by Benyamin
Then Anpu went inside and came out with something for me. It was a USB drive. I was surprised. ‘Andrapper came here drunk one day, and gave this to me. He said, “Someone will come from the mainland looking for it. Give it to him.” Maybe this is something for your office. Please take it,’ she said.
After a quick stop at the hotel to pick up our luggage, Seyfu drove the boat at 100 miles an hour and dropped us off at the airport. Such a great driver! He didn’t even accept the tip that I gave him. When we finally made it inside, we came to know that the flight had been delayed by two hours! So I opened the USB sitting there. It was full of songs and some pictures I can’t show my daughter. Towards the end, I found a PDF file. ‘The Book of Forefathers: Part 6’. And sitting at the airport, I finished reading it.
I’m emailing it to you. My Diego mission is complete! There were some more places I ought to have visited. Especially the Andrapper house. I’ll do that on the return trip. I’ll have about six hours to manage that.
You can start reading the attachment.
Salim
Familiar Odour
NOBODY HAD TO tell me that it was Melvin’s brother, Meljo. So identical were their looks. Not just that; if Melvin had talked about anyone in her house, it was about Meljo. I’d often felt that the two shared a heart-to-heart connection.
‘We waited for a long time at the aerodrome yesterday. We had to return; we were so worried,’ he said, holding my hand.
‘I took a long time to come out. A minor emigration problem. I came out and only then realized that I didn’t know any of you. In the chaos, I’d forgotten to take anyone’s number.’
‘It was a lot of trouble, wasn’t it?’
‘Ey, not at all. I had a friend in Ernakulam.’
We reached the church courtyard, Meljo still holding on to my hand.
‘This is the person who came from Diego,’ he told Appachan.
‘Oh, is that so? What happened yesterday?’
I repeated the lies that I’d just told Meljo.
‘The girls from the hostel said someone was coming. And we couldn’t find him. We all got worried, my dear. But let that be. What actually happened to my girl?’ Appachan held my hands and asked.
‘She tripped while getting into a boat. Her head hit the plank. No one could do anything,’ I said.
A man standing next to us pulled my hand and took me a little further away. ‘I’m a distant uncle of the girl’s. Let this just be between us. What actually happened there? Did she fall or did someone kill her?’
‘Kill her? Melvin? Who would do that?’
‘We have so many enemies. How was she there? I’ve heard some stories about her and someone there. Is there any truth in that?’
‘What story? Never. The Melvin I knew wasn’t like that.’ My voice was trembling.
‘By the way, who are you to her?’
I was thunderstruck. I had not expected that question. If I panicked, he’d grab on to it and make up new stories.
‘I’m the administrative supervisor at Melvin’s hospital. The ministry sent me with the body.’
Sometimes, we have to be good liars. It was one of those moments.
Fortunately, Meljo came to say that Appachan wanted to talk to me, and took me away from there.
Melvin’s Appachan was sitting on a chair inside the church. A man who glowed like the sun with his grace and aristocratic demeanour. Someday, if I had to write about him, that is how I’d describe him, I felt at that moment.
I went and took his hand. For a long time, he gazed at my face in silence.
‘The girl wasn’t supposed to become a nurse. But it was her choice. Like how she went to Diego. When she was a child, the girl used to tell me that she’ll someday buy me a boat. When she was angry with me, she’d say that she won’t get Appachan a boat. She grew up and it remained the same. Boats and trips by water were always a craze for her. When I asked her why Diego when there were so many countries she could work in as a nurse, she said that it is the only place that has only boats. Who knew it was a place where death had decided to catch her! She went away without getting me a boat. That too in a boat, something she liked a lot. Fate, what else is it . . .’
All the sorrow he had been withholding till then seemed to unleash from his eyes. My heart wept for Melvin. A boat ride with me had been her dream. She had told me about it many times. It was only then I realized that it was more out of love for boats than for me. I never could help her. Oh God . . . I did not seem to be able to understand those dear to me. And I was trying to become a writer?
