Yellow Lights of Death

by Benyamin

  ‘The relationship between a smuggler and a customs officer! The kind of ties the two of them can have, we have all of them!’

  ‘Smuggler? My Papa?’

  ‘Yes, he is!’

  ‘I will never believe it.’

  ‘I will not insist you believe me. But it’s the truth. He is one of the notorious but intelligent criminals in this island!’

  ‘Jesintha, don’t make a fool of me. He’s the most perfect gentleman I’ve ever seen. To evade my questions, don’t think you can say anything you want.’

  ‘That means I know him more than you know him,’ Jesintha said with confidence.

  ‘What proof do you have?’

  ‘The photo you’ve bought to trap me is more than enough.’

  Suddenly, I felt crestfallen.

  ‘What does he do?’

  ‘Anything that can get him easy money. He exports arms from land to land . . .’

  ‘Since when did you know about this?’

  ‘I know that he has been in this business for over twenty years. We two know each other for at least five years.’

  ‘Five years! And still when you hear he is in jail, why are you not feeling even a tad of pain, or even sympathy?’

  ‘For what?’ She laughed. ‘Our only connection had to do with making money. Nothing more. Even the hug in the photo you brought was in celebration of a multi-crore deal. Those who do these kinds of businesses sometimes become successful. Sometimes they get caught. Some stay in jail for some time and then get out using influence. Everyone knows about these things. There is nothing to worry about. Go home and get good sleep.’

  ‘You can say that. He is just one of your many business partners. But for me, he is my Papa.’

  ‘Being your Papa doesn’t make him above the law. Anyone can be caught any time. That’s natural. But I’m sure about one thing. Whoever has caught your Papa now has not done it for this business, but for something else . . .’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘If this was the matter, the CIDs should have come for us a long time ago. Nothing of that sort has happened.’

  ‘Then what is the reason behind this arrest?’

  ‘I know only a small part of that man’s life. The rest is a blank for me. To arrest someone in Diego, there don’t have to be a lot of reasons.’

  ‘I don’t disbelieve you. Every time I’ve thought I shouldn’t trust you, you’ve beaten me with your words. This time too. So just one more question. What’s the connection between Senthil’s death and my Papa?’

  ‘Sorry, I don’t get you.’

  ‘Does my Papa have a hand—direct or indirect—in Senthil’s murder?’

  ‘Definitely no.’

  From my pocket, I took out the photo which had Jesintha, Papa and the murderer, and showed it to her.

  ‘One of the guys who shot down Senthil was him. I’m sure. What do have to say now?’

  ‘I stand by what I’ve said,’ she said, returning the photo. ‘He’s just an ordinary criminal who can be bought off and used.’

  ‘What proof is there that my Papa hasn’t used him?’

  ‘He might have used him. Many times. But not in Senthil’s case. According to your Papa, Senthil was a marked man. But before he could get it done, someone else did it. Your Papa himself had told me this.’

  ‘Then who was it?’

  ‘I don’t look at issues that don’t affect me.’

  ‘You don’t look at them, but you know about them, right?’

  ‘No, Christy. Even in Senthil’s life, there are areas which I don’t know about.’

  I got up to leave. She, too.

  ‘Jesintha, one last question. The girl who died. The nurse Melvin. Was her death natural or a murder?’

  ‘I shouldn’t be talking about things I don’t know about. But I’ll tell you something I’ve come to know. She had put her feet on the boat and someone shook the boat at that time. That’s how she slipped and fell. He was a criminal. I don’t know on whose orders the person did that.’

  I didn’t wait to hear the rest.

  Betrayal

  JESINTHA HAD GOT the better of me again—either with a great lie or with pure truth. I didn’t have enough of an arsenal with me to dig deeper and know the real picture. She was too tall a wall for me to vault over. I had no other option but to believe her. Like a ferocious wave that slammed itself to death on a rock front, I returned helplessly.

  Nothing had changed at home. But the assumption that the whole thing was connected to Papa’s monetary issues at the workplace had got stronger. I didn’t bother to correct it. Let it remain so. Otherwise, I would have to do a lot of explaining. And even if I do, who will understand? Believe? But I knew that there was one person in the house who would know everything. Valyapapan! He’s hiding it on purpose. He’s acting as if he is ignorant. I have to make him speak.

