Perhaps, even the professor from Adayar would put in his bit. All old teachers like finding a new disciple to teach.
Whatever happened, he would go, he would go once more and return, Aravindan told himself. The next time they came, he would take Raghu and his family. Perhaps Gayathri might find some roots that had not rotted away in that soil.
Aravindan slept well that night in the certainty of that decision.
It was some time since there was a mail from Azad. Such a big gap was occurring for the first time since they had met in Kerala. When he rang up his mobile, the reply came in some other language. There was no response on the direct line at the office either.
New technology had succeeded in reuniting links that had broken ages ago. Aravindan called up the name of the company from memory, and the website popped up in Google magic. Azad had earlier said that he would check his mail a number of times during the day even if he was travelling abroad. Even if he was in a hurry, he would give short replies to acknowledge mails. He believed that a prompt reply was an important courtesy.
Though Azad had said many times that he was fed up of selling land and time to strangers, Aravindan had not taken that seriously. Because Azad had more or less forgotten about a world beyond Cairo. Wherever he went, he returned as though to an ancestral home, to Flat909 in Mahdi. That twelve-storeyed building on the banks of the Nile, set apart from the crowds of Cairo, was a big relief to him.
Apartment 909, on the ninth floor. The balcony opened its eyes to the Nile. The sun over the Nile in the morning and the lights of the small vessels that put him to sleep were a part of his life. A Marwari friend, who knew some numerology, had told him that nine was his lucky number. Azad was also convinced that the nine obtained when he added the three digits of his flat number was lucky for him.
Below his name on the brass name plate, he had added a name for the flat: Noori!
When Aravindan asked him from where he had got that name, Azad’s eyes had glinted for a moment. But then, he tried to evade the question with the comment that it was a nomadic name.
Azad, who took around foreigners to see Egypt, had seen something of his own land only in his last visit. The helplessness of looking at other faces for clues to the life in his land had disturbed him.
Just before he had left, he had said, ‘You know what, Aravindettan, one could sell this land too, fairly well.’
Azad, who had been selling Egypt to travellers for a quarter of a century, would have the eyes to see such possibilities.
‘That is a different pair of eyes and ears, Aravindettan,’ he would say. ‘With so many years of experience, I know exactly what each person wants. People have different tastes, they even see different things in the same sights. Some of them tell you earlier what they want, usually those who come from the West. Some of them want something different from the usual sights that the crowds want—the Pyramid, the Sphinx and the Nile—and they know their history. Those who come for new insights into history, and have studied it in depth, are increasing. You have to be very careful when you select the guides you send with them. The usual hocus-pocus of our people will not work with such people and their questions.’
He reminisced about a thin, bearded traveller who had come from Austria. He spent weeks just wandering in the Valley of Kings without even bothering to see the Pyramids. He spent days chasing up the stories about the death of Howard Carter, who had found Tutankhamun’s tomb. He did not need any guide. In fact, he knew enough to teach ten guides.
Aravindan had sat and listened to Azad.
‘Do you know, it is time that we realised that tourism is not just the sea and the backwaters and Kathakali,’ Azad had said. ‘Though most of the tourists do come in search of those things, we should realise that there are people with other tastes. Those are the people who seek the true heritage of our country and give us a different image in other lands. If we could find such people and give them a package that they seek, our tourism would have a different face.’
‘It is not right to think that anything can be sold, Azad,’ Aravindan interrupted him. ‘We have to save some things for the future generations.’
Azad was rather taken aback. He tried to correct himself guiltily, ‘I didn’t mean that, Aravindettan.’
When Aravindan commented that selling the past as a commodity in the name of tourism was increasing, Azad grunted in agreement and said, ‘That is what we do too. We are taught right at the beginning that there is nothing in this world that cannot be sold. Finding the things and setting the right price on them is what matters.’
‘That’s true. The real problem is setting a price, especially on human beings.’
Aravindan walked out on to the balcony. The night was growing thicker outside. There was a light breeze. In the distance he could see the Arabian Sea on which, once upon a time, Yavanas and Romans and Arabs had wandered.
He came back inside and searched in his diary. Was there some other number with which he could get in touch with Azad? He had complained that his foreign trips were increasing in number. Though there were others in the marketing division, the boss was particular that Azad had to go and meet some of the clients. The reason was that special sight that he had. ‘You will never need spectacles, my friend,’ his boss had once joked. ‘You have the vision of a dozen people.’ It was true too. Azad had crossed fifty before he even needed to think of glasses.
The flow of tourists was increasing. The mode of competition had also changed with the entry of new agencies into the field. It their struggle to hold their own in the rat race, the old mores of the business were not important to the newcomers.
Azad’s journeys were mostly to renew contact with the agencies abroad before the season actually started. Since he had the reputation that would get him what he wanted wherever he went, he couldn’t avoid these trips.
‘I’ve started getting bored, Aravindettan,’ he would say. ‘There are days when I don’t get out of the hotel room on my trips to Europe and America.’
