by Benyamin
I went up to Momma. ‘Did you say that I’m going to the mainland?’
‘Oh, you are not going?’
‘If I have to go, why are you telling me that so late?’ I argued with Momma.
‘Why should I have to tell you! Don’t you know you ought to go?’
I was uncertain. ‘Should he go?’ Chettan asked doubtfully.
‘Yes, he should go. That’s the right thing to do.’ Chettathi was firm.
‘I haven’t booked the ticket. I haven’t packed. It’s almost ten. How will I catch a 1 o’clock flight?’
‘Go now, call someone and get the ticket done,’ Momma told me sternly.
Whom could I call? Everyone I knew was busy with something or the other. After dropping my family at the church, I went to the three travel agencies that I knew. None of them could help. The flight was fully booked. Their only suggestion was that I buy a wait-listed ticket and try my luck. If there was any last-minute cancellation, I could board the plane.
I decided to give it a shot. If it was in my destiny to accompany Melvin, then someone was sure to cancel their trip at the last minute.
By the time I collected the ticket and rushed to the church, the ceremony was over. Rajanbabu sir spotted me. ‘Where were you?’ he asked angrily. I realized that my absence had been noticed. When I gave him my reason, he got more angry. ‘You should have just given me a call. Didn’t I tell you to call if there is any need?’
I should have done that. But it hadn’t occurred to me. I was not in a state of mind to think through anything logically. When we don’t remember things on time, most of our actions become follies.
Rajanbabu sir quickly made some calls. ‘Okay, go to the airport directly. There is a Basheer in the Air Lanka office. Go and meet him. If there is any chance, he’ll get it done.’
I said goodbye to him and went inside the church. I could see why my absence had been noticed. There were so few people. Two or three from the health department to seal the coffin. Daniel D’Silva who was supervising everything. Anita, standing next to the coffin, with tears yet to stop. Hostel mates grouped in another corner. Not all of them seemed to be there, the rest were probably on duty in the hospital. Some others who looked like church staff. Then Momma, Chettan and Chettathi. That was all. I felt sad. It was such a small circle she had lived in, with not many to attend even her funeral.
Someone had mounted a pretty photo of Melvin near the coffin. I recognized it from her Orkut account. I had admired that photo a hundred times at least. A hundred times had I teased her saying a matrimony profile with that photo would get princes looking for her. But who knew that the fate of that photo was to smile beside her coffin. That was not a thought the photographer would have had while taking it, or Melvin’s while posting it on Orkut.
They had closed the coffin and sealed it. I stood there feeling like a destitute. Melvin, if I can’t accompany you today, this is our last meeting. I couldn’t see your face for one last time. I don’t want to see your face frozen in ice. In my mind, you are the smiling face in the photo.
Anita looked devastated. I didn’t see anyone there affected as much as her. It was the normal silence of death that characterized the rest of the faces. If you looked more closely, you could see that they were keen to wind up all of this quickly and return to their routines. Melvin, life is so trivial. Yours and mine . . . The loss of it doesn’t shake up anyone, it doesn’t cause them to topple over. It just mildly disturbs their routines.
I accompanied the coffin to the cargo section. I felt dejected to see how casually they handle the bodies of our dear ones that we leave with tears and from which we part with pain. They see it not as a human body that had a soul, a mind, a heart, that had experienced emotions and feelings, sorrow, laughter and love, but as a 160-pound piece of luggage. As soon as we transferred the coffin, it was hastily weighed and scooped up with a forklift after the address was pasted on it. They paid no heed to my pleas—to be careful in the handling.
I rushed home after that. Momma had packed a bag. I didn’t even bother to check what was in it. I just made sure I had my passport and ticket with me. Chettan dropped me off at the airport jetty. Basheer of Air Lanka was waiting for me. He took me to the Indian Airlines’ check-in counter. I didn’t have to wait for even a minute. No hurdles at all. There was no mention of any waiting list. They gave me the boarding pass. Without waiting for a word of thanks, Basheer went back to his office. Everything was done so quickly. Sometimes it’s like that. We might expect a lot of obstacles, but the path is cleared rapidly. Like never before.