  I went upstairs determined to do it. Valyapapan was not in his usual recliner. I could hear a slight whimper. I walked around. I followed the sound and reached the room of the forefathers. Its door was closed. I slowly pushed and it opened. The scene I saw! I was shattered. The room looked as if an earthquake had hit it! This was what remained of the Public Security raid. God, how many years and generations and layers of memories got wrecked in a single day! Books were lying scattered, historical records destroyed, untied palm tree manuscripts, broken plates of handwritten signs, torn paintings of ancestors, smashed pieces of their favourite objects . . . and on top of it all, Valyapapan lying and weeping like an orphan!

  Nobody could wipe away his tears. It was the squall of someone who has lost everything to the sea. I could only sit with him as he cried. Once or twice, I tried to lift him, but he clung harder to the destroyed objects, and continued lying there. He cried and cried, and after he was finished with his tears, he slowly got up. I helped him get back to his chair. Both of us were feeling desperate, but neither he nor I talked about the Room of the Forefathers. Instead, I told him: ‘Papa is in jail!’

  There was no response from him. His face was expressionless as if he had known it for a long time.

  ‘You know the reason for it. What is it?’ I asked.

  He remained silent for a long time.

  ‘I want to know. Valyapapan cannot avoid this question,’ I said firmly.

  ‘Treason! Betrayal! Coup! Isn’t that enough for anyone to be jailed?’ Valyapapan said at last.

  ‘Treason?’

  ‘Yes. For them. But for us, it was an attempt to recover. If it had worked out, the crown would have been on my head now. The new flag of Diego would have fluttered atop this house.’

  ‘When did these things take place?’ I asked.

  ‘It has been in the making for the past twenty years. We have been preparing for it, using my influence and your Papa’s strategies. Each barbecue party held at the backyard of this house arrived at a new decision. But . . .’

  ‘But?’

  ‘This time, too, an Andrapper betrayed us.’

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘Another Andrapper. I.D. Stephen!’

  I felt as if someone had shot at my head.

  When I was about to walk away, Valyapapan held my hand. ‘Whatever is to be done, do it urgently. Our moments are also numbered. Nobody knows where the secret jails in Diego are!’

  My walk led me to my writing table. The rest of that day—and the entire night—I wrote without wasting a single minute. I didn’t even get up to have a drop of water. Memories were flowing into my mind. I didn’t have to wait for a single word. The only issue I faced was of the pen not keeping pace with my mind. I wrote and wrote and wrote, and by morning, I fell asleep.

  Madness

  I JUMPED OUT of sleep at some point and started scanning all that I’d written. I was still sleepy. I vigorously scanned a lot of pages. But I got scared about the pending ones. I didn’t know what I had written about myself. I divided the scanned section into two and send the first part to the writer Benyamin. The seco
nd one I sent to Bilal. The rest of the parts I divided and kept them to be sent to my close friends and dear ones. My plan was to give one part to Anpu and another to Anita. But considering it would be dangerous to leave it at Anpu’s house which was frequented by the Public Security, I scanned the part quickly and saved it in Senthil’s old USB drive. I decided to send the last part to Meljo. I also wrote a covering letter for each of them, mentioning the content and to whom they should hand it over. I inserted them into envelopes and left home right away. I had not taken a shower. Or brushed my teeth. I had not done any of the morning routines. Not combed my hair. Or changed clothes. Half conscious and half sleepy, I left the house. I took my boat and drove some distance; then I realized that CIDs could be shadowing me. So I left the boat at a jetty in Seleucia and dissolved into the crowd. I moved randomly from street to street, trying to shake off anybody following me. Then I took a line boat and got down at a bay in Pentasia. From the central post office there, I sent all the parts of the work, except the last one for Meljo. After that, I took another boat to Uthukkuli jetty and went to Senthil’s house. On the way, someone tapped me on my shoulder and asked, ‘Why are you coming this way drunk?’ I walked forward without responding. I didn’t have the energy to retort.

