Yellow Lights of Death

by Benyamin

  ‘No.’

  ‘Sir, Ernakulam lies somewhere else. Changanassery lies somewhere else. Kottayam has no connection to it.’

  I was dumbstruck.

  But Melvin had said her house was somewhere between Ernakulam and Kottayam. So, that was not Changanassery? Where was it then? Why did I get down in Alappuzha? Why was I going to Changanassery? Oh god . . . what a blunder I had committed! If I had asked the same questions to someone in the train instead of the auto driver, I wouldn’t have got down at Alappuzha. What was I doing behaving like a mad man? Had Melvin’s death made me lose my balance? I had no clue what to do now. I was almost on the verge of crying.

  ‘I don’t want to go to the bus stand. Please take me to any hotel,’ I pleaded to him.

  ‘Because Changanassery is not between Ernakulam and Kottayam, you’ve decided not to go there?’

  ‘No, not because of that. The place I want to go is . . . No, you won’t understand. Please drop me at a hotel.’

  He stopped the auto at a nearby restaurant. I had meant hotel as in a place to stay. Before I could explain, he took the 100-rupee note from my hand and scooted off.

  Since I was ravenous, I went in and had a dosa and coffee. Chettathi’s house was in Cheppadu. I could go there. Again, I had no idea how far it was from Alappuzha. Also, it meant the whole family would come to know about my blunders. No, I couldn’t stand the idea of them having fun at my expense. I decided to go back to the railway station and wait for the next train to Ernakulam.

  I took another auto and returned to the station. When I reached the ticket counter, another face came to my mind. My classmate Jyoti’s. Salu, who had pointed her out to me in that marriage cassette, had said she was a railway clerk in Alappuzha. Would anyone know her? Was that a possibility? While buying the ticket, I asked the person at the counter if he knew anyone with such a name. He did not. I was disappointed.

  There were a number of trains to Ernakulam through the night. I could catch any of them and reach there before morning. I had a whole night to find Jyoti. Why shouldn’t I try? The regret of having got off the train at Alappuzha left me. I felt happy at the thought that maybe I had to get off because I was destined to meet her. I felt a new wave of energy. I made another round of inquiries at the stationmaster’s office. But that failed too. I went and sat on a cement bench. If I could track Salu down, I could find Jyoti. He’d told me she was his neighbour. But how was I to get his number? An answer popped up: Orkut!

  Butterfly

  I LITERALLY RAN out of the railway station, got into the first auto I spotted and reached the town again. After asking many people, I found an Internet café named Carmel, near the Town Hall. The owner had switched off the lights and was about to close. But when I told him it was an emergency regarding a death, he turned on the system. I opened my Orkut page. Luckily, I found him, right on my homepage. My memory was right. His phone number was there in his profile. I called him up from the café. At first, he mumbled that he didn’t know me. When I reminded him about a chat we’d once had, he figured out who I was. There was a reason why he remembered the chat. It was a long conversation about the butterfly dreams of the Chinese philosopher Chuang Tzu. The man dreamt that he had transformed into a butterfly. On waking up, he asked himself: Who am I now—the man who dreamt he was a butterfly, or the butterfly who thinks it is Chuang Tzu? I had sent Salu links of some studies about the human pysche and the subconscious.

  ‘Where are you calling from?’

  ‘I’d come to Alappuzha on some urgent personal matter. I’ll be leaving for Ernakulam later tonight. Can we meet before I leave?’

  ‘Oh, sure, why not? Where are you now?’

  ‘Near the Town Hall,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.’

  I must have thanked the café owner and walked some ten steps when I remembered that I could also search for Melvin’s details on Orkut. I might be able to get her home phone number or an address, or at the very least, the name of her village. I again ran into the café. The owner had switched off the lights and stepped out. I pleaded with him to let me use the Internet again. ‘Why couldn’t you have checked then? What a pain you’re being!’ he swore at me. I wondered where his gentle nature had disappeared. Do people change so fast? I told him again that someone very close to me had died and I needed some information about that.

  ‘Died! Is that why you were talking about dreams and butterflies on the phone? Don’t think I don’t understand anything!’ He seemed ready to punch me. ‘Even if you are drunk or doped, you should have some control over yourself. You seem to be out to trouble people.’ He angrily pulled down the shutter, locked it and walked out into the road.

