by Benyamin
‘Not creating news, sir. We only wanted to hear his side of the story. If his arguments are concocted, we’ll expose them.’
‘Okay, I’ll look for him after I return. But note that I won’t be part of anything that tarnishes Diego’s name. The land is my bread and butter.’
‘Oh, thank you, sir. What’s your contact number?’
He went inside and came out with his visiting card.
We talked some more and had some tea before we left. Nibu was fantastic. I had never seen anyone who dealt with such a situation in such a cool manner. The fire in my belly died only after the bike left the premises of Rajanbabu’s house.
It wasn’t clear whether that visit was fruitful. Meanwhile, something else happened.
One day, I was at a family friend’s house. All of us men were gathered in the verandah when we heard his wife shouting at their son. When she was asked the reason for her anger, she said her son hadn’t watered the vineyards even though he had been asked to. ‘The plants must have died now.’ Her anger gave way to tears. We were wondering as to how and when this family—that hated plants and soil and fertilizers—had started loving plants. Have begun to grow grapes? Our friend laughed on hearing the question. ‘The farm is not in or near my house, but in Facebook,’ he said. And his wife became vocal about getting gifts from friends, building farms, watering land without canals and pumps, reaping profits without wasting effort, and growing cows without stench. I didn’t have much clue about it, so I kept mum.
Anyway, that was how I was introduced to the latest social media network called Facebook. I started an account with the idea of owning a virtual farm. Though my garden too died from not being watered, I acquired a lot of old and new friends on Facebook. I gradually moved from Orkut to Facebook.
One day, I got tagged to an Aldous Huxley quote: ‘I don’t believe for a moment that creativity is a neurotic symptom.’ Someone’s favourite saying. I registered it as a random quote. But the next day, I got the same line as a message. It struck me that it was the line Andrapper had wanted me to put as my Orkut status. What could it mean? Could this person have any connection to Christy? I looked at his name. Jijo Thomas. An engineer based in Kothamangalam. Interested in music. None of it seemed like a link to Andrapper. Despite that, I replied to the message with four words: The Book of Forefathers. Another question came as the reply: ‘Are you the author Benyamin?’ Yes, I replied, to which came the response: ‘I have to talk to you. Can we meet?’
‘Sure, whenever you want. What’s the matter?’
‘I’m coming to Kottayam next Friday. Can we meet? It’s about Andrapper.’
I was roused by that. Andrapper?
‘You know Andrapper?’
‘I’ll tell you when we meet. Can we?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where?’ he messaged.
‘Hotel Ambassador, near Manorama.’ It was the only hotel I knew in Kottayam.
We exchanged mobile numbers and agreed to meet. All via Facebook. I immediately informed the Thursday Market. Everyone was busy. But I was reluctant to go alone. Finally, Nattapranthan agreed to tag along. Next Friday, early morning, we left for Kottayam in a Superfast bus.
By the time we reached our hotel, it was around eleven in the morning. He was waiting for us at the reception. A fashionable young man with a stud in his ear. Jijo, he introduced himself.
We went inside and ordered some juice.
‘Why did you want to meet us?’ I asked.
‘Christy Andrapper asked me to do so,’ he said.
‘Why?’
Instead of replying, he opened his bag and handed over a packet to me. I opened it. It was the fifth part of The Book of Forefathers. I greedily started reading it right then.
Darkness
ANITA ONLY MANAGED to tell me to rush to the hospital. A blade of fear pierced through my spine. Something bad has happened to someone. My god, what could it be? The face of Anita’s husband and children floated up in my mind. That increased the speed of my boat. Anita hadn’t specified the hospital. I assumed it was City Hospital. When I reached I went directly to Accidents and Emergency. Sudha-chechi was on the verandah, so was Mercy and a couple of others whose names I didn’t remember.
‘What happened?’
‘Nothing. Slipped while getting into a boat. The head hit the plank.’
‘Where is Anita?’
‘There, she’s inside.’
I went into the visitors’ room. When she saw me, Anita jumped up and held my hands.