  I knocked at the door of Senthil’s house. It was Appa who came out. He looked at me rather strangely. ‘What do you want?’ he asked derisively. ‘Appa, I don’t want anything. I just came here to see you people for one last time,’ I said. ‘To come here, is this your wife’s place?’ Appa asked; he seemed ready for a fight. Actually, I got scared. Why is Senthil’s Appa behaving like this? This was not the way he used to behave with me. Or is it because he has not recognized me?

  ‘Appa, don’t you recognize me? It’s me. Senthil’s friend. Your kannan.’ I broke down.

  ‘Whose kannan? I had one kannan. He left me. I don’t know you. Leave this place,’ Appa dismissed me. ‘Appa, I don’t know if I’ll see you again. This is my last visit. Before leaving, I want to tell you one thing. Our Senthil . . . He didn’t die of a heart attack. He was killed!’

  ‘Son of a bitch, you knew it, right? You knew it, right?’ Appa grabbed my neck. ‘Then . . . then . . . you . . . You cheated us all this time. Poda, just leave this house. I don’t want to see your face again. You and your Andrapper family will be plagued for twelve generations!’ Appa shouted and pushed me out. Anpu came to us. She, too, was hostile. She took Appa inside forcefully.

  ‘Anpu, why is Appa like this?’ I asked.

  ‘You go. Here everyone knows that your Dad killed my Annan. Now don’t come here again.’ Her tone was harsh.

  ‘My Papa? No . . . Anpu, that can’t be true.’

  ‘Please go. Nobody knows what Appa will do next.’ She turned back.

  ‘Anpu, one minute,’ I called out to her. She stopped. ‘This is your Annan’s USB. I had come here to return this. One day, someone from the mainland will come here looking for it. Please give it to him. Don’t show it to anyone other than him. It has such an important matter. It has Senthil’s and my life in it. Someday, he will tell you my true story. It’ll be the suspense thriller you once wanted to read.’

  I gave it to her. Then, like a lunatic on the prowl, I returned from Cherar Peruntheruvu.

  Life

  FROM THERE, I went to Anita’s house. She, too, treated me with contempt. She shouted why I had come there drunk. I gave her the envelope that I had kept for her. Then, like I’d done with Anpu, told her that there was truth in it and to hand it over only to the person who would come from the mainland. After that, I left quickly. I reached Seleucia’s post office and sat at the visitor’s lobby, writing out all that had happened since I left home in the morning.

  Sitting there, I introspected about my life. I think I’m someone who wanted to be somewhere, but reached somewhere else. The place I’d dreamt of and the place I’ve reached are vastly different. I sometimes felt proud of myself for having a great dream (if becoming a writer is a great dream). Often, I had sympathized with my friends and classmates for failing to realize their ordinary dreams and living ordinary lives. All that time, I’d never tried to look at things through their eyes. Or look at me through their eyes.

  There are many friends who have ridiculed my great dream of being a writer. Bilal and Rahim were among them. A loser with paltry dreams, that’s what they think of me. To those who believe that money and a rich lifestyle are criteria for greatness, how will I convince them that my dreams are great?

  I’d always thought that there was nothing greater than being a writer. But is being a writer the greatest dream? What is a great life? Which is a great life? For Babu, his underworld life is first-class social service, so, isn’t that a great life? What about a politician’s life ? Or a company owner’s who gives jobs to ten people? Won’t they, too, be thinking that their lives and their aims are great? That way, isn’t the life of anyone who has no regrets great… If one has become what one wants to in life, if one is content with it, that’s the greatest life! Nobody then has the authority to sympathize with him or judge him on that.

  The only relevant issue is how one remains true to one’s life. Jyoti has become a railway clerk and Anita a pharmacist to meet some or the other of their dreams. So, what right do I have to feel pity for them? I couldn’t achieve my friends’ dream of becoming Diego’s chancellor. My dream was something else. Isn’t that the case with everyone?

