Benyamin: Yellow Lights of Death

I had no answer. That was something I hadn’t considered at all. So, it meant his family had not filed a complaint. Or was it not Senthil who was killed? Was Jesintha wrong in assuming the man was Senthil?

Mullikratnam seemed to understand my confusion.

‘Since when is he missing according to you?’

‘Sir, he didn’t go missing. ’

‘Ssh. I told you. don’t try to teach law to an investigating officer. Dude, your relation with the director is limited to the home. Okay. Tell me. ’

‘The incident happened four days ago. ’

‘Listen, the Public Security at Diego Garcia has not yet received any complaint about a missing person.’

‘Sir, maybe it wasn’t Senthil, maybe it was someone else.’

‘Dude, are you making fun of me? First you said it was Senthil. Now you are saying it may not be Senthil. Do you have any mental illness?’

‘Not that, sir. Someone has been killed. And his body gone missing. My complaint is about him.’

‘Don’t worry, dude. You are experiencing the delusions of a teenager! It’ll be all right when you get married. Anyway, since you’ve come here, give a written petition that your friend has gone missing. Only if you insist you want to. Then let me investigate.’

With much reluctance, I submitted a written complaint that Senthil was missing. The reason for my reluctance was that Senthil was not ‘missing’.

Masterpiece

I WAS NOT at all satisfied with that visit. Especially the conversation with Vijay Mullikratnam. I had not gone there to complain about Senthil’s disappearance. I also didn’t want the ‘missing’ person to be Senthil. I was merely reporting an incident. One that I had witnessed. One that had not been reported by any media the next day. And my strange experiences at City Hospital when I inquired about the incident. But Mullikratnam took it all so lightly. Was his indifference natural or was it purposeful? If it was natural, didn’t that mean I had failed to communicate the seriousness of the incident to him? If I couldn’t convince even one person about something, how was I going to write a novel that would influence society? But if Mullikratnam’s indifference was on purpose.? That meant the Public Security department had something to hide. Someone, if not Senthil, had been gunned down in Port Louis. And the Public Security didn’t want anyone to know about it. What was the reason for it?

The more I dug, the more mysterious it became. To loosen the tangle a bit, I needed to confirm if it was indeed Senthil who was killed. And whoever it was, I needed to know why no complaint had been filed at the Public Security department about it.

I took another look at my school photo. It was to see Senthil again. However familiar we are with them, however much we may have seen them, most faces are not known to us in their details. Mostly they stay in our mind as schemas. Some special aspects. A nose. A neck. A head. A brow. Eyes. So, any one similarity can lead to mistaken identities. As I kept staring at Senthil’s face in that old photo, it seemed like it was different from the face I had in mind. When I compared this face with the one I had seen outside the ICU, I felt it was indeed Senthil, and then again I thought it wasn’t him. I was losing my mind.

Momma had noticed the change in me. I, who usually stayed in my room or terrace with a book, I, whom she shouted at asking if I was also planning to become like Valyapapan, had not been home in the past few days. But she didn’t know where I was going or what I was up to. She knew only that I had been a bit disturbed for some days.

I was experiencing the repercussions of going out for a day and facing one incident. What would be the situation of someone who constantly interacts with society and partakes in its issues? What would be the range of his experiences? I got the sense that it was a person who goes through a lot of such experiences regularly who ought to become a novelist, and not those who writhe as a result of one experience, like me. What would be the stories they could tell you? What would be the power of their writing?

After a long time, probably for the first time since my Thiruvananthapuram days, I went out and got drunk. Seleucia had no scarcity of bars. Every jetty had a bar. And there were bars that one could step into straight from the boat.

When I returned, unusually, Papa was waiting for me.

He took me to the bar on the top floor. ‘I don’t want anything to drink. I had a little when I was out,’ I said to him when he took out a bottle.

‘I know that you have the capacity to have one more.’

Our relationship was not constrained, not like a normal father — son bond. I could say anything to him, and he never tried to impose his likes on me. Each one should decide for himself what he wants to be in life, that was his policy. Though he had not really supported my decision of going to Thiruvananthapuram to learn Malayalam, he was the only one in the family who didn’t oppose it. He was never a dreamer like Valyapapan. He was studying in Paris when power changed hands in Diego. He did not regret the Andrappers not inheriting the power to rule from the French. He completed his studies and joined what could be called Diego’s Reserve Bank. He held a senior position there. He was past retirement age, but the government didn’t want him leave. He lived well, on a middling salary. A pure bureaucratic gentleman.

‘How old are you?’ he asked, offering a whisky with soda. That was not his usual type of question. It was a toehold for some serious discussion.

‘You know it better than me,’ I retorted.

‘I know it, but I asked to make sure you remember it. I believe that whatever be the field, one should have started work on one’s masterpiece before the age of thirty. If he hasn’t, that means he is not a genius. You don’t have many years left to discover that, do you?’

‘A rare flow of philosophy from Papa,’ I teased him.

‘Anyone who looks at life with a realistic eye will have a little bit of philosophy to share. You studied Malayalam for three years. What’s the contribution you gave back to Malayalam? You went there to learn it. That’s fine. That’s what you wanted. But have you or the language got anything fruitful out of it? Okay, you said you wanted to become a novelist. An ambition of very few people. Good choice. Any father would be proud to have a gentleman-writer as their son. But you could have written in the universal language of English. You have the talent for that. It would bring you fame and prestige. But then, you said you wanted to write in Malayalam. To back it up, you cited the case of the African authors who moved to England and France, and continue to write in their mother tongue. They have only a small readership. I didn’t say anything. Okay, but where is your contribution to Malayalam?’

‘Papa, in a single day, one can become a ruler. A chancellor. A dacoit. A rich man. Even an accountant like you, Papa. But it is impossible to become a novelist overnight.’

‘Impossible. Unless you have dedication. An extreme desire to excel in the chosen field. You don’t have it. You can write in any language. If it’s good, the world will find your book and read it. But it has to be written. Or else, it can’t be read. Momma said you haven’t been at your desk for a week now. You are never at home. You are roaming around unnecessarily. Did you go to meet Stephen today?’

‘Oh, okay. So, that is the gist of this long discourse, right? Why did I go to meet Stephen uncle? You must have got the answer from your source. Why should I give it to you?’

‘Did you file any complaint with the Public Security department?’

‘Yes, I did. That one of my friends has gone missing.’

‘You should withdraw it tomorrow.’