‘Did they tell you?’ she asked, looking at the people outside.
‘Yes.’
‘Nothing much. Nothing. Loss of consciousness because of the impact. That’s all. That’ll be all, won’t it?’
‘Yes, yes. Nothing to worry. It’s just a minor slip . . . Anyway, let me ask.’ I gently let go of her hands and walked outside.
I tried to convince the security guard to let me go inside. He wouldn’t budge. Neither would the nurses. ‘Why do you have to get in? If there is something to be done, we will do it.’ They got angry. Suddenly, I remembered Johnny. He might be able to help. But when I checked my phone, his number was not there. I felt angry with myself. How could I have deleted his number thinking he won’t be of any use! How can anyone say when people can be of use! I decided to go and find him. I walked a twisted path, following arrows down the long corridors and verandahs. It was as though life had been rewound to the distant past, and was being replayed. Like I had returned to the day when I came searching for Senthil, and I had started my walk from that moment.
The walk was a waste. Johnny was not in at his old seat. Then I remembered his promotion. Nobody there knew where his new office was. Someone suggested I inquire at the Recruitments office.
That was even farther away. Verandahs. Corridors. Stairways. What if Johnny was not there? As I returned to Accidents and Emergency, I heard the wailing from a distance. My throat went dry. I ran. A stretcher lay in the verandah with a white sheet over a body. Anita was down on the floor, with Mercy trying to pacify and lift her. I ran towards them and helped her. With great difficulty, we hauled her up and took her back to the visiting room. A nurse stepped in to ask, ‘Anyone else wants to see? We are moving the stretcher to the dressing room.’
Mercy looked at me. ‘Don’t you want to see?’
I nodded.
She took me to the stretcher and removed the white cloth from the face. I looked. I felt the heaviness of a dark cloud in my head. The darkness thickened. I fumbled to get a hold of the stretcher.
When I opened my eyes to consciousness, Papa was beside me. Curtains formed a wall around me, with a half-empty IV drip hovering above like a bat. The stench of medicines filled the place. That took me to the source of memories. I tried to recall what had happened. I couldn’t. I had told myself, I’m all right, I’m all right. I had tried my best not to fall. But a cold darkness had dragged me down.
Everything is just a dream, I sighed. But my senses did not let me live in the lie for longer than a moment. I had to admit to myself the horror of reality—that death had taken someone close to me into its whirlpool.
The pain slowly spread through my chest. A strange prickling. As if something was stabbing me there. When my eyes met Papa’s, tears started flowing down my cheek. I tried to control myself, but failed. They continued to flow, dampening the pillow. Papa pressed my hand, and silently went out of the room.
More than sorrow, it was regret that burnt in me. Till I saw the face I did not allow for even the slightest chance of such a thing to happen. I had decided it was someone close to Anita. It is my habit to imagine a hundred possibilities to anything: Is it this? Or is it that? Could it be . . .? And then become happy or sad or angry. But the reality would be something completely different from my speculations. The same had happened again.
The pain multiplied the more I thought about it. I’d ignored her the past few days. Not intentionally, but it had happened. I’d been pushing our meeti
ng to the next day, or the one after. Who could have thought death would interrupt our unfinished conversation? Melvin, my apologies. If I had known death was only a slip away from you, I wouldn’t have treated you the way I did. I would have taken you with me to Diego Daily. I would have answered all your calls. I would have come to see you as promised and listened to all you wanted to say.
Whenever you’d sent a scrap in Orkut, you had wished for a boat ride to the seafront or to go shopping. You never insisted though. Even if I didn’t have a grain of love for you, I should have agreed to your requests as your friend. But I didn’t. I’m one of those out-of-date, antiquated men who think love is not something to be expressed.
In my half-finished novel, a writer goes in search of Diego’s heart. He never falls for a girl or loves anyone. Was my life reflected in my work? I saw myself in the novel. Melvin, I’ve become this person. I can only become this person. What else can I do but apologize?
‘Papa, let’s go,’ I called to him.