  Is my life a success or a failure? At what point of time do we measure it up? The present me is a failed writer. That means I’ve failed my dreams too. Friends expected me to be a chancellor. On that note too, I’m a failure. If somehow, tomorrow, I succeed in some other way, then how will I be judged? What is the right time to judge the success and failure of life? When uncertainties hang like a pendulum till the last moment of death, who can judge at any particular time whose life is a success and whose isn’t?

  If a failed attempt to pen a novel puts me in the losers’ list (like how my Papa saw it), then the sum total of my short life, experiences and travels should place me in the winners’ list. My dear writer, the one who is going to analyse my life in detail . . . what do you have to say after hearing all this . . .? Readers, what do you think? How will you judge me?

  I wanted to ask myself more questions and write a lot more. But two people have been watching me for some time now. Maybe it’s just my fear. Since a crucial part of my biography is unsafe with me, I’m not taking any risk. Before they can come to me with questions, let me post this to Meljo.

  9

  Rajaji Nagar

  FINALLY, WHEN THE story ends, the narrator and the listener share a sense of vacuum. A despair that there is nothing left to hear or say. We were all immersed in such a sorrow. Till now, our lives were made exciting by the investigation, the search for hidden messages, observations, assumptions, information and debates. All those meetings were thrilling. But nothing remained now. Nothing. Like a bottle deserted by a genie, Andrapper’s book lay in front of us. It had no more budding surprises for us.

  ‘After listening to the whole story, whom do you think was right? Andrapper or Meljo?’ I asked, breaking the silence.

  ‘There is no ultimate right,’ said Mashu. ‘Sometimes, there are many rights. And more than one truth. The right called Andrapper is not negated by the right called Meljo. Now it feels like everything came to a close suddenly.’

  ‘We should have got to know about everything after some more time.’

  ‘That’s true! I was hoping that at least Meljo would have put us in major confusion, and that we’d have a well-planned operation to enter Valyedathu Veedu and grab Andrapper’s book in a hard-fought adventure. It would have been thrilling. Now Meljo has spoilt everything. He also fell for Anil’s words,’ Biju shared his hope and despair.

  ‘The so-called brave people are all cowards. They cannot even withstand our words. I knew for sure that he would fall for it,’ Anil said.

  ‘The thrill and fear and anxiety t
hat these two, Anil and Benyamin, faced at Valyedathu Veedu . . . ho, I also wanted to be a part of it,’ Nattapranthan said.

  ‘If you really want to experience it, then we should go to the field again. Who’s ready for that?’ Biju asked.

  ‘Another twist to this story? What’s that?’ Nibu asked.

  ‘I’ve never met him, but after all these days, it feels like Christy Andrapper is one among us. He ditched his novel to take up a responsibility. One which he could never fulfil. We should complete it now. We should find out the killers of Senthil,’ Biju said.

  ‘We are just the readers in this story. Beyond that, we don’t have any responsibilities to anyone. We haven’t given our word that we’ll complete what Andrapper left midway.’ Nibu became furious.

  ‘Whether we are liable or not, there are some things that I’m curious to know. What is this Uthiyan Cheral Tamil Kazhagam? What were the original data in Senthil’s USB drive? Why did Senthil often go to Pondicherry? Who is Faisal Bava, the regular visitor at the Park Plaza? What’s his relation with the gossip stories? Does it have any connection with Senthil’s murder? If we believe in Andrapper’s version that his father was not behind the killing, then who did it?’ Nattapranthan asked.

  ‘In this case, we have a responsibility to ourselves, directly or indirectly, that’s what I feel, said Mashu.

  ‘Me too. As a person who has been to Diego, I am a bit more excited about this entire thing,’ Salim said, supporting Mashu.

  ‘Then let’s start from the first question. What is Uthiyan Cheral Tamil Kazhagam? Who can give us the details?’ Anil asked.

  ‘It’ll be better to start with the second question. Since the USB is our property now, it’ll be easier to start with that and then move to Tamil Kazhagam,’ Biju suggested.

  ‘Okay, then that’s decided. I’m hereby handing over the USB drive to you guys and launching Operation Diego Garcia Part II,’ Salim said, and the Thursday Market members clapped and cheered the decision. We moved to the computer there and then and started opening the files one by one.