  A smile broke out on my face. What could I tell him? Can’t a grieving person talk about dreams or butterflies? There was no way to convince him. I waited for Salu. In exactly fifteen minutes, a bike stopped before me.

  ‘Chuang Tzu?’

  ‘No. Butterfly!’

  We smiled at each other.

  ‘How come you ended up here so late?’

  ‘My Chettathi’s house is nearby. I was returning from there. I thought about you only after reaching this town.’

  If a smart guy is someone who can come up with the right lies at the right moment, I was one. And lucky me. If he had asked for more details about Chettathi’s house, I would have been caught.

  ‘I feel thrilled. This is the first time someone whom I’ve met only on Orkut has come to meet me in person,’ Salu said.

  ‘I was thinking how can I not meet you when I’ve come to Alappuzha. I’m delighted too,’ I said. ‘I had once asked about a Jyoti, do you remember?’

  ‘Yeah, you first called to ask about that. Jyoti-chechi is my neighbour.’

  ‘I want to meet her too. We were classmates in school.’

  ‘Oh, is that so? Hop on then. Let’s go now.’

  ‘Won’t she be asleep?’

  ‘Ey, nobody sleeps here in Kerala before the 10 o’clock TV serial gets over.’

  While riding pillion on Salu’s bike, I thought about the paths a man has to take in life. I wouldn’t have imagined such a bike ride even a day ago. I would have laughed if anyone had predicted it. But if I wasn’t dead, and not in a dream that had befuddled my senses, I was on the streets of Alappuzha. I was sitting behind an Orkut friend named Salu. I’m going in search of my classmate Jyoti’s house! Coincidences. Who decides the paths a man has to take?

  We whizzed through many roads and stopped in front of a house which was in darkness. When Salu honked, the portico light was turned on.

  ‘Prasadetta, it is me, Salu.’

  A six-year-old boy ran up to the gate and opened it. Behind him came a bald man seemingly in his thirties.

  ‘Prasadetta, you have a guest. I’ll go to my house and be back in a jiffy.’ Salu dropped me there and drove up to the next house.

  ‘Isn’t this Jyoti’s house? I’m from Diego . . .’

  The man was startled. He had already been unsettled seeing a strange visitor so late in the night.

  Hearing of Diego, someone from inside dashed out. ‘From Diego? Who’s it, Prasad?’ There was a peculiar quality to the curiosity. It was Jyoti. Even if she had been somewhere else, in some other situation, I would have easily recognized her. Age usually changes the way people look. But in her case, it looked like she had stopped growing up after Class XII.

  ‘Did you say you are from Diego?’ She looked at my face, intrigued.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘From Diego Garcia?’

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘Come, come inside.’ As if Prasad didn’t exist, she took my hands and pulled me inside. Prasad and the boy could only follow us.

  ‘What does my Papa have to tell me?’ she asked me. ‘What?’ I didn’t understand.

  ‘I know my Papa has sent you to convey something. Or is it that my Papa or Momma are unwell? Some emergency? Please, what is the matter? Tell me without hiding anything.’
/>   ‘Nothing. I just came because I was visiting this town.’

  ‘That’s a lie! Nobody from Diego has come here all these years. And it’s not so close to the centre of town for anyone to come this way or to this house. I know you wouldn’t have come unless there was a message from Papa. You definitely have a mission. Please, tell me. I’m dying to know.’ Her bizarre talk put me in a spot. It was turning out to be one crazy night. What crazy dream was I dreaming?

  ‘Jyoti, don’t you recognize me?’

  ‘Whoever it is, aren’t you from Diego? That’s enough. Didn’t my Papa tell you to convey something? That’s enough for me.’

  I looked at Prasad’s face, feeling helpless.

  ‘Jyoti, this is our Salu’s friend. He was visiting Salu’s house, so he just came here on the way. He was not sent by your Papa,’ Prasad explained to Jyoti.

  ‘So, you are not coming from Papa?’ she hesitantly asked me.

  ‘No.’