‘Already? You should stay . . .’ Papa came to me.
‘It’s nothing, Papa. Just a shock, that’s all.’
I tried to pull out the drip.
‘Someone who faints on seeing a dead body! Lie there for five minutes. Let the doctor come and check on you.’ A nurse came in and scolded me.
I hadn’t seen a dead body. I saw a face, the face of my dearest. I wanted to say that. But what was the use of telling that to them? I couldn’t stay there any longer.
‘Papa, please call the doctor. I’ve to go! I’ve to go.’
Heeding my panic, Papa managed to bring the doctor with him. I explained that I was fine and ready to leave. I got up to demonstrate.
He reluctantly signed the discharge sheet with ‘Against medical advice’.
I ran through the E&A verandah. I had the feeling that Melvin was still lying there. But it was vacant as if nothing had happened. I was about to ask a nurse when she ignored me in her rush to get inside. I tried to follow her, but Papa held me back.
‘I have to see her once more, Papa.’
‘She is not here. She’s been moved to the morgue.’
‘So fast? Then, we will go there and see.’
‘Not now.’
‘Why, Papa? Is it because you think I’ll faint again? I won’t.’
‘We’ll go later.’
‘No, I have to see her now, Papa. For peace of mind. I’m scared. What if she goes missing like Senthil?’
‘Christy, don’t be a child. A man’s courage and keenness is measured not by his everyday behaviour, but in how he faces extreme and unexpected situations. You have never had to face such a situation before. But this is a chance to test yourself. Be brave. Prove that you’re strong enough to face the unforeseen. Tears are not the best love you can give the dead, it’s deeds. Think of what arrangements you can make to help send her body home.’
His words snapped me awake. Yes. I should be brave. And strong. Pain should pass through like the wind, affecting only the fringes of the mind. It shouldn’t shake it up. What Papa said was right. Tears are not the best love to give the dead. I hadn’t done anything for her. At least now I ought to do what I can. Who else was there for her? She shouldn’t be lying an orphaned corpse in some cold storage. Melvin, I’ll do what is required to send your body home. But you . . . you’ll be here with me, right?
Embalm
WHO COULD HELP me get things done fast? Many names came to my mind. It was when I wanted to call them that I realized I no longer remembered any of their numbers. There was a time when I knew phone numbers by heart like I knew the multiplication table. When I remembered a face, I used to be able to recall the number that went with it. The mobile had put an end to that. Half my memory had leaked out without my knowledge. What would happen if I lost my mobile phone too? Won’t the door to all my relationships be shut in just one swoop? Fortunately, I’d only lost Johnny’s number from my phone. The numbers of Rajanbabu sir and Daniel D’Silva were in the contacts list. I called both of them.
Rajanbabu: ‘I got news of it. Is she someone you know? Okay, I’ll definitely do the needful.’
Daniel D’Silva: ‘I’m leaving now and will reach your house within an hour.’
It was a great relief for me.
Papa had already called Stephen uncle to get the papers from the Public Security department.
Though I was born and bought up in Diego, most of my grown-up years were spent in Thiruvananthapuram. By the time I returned, my peers had all left or become absorbed in their own work and life. Because of that, there were only a few in Diego who knew me or whom I knew. Most of the relationships I had, began and ended in literature. There was no humanity in that. When I had a problem, I was unsure of support. I had already faced that in the Senthil case. But this time, it was as though the whole of Diego society was in step with me.