The flight to Thiruvananthapuram left exactly at 1 a.m.
Thiruvananthapuram
I’VE ALWAYS FELT that my biggest weakness is that I worry about a problem only while facing it. Though I’m aware of this shortcoming, I haven’t done much to fix it. I don’t live a life where I need to foresee situations, and plan and schedule my chores with discipline. I try to do it now and then, but eventually slip into old habits. That was what had happened again. I was a fool. A real fool. A fool who thought that he had the brain and wit of an Investigation Department officer.
Who knew that I was accompanying Melvin’s body? I had not informed anyone in the mainland. In case someone from Diego had indeed called up, who would be there to receive me at the airport? How would they recognize me? How would I recognize them? And more importantly, where was Melvin’s house? I only remembered her telling me that it was in a village between Ernakulam and Kottayam. How could I find her house with that bit of information? I should have carried the contact number of someone! I didn’t even have that. Melvin was that close to me. Though we were just a half-hour boat ride away from each other, we mostly met through emails and on Orkut. We thought that we were only a finger touch away whichever corner of the world we lived in. I’ve even argued that addresses and geographies will become irrelevant. On the flight I realized that we had failed to know each other. It was a relationship that could have led to marriage. I wondered what it was that we had talked about without touching our home and families. If I tried to locate my sixty-seven Orkut friends outside of the Internet, I probably wouldn’t be able to find more than five.
The fact is we have so little knowledge even about someone whom we consider our closest cyber friend. Knowing someone is not just about knowing the person’s mind, but also knowing their land.
Ten minutes prior to schedule, at 3.15 p.m., the flight landed at Thiruvananthapuram. Emigration and visa clearance took more time than usual. The queue had passengers from two or three flights. When I finally managed to step out, and taxi drivers surrounded me like bees, I felt like I had walked into a dacoit burrow. They were so aggressive that I was scared they would snatch my bag and run. It was not as though Thiruvananthapuram was new to me. I had lived there for three years. But I’d not seen such an onslaught anywhere else in the city. It was a struggle to get them off me.
I waited at the entrance for a while in the hope that someone might have come to receive me. But I couldn’t see anyone. After consulting the inquiry desk, I took an auto and went to the cargo section to collect the body. I was sure someone would be waiting there. By the time I got there, Melvin’s family seemed to have taken her body and left. I was baffled. I didn’t know what to do next. My only option would be to call Anita or her friends. But I was too embarrassed to do that. I decided to find Melvin’s village without anyone’s help. After all, I had lived in Kerala for three years. I took it as a challenge.
As people do when they visit a city they had once lived in, I looked up my old friends. I had Sajeesh’s number. He was a journalist. He would surely have more investigative sense than me. I called him. But he had left Thiruvananthapuram and joined the paper’s Kozhikode bureau. It seemed like he was in the middle of some news report, with no time even to talk. I called my former room-mate, Visakh, next. My bad luck continued. His phone was out of coverage area. My three years in this city had left me with just two mobile numbers. I felt contempt for myself. A pers
on who didn’t know how to sustain relationships. My challenge ended there.
I took an auto to the town. My plan was to rent a room, stay there for two days, and return home. After going back, I’d have to lie that I was part of all the formalities. I’d have to teach the lie to my mind, and live with the lie. There was no other way. Kerala beyond Thiruvananthapuram was alien to me. I could not navigate any major town without the help of someone. How could I presume to find an unknown village? I told myself to let it go. Melvin, our destiny is to part like this.
