic, is very strict in these issues. I’ve known him personally for the last ten years.’
‘So are you saying such a death didn’t happen?’
‘A death did take place. But all deaths are not murders.’
‘Our site is interested to know more. Sir, please help us to locate him. We need an interview with him,’ I said.
‘See, as a journalist, I appreciate involvement in a case. But this is just a ploy to create news. A mere scandal. Who will benefit from it?’ His face had turned red.