  ‘So, Papa didn’t tell you anything to be conveyed to me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No? Then why did you come here? Go! Get out of my house! I don’t want to see you. Or him. When you go back to Diego, tell Papa that if he doesn’t want me, I don’t want him either. Or tell him that Jyoti jumped in front of a train last week. Let him be happy. I don’t want any bloody visitors.’

  Salu walked into the middle of the brawl. He looked totally lost.

  ‘Come again later,’ Prasad told me. There wasn’t anything else he could do to help. I walked down the stairs with Salu without uttering a word.

  ‘You can leave tomorrow. Stay at my house tonight.’

  ‘No, I’ve to reach Ernakulam tonight.’

  ‘Ok, then it’s better to take the bus.’

  ‘What has happened to Jyoti?’ I asked Salu on the way.

  ‘I don’t know. She had come to Kerala for studies and then fell in love and got married. I’ve heard she never went to Diego again. Sometimes, Chechi acts crazy. Shouts a lot and all. Otherwise, she is nice. Prasadettan is very accommodating. Poor guy.’

  I felt a shudder inside me. I didn’t know why. Melvin’s face suddenly came to my mind.

  Salu dropped me at the bus stand. Not long after, I got into a bus to Ernakulam. I reached the city by midnight.

  I remember crashing into a bed at a hotel room. I slept the sleep of the dead.

  Martha Mariam Little Church

  WHEN I OPENED my eyes the next day, it was past nine. I hurriedly got up and called Srikumar.

  ‘Where have you been? I’ve been in the town since eight. I was wondering why you hadn’t called.’

  ‘I overslept.’

  ‘Where are you staying? I’ll come there.’

  I couldn’t remember the name of the hotel. I got hold of a menu card lying on a bedside table, and I was able to tell him: Hotel Metropolitan.

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  By the time I had my shower, the bell rang. It was Srikumar. Though I had met him at the summit, I had forgotten his face. If I had been shown photos of two people and asked to identify Srikumar, I would have goofed up. But when I saw him in person, there was no doubt. His face matched with the faded version in my memory.

  We hugged each other. I could feel the bundled-up pressure peeling off in that embrace.

  ‘Your visit is totally unexpected,’ Srikumar said. ‘Like death.’ My smile was wan.

  ‘You said the name was Melvin?’

  ‘Yes, did you get anything?’ I was apprehensive.

  Srikumar opened the paper he was carrying.

  UDAYAMPEROOR: Melvin (23), daughter of Kochuvaidyan M.C. Mathew of Valyedathu Veedu, passed away in Diego Garcia. Funeral at 11 a.m. today, after the formalities at home, at the Puthotta Chaldean Martha Mariam Little Church. Relatives and friends kindly treat this as a notice. Mother: Pazhoor family member Annamma. Brothers: Meljo, Merin.

  ‘Read the place name again.’

  ‘Udayamperoor. There is a photo too. Look at it just to be sure it’s your friend Melvin.’

  ‘Yes. Udayamperoor. How many times had she told me! That’s the place. I’d forgotten . . . I don’t want to see her in the obit column.’

  ‘Then get ready fast. It’s another ten to fifteen kilometres from Thrippunithura. This is the rush hour.’

  How easily had Srikumar found out about Melvin! If I could at least have guessed last night at the possibility of a newspaper obituary, I might not even have called Srikumar. It didn’t take more than three minutes for me to get ready. We left.

  ‘Want to have breakfast?’ Srikumar asked.

  I was very hungry.

  We went to a nearby restaurant and had idli and coffee. ‘Let’s take a taxi,’ I proposed.

  During the journey, I told him the entire story—how I’d started from Diego and reached Ernakulam. I skipped the incident of getting down at Alappuzha. As for the rest, I could give believable explanations. Our pace was slow till Thrippunithura. From there, it was around twelve kilometres to Udayamperoor. We covered that fast. There were churches throughout the way. At Udayamperoor Junction, we stopped our car before a small shop named Kochupara Stores. Srikumar ordered a lemonade each.

  ‘Must be going to Valyedathu Veedu?’ the shopkeeper asked, while stirring the sugar.

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Usually people come here to ask for directions. Now that a death has taken place, all visitors will be heading towards that house. Go a little ahead and you will reach Nadakkavu Bhagavati temple. Take the road on its right towards the east, it’s hardly two kilometres from there. Anyone will give you directions from there.’