The auto dropped me off at Thampanoor. I had a headache from the long ride. I wanted a coffee. I went to Indian Coffee House. The memories of my college days blew through like a cool breeze. My literary dreams originated in that place. I used to go to the Indian Coffee House near Statue only to see M. Krishnan Nair who frequented the place. Inspired by his writing, I would search for books in the shelves of the British Library. The pile of books that triumphed over my academic studies led to my writing. It seemed as though that dream had come to an end. Perhaps I can never complete that half-finished novel. My fate was to live unrecognized and die unknown. A name flashed up in my mind: Srikumar. The man who introduced himself as a publisher based in Ernakulam who wanted to publish my novel. There was no one better to help me. And finally I had a stroke of luck—I found his number in my phone. I dialled him immediately.
Srikumar didn’t need any reminders. He was excited to hear from me.
‘Are you now in Kerala? I have to meet you.’
‘And I want to meet you. A friend of mine passed away. I’ve come to attend the funeral in Ernakulam.’
‘Where in Ernakulam?’
‘I don’t know. I have to find out. I need your help for that. All I know is it’s in a village somewhere between Ernakulam and Kottayam.’
‘When is the funeral?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘What’s the person’s name?’
‘Melvin.’
‘Any other details?’
‘She was a nurse in Diego. Died in an accident. The body was brought in today’s flight.’
‘That’s more than enough. Get into a train now. Stay in a hotel for the night. I’m in Aluva now. I’ll reach Ernakulam by morning. By then, I’ll find out the person’s house.’
I was taken aback. What confidence! Srikumar’s briskness put my anxieties to rest. Even if nothing worked out, at that particular moment, I was grateful to have found someone who offered me relief. That was enough. With that comforting thought, I went to the railway station.
A Night of Crazy Dreams
IT WAS PAST 5 p.m. I got the ticket after waiting in a long queue. When I asked about the next train to Ernakulam, the woman at the counter told me to rush to the fifth platform where the Ernakulam Express was ready to leave. If I couldn’t make it, there was the Vanchinad at 5.45. It must have been for me that the train was delayed by fifteen minutes that day. When I found my way to the fifth platform and boarded the train, it started moving immediately. The compartment was crowded. There were more people standing than sitting. The standing seemed to have become a part of their lives. Among them were people standing and reading, standing and writing, standing and playing cards, standing and drinking tea, standing and eating, and standing and chopping vegetables. I felt uncomfortable. I couldn’t stand the sound and movement of the train. Despite leaning on a nearby seat and holding on to the rod, I kept stumbling. Every journey has a rhythm—something that the regulars do not notice, and the beginners cannot manage.
The rhythm of the train would not match with the rhythm of my body. I was used to water, to boats and sailing. My body was attuned to the waves. I could walk to the bow of a boat moving at any speed. I wouldn’t fall. No other form of transport suited my body. During my time in Thiruvananthapuram, I’d had great difficulty travelling in buses. I’d vomit if I got into a bus. My head would spin in an auto. It was like that throughout the three years I spent there. So I couldn’t make any long journeys. My dream of seeing Kerala didn’t happen only because of that. Even Thiruvananthapuram I mostly saw on foot. My friends used to call me a miser.
People around me were amused to see someone who couldn’t stand properly in a train. People in Kerala could not possibly understand my difficulty. They were used to all kinds of journeys right from childhood. They used boats and motor vehicles and trains. Their bodies were used to the rhythm of every form of transport. They might empathize with me only if they are asked to get into a horse cart or atop a camel.
‘Try the chair car. You might get a seat,’ someone who felt bad for my plight said.
‘It’s four bogies away. Go to the front,’ he advised me again.
I couldn’t even stand and then I had to walk! I dragged myself to the door of the compartment, but when I saw the pathway between the two compartments, butterflies rose in my stomach. I took courage and stepped on it twice, but simply couldn’t go forward on the moving surface. I regretfully watched tea vendors, men, women, girls and even little children crossing over to the next compartment. Just like some old people hesitate at the foot of the escalator, I stood there wistfully.