‘You’ve taken the trouble of travelling such a long distance for her. Thank you. Don’t leave today, you can stay in my house.’
‘I was able to meet you all. That’s enough. I’ve to return to Ernakulam today. I have some work.’
‘Come home for a meal and then decide. Her mother will also want to meet you.’
‘Appacha, the car is here,’ someone called out.
People were getting into the cars.
‘I’m not coming home. I’ll leave from here,’ I told Meljo. Hearing that, an old man intervened. ‘Son, never leave a cemetery without coming home. According to the traditions of us ancient Christians, it is customary to come home after a funeral, and share some food with the family. It’s a sign of love for the dead, and comfort and support to the grieving relatives. These days, it has shrunk to the practice of packets of food being distributed at the church. Love and relationships have also shrunk to the size of packets.’
I changed my mind on hearing those words. It seemed unfair on my part not to visit Melvin’s home. Unable to find Srikumar, I called him from Meljo’s cellphone. He said he’d go catch up with a friend at Chembu, a few kilometres away, and asked me to call him once the ceremonies were over.
Meljo seated me in a car with his cousin Jijo, who was studying engineering at Kothamangalam. A new-generation guy with a ring in his ear. He was warm and friendly, and because of him, later, at Melvin’s house, I didn’t feel like a total stranger. Jijo introduced me to everyone. The only thing that irritated me was the women staring at me. The irritation multiplied as I felt the looks carried the meaning of what Melvin’s uncle had asked me earlier.
The feast was large enough for a hundred people and more. After that, Jijo took me to Melvin’s mother. I felt she had come to terms with Melvin’s death faster than her father. At least, she seemed strong. She ran around directing people and the cooking in the kitchen. ‘He must be tired from the journey. Take him upstairs and arrange a room for him to get some rest,’ she told Jijo.
I tried to get away, but Amma and Jijo wouldn’t relent. When I entered the room I was directed to, a familiar scent welcomed me.
‘Rest for a while. I’ll come soon,’ Jijo said, sliding the door shut. ‘Every other room is full. This was Melvin’s room.’
Jijo went downstairs.
Melvin’s room! That’s why the familiar scent. The scent of her. How many varied experiences did one have to bear with in this life! How did I end up in Melvin’s room when Melvin herself was no more? What’s the meaning of it all?
I glanced at the room. The dolls she had kept in order. Her make-up. Her notebooks. The mirror that had reflected her image. The clothes that had beautified her. The windows by which she had stood dreaming. The pillows that had cushioned her with love. The sheets that had caressed her fragrance.
Tears began to well in my eyes.
I went downstairs. It was just the guilt of entering a woman’s room without her permission. The thought that she might come into the room any time and get scared seeing me. If life had taken another turn, someday Melvin would have brought me to that room. And introduced to me all the things dear to her, one by one. Then told their stories. She would have leant against the mirror and asked me, ‘How is my room. Do you like it?’
Jijo and Meljo were downstairs.
‘What happened?’
‘Nothing. I’m not tired enough to sleep. I’d sle
pt well at night.’
‘Oh, your friend called. I told him to leave. That you’ll leave only tomorrow.’
‘No, I’ve to go today. Firstly, my clothes are there at the hotel. Secondly, this is the time for you to be left alone, Meljo. My presence will only remind you of the past. Please forgive me. I’ll come another time. When I do, I’ll stay in this house for at least a day.’
He didn’t press me further. He informed the family. Merin’s face had turned pale from the weeping. ‘You should come visit us again,’ that was what Appachan said. ‘Don’t forget this house,’ said Amma.
Meljo accompanied me to the portico. There he broke down into tears. So did I.
Jijo gave me a lift on his bike till Ernakulam.