  Before reaching Valyedathu Veedu, we asked directions of two more people. There was a turn in between and a steep road. A dog unexpectedly crossed our path, and the driver had to brake suddenly. Srikumar’s nose hit the back of the driver’s seat. A kilometre down, we saw a long line of vehicles. We parked the car there and walked. We passed a tall brick wall and reached an old, but huge, two-storeyed house. Near the gate, on a mossy stone plate, was the signboard, Valyedathu Veedu. It was clear at first sight that it was an ancestral abode. It was such a huge crowd, as if the whole of the land had flowed to the place. For some reason, I wasn’t writhing in pain, but was filled with joy. Melvin was not destined to die an orphan. People had gathered to send her off. It was not just the ten people in Diego who knew her. There was a huge circle of people here who knew her. Her roots were in Valyedathu Veedu, not in Diego.

  Srikumar pulled me through the crowd to reach the pandal made of blue tarpaulin. I didn’t want to go there or see Melvin. But Srikumar let go of my hand only after helping me get close to her. I had to look at her. Melvin covered in white . . . I’d never seen anyone lying dead look so graceful. There was still a smile left on her face. I felt as though she hadn’t walked into her death angry with me or annoyed, but with a joke in mind. The crowd didn’t let me stay there for long. I had to move to make space for those who were pouring in.

  The ceremonies started at 11. It was a festival, with a bishop and priests. The rituals, songs and chants of the Eastern Church were new to me who was used to Latin ways.

  I watched everything with curiosity. After the ceremonies, the bishop made a long speech. There was only a small mention of Melvin in that. It was more about her father. From the speech I came to know that he was the member of an ancient Christian family that had been practising medicine specializing in eye disorders and jaundice for generations. Melvin had never mentioned any of that. Her father’s designation as Valyedathu Kochuvaidyan was repeatedly mentioned by the bishop in his speech.

  After the speech, it was time to give the final kiss. Amidst the wails and tears, a group of relatives came swarming up. I felt jealous and hostile towards them. It felt like they had stolen away my Melvin. I suddenly felt out of place. There was no need for them. None of them were required. I was enough. Back then, when Anita was standing at the Diego church, I could have bid farewell to Melvin in solemn silence
. Isn’t that how you should say goodbye? Or was it best with wailing?

  I moved back from the crowd. I was worried about what Srikumar would think, otherwise I would have left the place right then.

  Then the body was moved inside the house. Some more ceremonies were held there. It must have taken some fifteen minutes. Then the body was moved to a decorated lorry. People walked in two rows in a procession that included local bands, drummers, black flags and ornamental umbrellas.

  We took the car to go to the church. After driving through many narrow roads, we reached a church that stood close to a lake. It was a small church which could accommodate not more than fifty people. The board read:

  MARTHA MARIAM CHALDEAN LITTLE CHURCH

  BELONGS

  TO

  THE POOTHOTTA VALYEDATHU FAMILY

  For the ceremonies inside the church, only relatives were allowed.

  By then, from thinking that the presence of these people was not necessary, I had moved on to thinking that I was not necessary. My mind whined that I shouldn’t have come. It wasn’t necessary, not necessary at all. She had a lot of dear ones at home. They were there to bid her goodbye. I was nobody to her in Udayamperoor. She had wanted me in Diego. In every person’s life, and death, others will fit in only at some particular points. On other occasions, their presence becomes inappropriate. Therefore, I didn’t go to the cemetery where the body was taken for burial. Instead, I roamed around the vacant church. What I yearned for was the serenity of the church. Its silence offered me great relief. The little church had a grandiose interior with a lot of woodwork. Each and every wood panel signalled the church’s ancient past. The expertise of the carpenters and sculptors astonished me. I looked at their work with curiosity. The carvings, which looked like ancient Persian crosses from a distance, were a woman’s form inside a fish’s mouth. Not easily noticeable unless you linger over the carvings. I couldn’t figure out if there was some meaning to it, though.

  By the time I left the church, people had begun to leave the cemetery and move towards the food. I whiled away some more time sitting on the verandah of the church.