There was no other choice than to wait there till the next stop. My plan was to shift to the air-conditioned coach. But the train just passed through several stations without stopping. And when it did stop at two stations, I couldn’t get down because of the crowd. For almost an hour, till the train reached Kollam, I continued to stand. When the train was nearing Kollam station, a passenger nearby got up. Just when I was moving towards his seat, someone else slipped into it. Later, while I was moving towards the mass of exiting passengers with the plan of getting into the AC coach, three passengers got up together. I dived in. This time I didn’t fail. I got a seat. I pushed my bag under the seat and leaned back in relief! I had not felt such relief after any of my recent actions.
I sat back and enjoyed the beautiful view through the window. It was better than what anyone from Diego can imagine. I suddenly remembered the owner of the coffee shop. The man who someday wanted to visit the mainland. He would have been excited by the scenery and felt wonder at the vastness of the world, and its variety. I wanted to continue enjoying the view, but my eyes couldn’t cope with the fast-moving images. My head began to feel like it was spinning. I closed my eyes.
I slid into sleep. I was five years old, on a train, with cold winds blowing through the night. I was sitting close to the door and sleeping. Valyapapan was with me. He was standing. I could see only his grey trousers and unpolished shoes. Whenever I stirred awake, I made sure he hadn’t left me by looking at his shoes.
‘Have we reached Changanassery? Have we reached Changanassery? ’ I heard him anxiously asking our fellow passengers.
‘Why are you going to Changanassery?’
‘A relative died. I’m going for that.’
‘Where in Changanassery?’
‘I don’t know exactly. I’ve to find out.’
At some point in the night, we got down at a sparsely populated station and took a cab. An old black car with a bald-headed driver. We halted on the way to have tea from a roadside stall lit with a Petromax lamp. Then a long, red bus stopped there. Someone hopped down from it. Meanwhile, Valyapapan was asking for directions from a few people. Then we finally reached a house that had a huge jackfruit tree and a bullock cart beside it. Valyapapan placed a wreath on the body covered in white cloth. He lifted me up to show me the face. I woke up with a start. Splintering through the night, the train was moving at great speed.
‘Have we reached Changanassery?’ I nudged the person next to me and asked worriedly.
He stared at me.
I repeated my question.
‘But this train is not going via Changanassery,’ he said.
‘Oh, it isn’t? I had to get down at Changanassery,’ I panicked.
‘Don’t worry, the next station is Alappuzha. Get down there, and take a bus.’
‘Won’t it be too far?’
‘No
t much. You’ll get a bus from there,’ he said, trying to calm me down.
From being a five-year-old I returned to being twenty-eight. Who had died then? Whose funeral did we go to attend in Changanassery? I hadn’t managed to see the face. But the mystery that had stayed in my mind for so long had come out as a detailed vision before my eyes. Were those images of a dream or were they memories that had been asleep?
Completely forgetting that my destination was Ernakulam, I got down from the train at Alappuzha.
The God of Fools
IS THERE ANYTHING more foolish than believing that dreams are the signposts of human life? But somehow, I became a slave to that belief. I won’t admit to it publicly, as I think writers should be free of superstitions and supportive of progressive ideas, but I do have such a belief about dreams. Why else would I have forgotten about all the plans I’d made with Srikumar, and got down at Alappuzha? I was very sure at that point that Melvin’s house was in Changanassery. I believed the revelation in my dream! I even felt as if Melvin had told me that once.
When I stepped outside the railway station, I got scared. I’d never seen such a desolate place before. It was only around 8.30p.m., but in Alappuzha, it was like midnight. The little light present was faint. It was like landing in a dark continent a century ago.
I asked an autorickshaw driver to drop me at the bus stand.
‘Private or Transport?’
‘Wherever it’s easy to get a bus to Changanassery.’
‘Then, let’s go to Transport,’ the driver said.
‘Is Changanassery between Ernakulam and Kottayam?’ I asked.
‘No, it is not.’
‘No?’ I got worried.
‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘It wasn’t till yesterday. Now I will have to ask if that has changed,’ he said with a mix of irritation and mockery.
‘Then, where is Changanassery?’
‘Sir, aren’t you from anywhere around here?’