Where had Azad vanished? How could he find him? Aravindan did not know what to do. When he rang up the company number that had been given in the website, the reply was in some unknown language. Perhaps, it was Arabic. Azad would laugh if he heard about Aravindan’s vague anxieties. ‘These are the causeless fears of growing old, Aravindettan. I know this land better than I know my own. Wherever I go, I cannot get lost.’
Azad’s nature was to avoid ties and float around. But, wouldn’t his company know about his journeys?
Two or three weeks had passed. As a last effort Aravindan sent a mail directly to the e-mail address of the CEO of the company where Azad worked. What he got in return were a number of questions from the secretary to the CEO.
Who are you? What is your connection with Azad? Why do you want to get in touch with him?
Aravindan felt there was something wrong. Why did the travel company that dealt with people from all over the world send such a rude reply to an ordinary enquiry? Were they trying to hide something? His heartbeat quickened.
What could he say in reply? They may not believe him if he said that he was a close friend. When he was sure that there was something wrong, he felt that he had to ring up the CEO at his personal number.
The young female secretary, who spoke excellent English, did not appear to like this direct approach. Why are you ringing at this number? Where did you get this number from? The old e-mail questions now took the form of a cooing voice.
With that, Aravindan lost his patience. His voice rose. ‘Is this how your company behaves with strangers? When someone needs to get in touch with one of your employees urgently, is this how you respond? I have been unable to get in touch with one of your employees by either his mobile or his e-mail for some time now. If the company that employs him also does not know where he is…’
When he insisted on speaking to the CEO directly, she paused for a moment. After that, she apologetically told him that the CEO was in a meeting and that she would
connect him to another extension. There might be someone there who would be able to help him.
A man, who spoke English with a Tamil overtone, picked up the telephone now. One Arumanayagam from Salem. There seemed to be an undertone in his voice that made it seem it was centuries old. He sounded as though his voice came from the basement of the Pyramids: Two or three weeks had passed since they had heard from Azad. All they knew was that he had taken a car and gone to Alexandria. They had thought that he was going on something connected with his work. But he had gone by his own car and not the company car. Also he had not mentioned the trip to the boss. Since he had left on the evening before the weekend, it was likely that he had gone on some personal errand.
Aravindan was struck dumb. Why had he gone to Alexandria without telling anyone? If he had gone on work, he would certainly have told his boss. Aravindan questioned the night that thickened around the balcony, the lamps that twinkled like stars down below, the eyes of the vehicles that meandered: Why? Why?
‘He has few friends in the company and doesn’t speak about personal matters even with those he’s friendly with. You said you were a close friend, can you guess what had happened?’ Arumanayagam asked.
When Aravindan said that he could not, Arumanayagam’s voice became even weightier, as though it was going further down the basement again. He continued, ‘The police in Alexandria had checked in some of the hotels where our people usually stay. Azad had checked into one of them and had not checked out. When the door was opened with the master key, they found his suitcase, bag and laptop there. Though they searched the room they did not find any clue as to where he had gone. I’m asking you this because you said you were close to him. Did he have any connections there? Especially since he is a bachelor…’
When Arumanayagam’s hints became unbearable, Aravindan disconnected after giving his telephone number and e-mail ID and requesting that he be informed if they got any news.
He heard the noise of a siren from somewhere. The city was trying to divide the night into two. The darkness would find a place in the next half.
Suddenly, Aravindan thought of something. Azad had said in a mail that hints of a give and take between Muziris and Alexandria were available in some Genizah documents that had been found in a synagogue in Cairo. They would be able to find a lot of information on the life then in those documents. Perhaps, those documents had led Azad to some synagogue in Alexandria. The notings on the papyrus might have found refuge in the library of Alexandria, believed to be a holy place like a temple.
Could Azad have gone to Alexandria in search of those documents? If so, what had happened to him? Aravindan found himself restless as questions without answers multiplied in his mind.
Arumanayagam said that the police were making enquiries. A.E. Azad was valued by the CEO of this influential company. They would be able to find out something soon.
A.E. Azad.
Aravindan gave a start. It was the first time he was hearing Azad’s name with the initials tagged on.
Abdul Esmail Azad. A.E.A! Like Jaleelikka’s A.E.J. He used to laugh that his initials were like a palindrome.
Aravindan felt as though there was something thick in his throat. Azad had been fascinated by Jaleelikka’s farewell note. It must have felt good to say goodbye to everyone you cared about. What better way to depart? Would I be able to bid farewell like that? Write a hundred postcards as Jaleelikka had done. ‘I’m going!’ A.E.J. But I’m not like Jaleelikka. Who do I write postcards to? I wouldn’t need ten postcards, let alone a hundred.
Anyway the time of postcards is long gone. If there were, at least, some e-mail IDs one could send a familiar message to…
Some raindrops fell in the soft breeze. When his memories got wet, Aravindan shook his head. No, that path was a dangerous one. He should not think like that. As they spoke of many things, Azad had uttered some careless words. He should not load them with so much of meaning.
He was not used to praying. But that night, he prayed for sleep. Sleep proved elusive though. He dozed off for a little while and woke up with Azad’s smiling face before him.