Though I’d told everyone that I’d visit again, I felt that I’d never take those roads again. So I took in everything. Jijo tried to put me at ease by asking about Diego and talking about his college. I quickly realized that all his queries and chatter had one aim: to gauge my relationship with Melvin. The question Melvin’s uncle had asked me to my face had taken a convoluted route via Jijo. I feigned ignorance. We stopped at Thrippunithura to have tea. Then he sat in my hotel room for a while. At last, just before leaving, he lost patience and blurted out what he really wanted to know: ‘Are you the one in Diego who was supposed to marry Melvin?’
‘Yes, if things had turned out differently, maybe I’d have married Melvin.’
‘I know there is no point asking now, but did you agree to the marriage even after getting to know everything?’
‘Know what?’
‘About Valyedathu Veedu?’
‘No, I know nothing. What’s the problem?’
‘Anyway, it’s a closed chapter now. There is no point any longer in me telling you or you getting to know about it. Let it be. May you never know about it.’
He left without saying anything more. That’s when I decided that I’d return to Udayamperoor someday.
Kochi
THERE WAS NOT much time. I called Srikumar, but couldn’t get through. His phone was out of range. I checked out of the hotel and roamed around the streets of Ernakulam. After strolling for a while, I felt like visiting Kochi. The taxi driver must have mistaken me for a tourist, for he dropped me off at Mattancheri. The place gave me goosebumps. My ancestor Andrew Pereira had landed at Mattancheri centuries ago. He had built a house somewhere nearby. His son had had a country of his own. The glorious past of my family gave me such an adrenalin rush that I walked vigorously through the streets of Mattancheri. I was so high that I stopped at a shop and inquired where Andrew Pereira’s house was. The shopkeeper did not know anything about any Andrew Pereira. ‘Where is the headquarters of the Karappuram Madambis?’ I asked him. He was clueless. When I walked past an old building, I felt that it could be the house where Andrew Pereira had stayed with his family, and wished I could knock on the door and ask if he was still there. I had fallen in love with Kochi. During the three years I I’d been in Thiruvananthapuram, I’d never visited Kochi. I’d thought of Kochi as a horrible town. I must have been influenced by the public sentiments of Thiruvananthapuram. If the capital city had a grandiose seriousness, Kochi, I felt, had a welcoming simplicity.
Was I lost in the joy of being in a place that formerly belonged to my family? That must be it. Some of my ancestors must have walked these streets with a similar feeling of joy.
When I mention my land of origin, what is the place that I should fondly remember? To which place should I return as an end to my migrations? Diego that belonged to my forefathers? Or Pondicherry where my ancestors lived? Or Kochi where they landed before that? Or Lisbon 500 years ago? How could we know where our predecessors came from? I felt that someday I’d walk through the streets of Lisbon with the same sense of affection.
On the way back, I entered a bookshop in Ernakulam and got some Malayalam books. (Dear author, your book was there among those that I purchased. During the overnight train journey to Thiruvananthapuram, I finished reading it. By the time I reached the end of my journey, I had decided that if someday I have to tell my tale to someone, that’ll be to you. And that’s how my first email came your way.)
I returned to Diego, and the next noon, Anpu called. She asked if I could visit her house. When I reached Cherar Peruntheruvu, some young men stopped me. ‘Ennada? Why are you visiting a house where there are only women?’ one of them asked. I pushed him aside and kept walking. ‘If we see your face in this street again . . .’ another one threatened.
When I mentioned this at Senthil’s house, his father fumed with rage. ‘If any bastard asks, tell him that I’m giving my daughter to you! What’s their problem? Ask them to talk to me.’
‘That’s okay, Appa. Why did you ask me to come?’
‘Just to see you. Why, shouldn’t I ask you to come?’ Anpu asked in a lighter vein.
I smiled at her.
‘We haven’t seen you in a long time. Where do you disappear regularly, switching off your phone?’ Appa asked.
‘Someone close to me had passed away in the mainland. I had to leave immediately. I couldn’t let you know.’
‘Is that so? I looked for you to . . . for those forms . . . we have to correct them and submit them.’