Whatever was on his mind, Daniel D’Silva came immediately and took over. It was great luck that he was familiar with the complicated procedures of transporting a body. Someone new to it would have been totally lost. Death certificate and release certificate from the Ministry of Health. Then clearance certificates from the Public Security, the Public Prosecutor, the Crime Investigation Department, the Forensic Department, and a paper each from the ministries of Internal Affairs and Foreign Affairs. The record of transferring the salary and other remunerations from the company where she was working to the nearest relative or to the Indian Embassy, and after that the release certificate from the embassy. After everything, papers from emigration, airport, cargo, etc. Each department delayed the proceedings with hundreds of queries. So, he made sure to be everywhere in person to hasten it. Rajanbabu sir called the senior chief at the Ministry of Health to avoid delays in paperwork. Meanwhile, the hospital demanded a post-mortem. Through Rajanbabu, I persuaded the higher-ups not to put Melvin’s body under the knife. I wanted it to be sent home as it was. For that an approval letter was required from her parents. Some of her friends contacted them and got it faxed. With that, I wrote a letter stating that nobody in Diego had any complaints. All this while, I had not contacted anyone from her hostel. But updates kept coming and things fell in place somehow. There was help from the congregation at Melvin’s church. Formalities that usually take three days were wrapped up in half a day and orders were passed to send the body to India the very next day. On the Mali–Diego–Thiruvananthapuram flight of Indian Airlines at 1 p.m. The body was to be taken out of the mortuary at 7 a.m. and embalmed. At 9, there would be prayers at St. Thomas Ecumenical Church. The body had to reach the cargo section at the airport by at least 10 a.m.
There was a reason for the haste. Diego has direct flights to Thiruvananthapuram only on Tuesdays. Otherwise, one has to go via Sri Lanka or Mali. If any problem cropped up, the body could get stuck in these airports for three or four days. There had been many such incidents before, according to Rajanbabu sir. So, I spent every minute chasing down the necessary papers. Once that was done and I reached home, the sorrows returned. Melvin returned. Till then, I was busy arranging to send a body.
I didn’t want to show my pain, and so I didn’t face anyone at home. Especially, Momma and Chettathi. I went to my room directly and lay under the blanket. Eyes that were dry until then slowly started overflowing. I mulled over the proximity of life and death. Someone who was so near me yesterday, someone who used to send scraps and messages to me, someone who wanted to see me and tell me important things, she had disappeared in the period between the switching off of a phone and turning it on. Melvin . . . the last call from your phone was to mine. That means even when you were ten steps away from death, you wished to talk to me. Were you sad or angry that I didn’t take your call when you were slipping to death? Oh god, why didn’t I feel like answering the call? I could have excused myself for a minute to take your call and talk to you. Or I could have stepped out for a minute and called you back. Then you would have waited there till I arrived. You wouldn’t have slipped on the boat’s ste
p. You wouldn’t have gone so far away from me. I desperately wanted to relive the day. To answer the phone while I was in Senthil’s office. I actually picked up the phone twice and looked at it. But that moment had passed out of my life. Nothing can bring it back. We are so powerless that we cannot call back a single moment of our lives. Last night, at this time, you might have been waiting for my call. And now, you are in the cold, wrapped in a tight white cloth. I bit my finger and wept without making a sound.
Luggage
IN THE MORNING, a strange scene welcomed me in front of the mortuary. A father receiving the body of a two-year-old girl who had drowned the previous day. He was a Tamil. There was no one with him. He took the cold body from the morgue, held it close to his chest and walked away. Alone. The scene remained etched in my eyes for a long time. How would he have dealt with that loneliness? Oh god . . . what’s more horrible than the death of one’s children?
Mercy and Jaya-chechi took charge of preparing the body. The first coffin we got had to be replaced with a better model. More cotton, an extra pillow, some flowers and other similar demands had to be met. I stayed at the mortuary to help. Chettathi and Melvin’s friends from the hostel were also there. While we were waiting to take the body to the church, Jaya-chechi asked me, ‘So, Anita’s friend is also going to the mainland with the body, right?’
‘Good idea,’ Momma said.
‘It’ll be a relief for them,’ continued Jaya-chechi.
I hadn’t given it any thought. The confusion was probably evident in my eyes. But I nodded in agreement to pacify Jaya-chechi.
Then another problem arose. Though the body was ready for transport, the mortuary wouldn’t release it. It looked as if the hospital staff was delaying it. Finally, Daniel arrived to clarify that the staff had to be tipped. It was one of their own colleagues, but they still needed the bribe! I sent the money through Mercy.