Azad was saying: ‘You know, Aravindettan, though it provides me with a livelihood, I don’t believe in preserving dead bodies. Once life leaves the body, it is better to get rid of it as soon as possible. I like your methods better. Reduce the body to ashes and let it mingle with the soil. I don’t understand this insistence on keeping the ashes in urns and later depositing them in rivers. What river is more sacred than the earth you were born in? Isn’t it the biggest blessing to mingle with the earth of your own land?’
Aravindan was covered in sweat when he woke up.
Unable to bear those sights any longer, Aravindan covered himself with a sheet, with a shiver.
Rashidibhai. Azad had also followed the path of Rashidibhai, who had collected seashores as memory stones in glass jars.
The unfamiliar lines written by the unfamiliar Arumanayagam lay frozen on the computer screen. Arumanayagam started on a gentle note.
Sorry to convey this information. There was a car accident in a fairly quiet crossroads in Alexandria. Those who witnessed the accident said that he had crossed the street against the red signal, walking as though he was unaware of his surroundings. Some of the vehicles managed to apply brakes in time, some couldn’t.
What could Azad have been thinking of as he crossed the road without looking at the eye of the lamppost? It could not have been about his work. He left his work behind in the office always. It could not have been about his home. He did not have anything much to think about there.
Could he have been thinking of the Genizah records buried in the underground chamber of the synagogue in Cairo? He had said that he had found a few that related to Muchiri with the help of a friend. Memories that crossed generations, in Hebrew and Arabic.
Somehow Arumanayagam’s mail did not affect Aravindan that much.
His mind had been preparing itself for such a piece of news for some days now. When Azad had handed over Rashidibhai’s glass jar with its coloured stones, had he been trying to hand over other things too? The linked chain of inheritance, the mission, the weight. The feeling of being orphaned that had not troubled him earlier might have started troubling him now as he wandered without seeing shore or forest
Whose memoirs could they be that made Azad so interested in them? Adrian? Orion? Or some other Yavana who kept coming to Muchiri and going away again? Adrian had carried away his rain-soaked Muchiri day like some private treasure. In old age, when circumstances kept him anchored, he would have had a lot to remember and say.
Some of the notes might have been made on the return trip, written in the solitude of the deck. The notes that are made even as the anchor is lifted and the shore slowly vanishes from sight would have more of dampness in them. Kichan used to speak of Adrian sitting before the oil lamp and writing away.
As he thought further Aravindan was sure that they were notes made by Adrian. He had mentioned Adrian, who came into his writings and about the women of Vadakkoth family, to Azad. When he had heard the descriptions of the beautiful women of Vadakkoth, Azad had said that it was sad that they themselves had been born when those wonderful days were over.
Perhaps, it might have been easy to follow Adrian’s handwriting through the idea of him that he got from their conversation then. In what form would Vadakkoth Thanka and Ponnu and Kunkamma appear in Adrian’s writings? Would they have been included among the women of loose morals, who waited for the swollen money bags of the Yavanas, who disembarked from the ships?
Anyway, there would be a lot of information about life in Muchiri in those days. Besides, the mentions in the Sangam songs, the land and the people would be seen through the eyes of the Yavanas who had seen the world.
He might have written right at the bottom of the page:
I offer my greetings to the first man from Muziris, who come in search of me after generations and happen to see this.
Azad, who could
read Hebrew as well as Arabic, would have understood the meaning of the lines. And so from Cairo to Alexandria, to Luxor that had been the capital at one time, to Aswan, to the many temples on the banks of the Nile.
The journey of a traveller who had forgotten his land, in search of the tentative links his land had forged with the world.
These endless journeys might have intoxicated him. He might have forgotten his company, the flat No.: 909 in Mahdi, his lucky number nine…
He would not have seen the red eye of the angel of death that glowed on the lamppost at the crossroads. Because his eyes were blinded by greater sights at that time. He would not have heard the screeching of the disobedient brakes in the floods of time that could blind and deafen anyone. When the unseen hooks of the land he had left behind caught at his legs, he must have stood there, unable to move.
Without being given even the time to say, ‘I’m going’, poor Azad had to leave, in that unfamiliar square, before the eyes of death. Alone, very much alone.
Aravindan shivered suddenly.
‘Kochi is changing, growing,’ Kichan said.
‘I know,’ Kunkamma responded.
‘Our western shore is about to show its sea-strength again. With the commissioning of the Vallarpadam container terminal, this will become the stopping place of ships, of sea-borne merchandise. The Arabian Sea will once again take its place in the seafarer’s maps, a strong opponent to the eastern shore. Instead of the stars in the sky and the monsoon wind that had shown the way to the sailing vessels that united the East and the West, machines will dig new channels for the ships.
‘I know.’ Kunkamma felt like laughing.
What new thing could her mama tell her that she did not already know? The Vallarpadam terminal would be the rebirth of Muchiri. When trade took place there with the support of new technology, Muchiri that had been drowned in mud could console itself, that its rebirth was not in vain; so could the old denizens of Muchiri who still lived.
The Saga of Muziris Page 39