‘Yes, I’d forgotten about it.’
Anpu brought out the forms. I remembered the changes that the officer had asked for, so correcting them was easy. When I asked who should be made the nominee, Appa stammered for a minute. ‘My name will do,’ he said. I had expected Anpu’s name to be added.
The forms were finally filled, but the officer had wanted two new photos of Senthil. Anpu went inside to look for them, and came back after a long time. ‘No, not a single one,’ she said in despair.
‘Useless guy! He didn’t even keep a photo,’ Appa shouted.
‘Please check again,’ I said.
She brought out a leather bag and placed it in front of me. ‘This is all Anna’s stuff. Everything he had is inside this,’ she said, unzipping it. The bag was a mess of papers.
‘Was he crazy? What are all these papers?’ It seemed as though Appa was also seeing Senthil’s bag for the first time.
My mind whispered to me that the bag might have the information that could unveil the mystery of Senthil’s death. I went through each paper in detail while pretending to look for the photos. Newspaper and magazine cuttings, some other papers—all of them in Tamil. Then credit card bills, telephone bills, hall tickets, certificates, mark lists, and even train and bus tickets. I was looking for a diary. But there was no such thing. However, I decided to keep a sample of each of the cuttings, thinking they might come handy.
‘What are these for?’ asked Anpu.
‘Just like that, to read what Senthil had kept . . .’
‘You know how to read Tamil?’
‘Of course! I know five languages.’
I dug into the bag one more time, but I couldn’t find any photo of Senthil’s or anything important. It was then that I randomly opened the side pocket. There was a USB drive in it.
‘I’m taking this. He might have saved a photo in this,’ I said.
‘It won’t be there. There’ll be nothing in it. He was a useless person,’ Appa said angrily. Finally, he gave me a photo, pulled out from a five-year-old certificate, and asked me to make a copy.
‘Anpu, go with him to the bay, let’s see who wants to pick a fight,’ he told Anpu when I scrambled up to leave.
Anpu accompanied me till the jetty. On our way, she suddenly broke into tears. ‘I don’t even have a single photo of Anna. Nobody will have one. Anna was like that. Look at this. This is all that he has left me.’ She showed me her mobile phone. It was some years old. In it was a ten-second video of Senthil laughing.
‘I watch this a hundred times a day. Anna laughing,’ she sobbed. I didn’t know what to say. Words cannot heal pain. I held her hand. She didn’t protest.
Before returning the phone, I watched the video once again. In the last tw
o seconds, a face appeared behind him, a familiar one. I played the video twice.
‘Who is this?’ I showed it to Anpu and asked, my voice trembling.
‘Anna’s friend. He used to come home every day. After Anna died, he came home and said some of his certificates were with Anna. Searched his bag and took some things. Anna kept everything in order. It was this chap who messed it up. After that, he never came back. Anna had left us. Why would he come?’
‘Do you know what are the papers that he took?’
‘No.’
‘His house?’
‘No.’
‘Name?
‘No.’
I left without even saying bye to her. I was certain that I’d seen the guy in the video. Yes, I’d definitely seen him. He was one of the people who ran away after shooting Senthil.
USB
I REALIZED THAT any evidence of what could have led to Senthil’s death was already with those who needed it covered up. Appa and Anpu had been so stupid. How could they be unaware of the importance of a dead man’s documents? When someone came asking for some documents, they had opened the entire bag to him. He took all he needed and vanished forever. I was furious that he had got hold of the documents that could have solved the mystery behind Senthil’s murder.
I hadn’t completely lost hope, though. I plugged the USB to my computer. It was protected by a password. I remembered two of my juniors who owned a computer shop. My Orkut friends. I contacted them. They told me to bring it over. Within minutes, they opened it. I was surprised at how unprotected were the things that we assumed were super-safe, locked by passwords known only to us. There is no privacy in this cyber world. It’s impossible. Our secret locks can be easily opened by a lone smart-arse!
