Benyamin - Yellow Lights of Death

I wrote non-stop for three days. Reams of it. I didn’t leave the house at all. I kept on writing — as determined and disciplined as a boy trying to come first in an exam. On the evening of the third day, as I drew a rule at the end of the thirteenth chapter, a title rose up in my mind. The title of my novel: The Book of Forefathers . I glowed in the reflected glory of the title. Where did it come from? What was its origin? I didn’t know. The Book of Forefathers. The Book of Forefathers . I kept on repeating the title. Mohandas, this is definitely more beautiful than your Archipelago . It was one of those moments when I admired the talent within me. Inspired, I took the boat and travelled swiftly for a long distance. Finally, it stopped on its own at the Oothukkuli boat jetty in Cherar Peruntheruvu.

Cherar Peruntheruvu

SUDDENLY, THE MYSTERY named Senthil, which lay clogged in me for three days, sprung to life. I don’t know whether it was a quick burst of energy or an anonymous force that made this happen. But when I left the house, there had been no Senthil or Cherar Peruntheruvu in my mind. Whatever it was, here I was in Cherar Peruntheruvu. Now, how could I leave without inquiring about Senthil?

If someone has died, even if no one else knows about the death, his parents must be aware of it. But why didn’t they complain to the Public Security? Or didn’t they know about it yet? In that case, what could I tell them? If, instead, they thought he had just gone missing, would my visit cause suspicion?

Doubts and questions are of no use. If I’ve to find his parents, I’ll have to look for them. But where was Senthil’s house? I had a slight memory of him once saying that he and Jesintha were neighbours in Cherar Peruntheruvu. But how could I find him with just that? Who knew how many Senthils there were in Tamil Colony? How would I identify this particular Senthil? But there could be only one Senthil who died recently.

Non-Tamils in Diego usually didn’t venture into the Tamil stronghold. I’d been to that street once or twice before. That gave me some familiarity. Everything about the street had a Tamil touch. There was a huge board, Oothukkuli Padakukuzhaam, right at the jetty. The radios played loud songs, and uttapam stalls were all around. ‘ Dey ’ and ‘ poda ’ greetings abounded, along with provocative stares of young men. In short, it resembled a movie set. The area evoked artificiality even at first sight.

There was a history to the street’s name, Cherar Peruntheruvu. The Tamils there believed that it was the Sangam period Cherar king Velkezhukuttavan who was the first to set foot in Diego and establish a kingdom. He earned the title Kadalpurakottiya as an honour for finding Diego. Before the advent of the Portuguese, the region was called Ilam Cherarnadu. They also believed that Velkezhukuttavan’s elder son, Irumporai, was the first king of this land. The natives say the place is mentioned in Paranar’s Anchampathu and Ottakoothar’s Takkayakapparani . It has long been the Tamils’ emotional plea to reinstate the old name of Ilam Cherarnadu instead of the French name Diego Garcia. They put forth this demand during every Senate election.

I stepped into a tea shop at the corner of the street. I asked the old man at the counter if anyone had recently died in the area.

‘Ayya. those who are born have to die someday.’ The gaffer got excited. ‘Four last week. Our Kuppuswami had been ill for long. Good that he died. Then our Murukappan. It was some liver disease. It’s only good for us if we don’t drink too much. Then there was one teenager in the next street. Don’t know his name.’

Diego’s Tamils talk a mix of Malayalam and Tamil. They can easily understand Malayalam. That was a blessing for me. ‘Was his name Senthil?’ I asked.

‘Senthil, Kinthil — who knows! If death happens at a young age, what can we do? One hears he was well educated. Then there was Selva. Our Kolanji’s wife. Suicide. Nobody knows the reason. Only the smart ones can know a woman’s mind. By the way, why are you asking?’

‘It’s my friend who died. Need to go to his house. That’s why I came. Where is his house?’

‘Oh lord, his Appa’s and Amma’s tears have still not dried up. The fourth street from here, where the Cheramannan Kuravai Koothu used to be held. And the eighth lane from there. There is a statue of Periyar there. Ask someone there. It was there that Selva. ’

Following his directions, I walked through the Kuravai Koothu street, thinking about the last time I’d been at Cherar Peruntheruvu. The well-known Tamil writer Charu Nivedita had been with me.

Kuravai Koothu and Vadakkirikkal are the two major festivals of the Tamil here. Both are related to the Sangam period, say historians. If a king or warrior kills his opponent in the battlefield, they quit fighting and start dancing. That’s Kuravai Koothu. Its variant Thunangai Koothu is also popular here, with women too participating in it. When Adu Kottu Pattu Cheralathan, the heir of Vel Kezhu Kuttavan, who is mentioned in the sixth book of the Ettuthokai anthology of Sangam poems, visited Ilam Cherarnadu to feast with his brother Irumporai, he came to know of his army’s victory over the Ay kings. He celebrated it by dancing on these streets, and Kuravai Koothu is a reminder of that, according to legend. Charu Nivedita had come to Diego to see the original dance form, which had become extinct in Tamil Nadu. I got to know him through some common friends in Thiruvananthapuram.

Vadakkirikkal is a week-long mourning. Warriors consider it despicable to be wounded on the back. If it happens to someone, he has to observe a fast, holding an open sword, facing the west. On the seventh day, he would fall on the sword. The festival laments the suicide of Uthiyan Cheralathan, who was wounded on his back during the Venni battle with Karingala Cholan. The fast honouring his memory extends to seven days. It is said that till recently, people would leap on the sword and die, or injure themselves with it. After the British came to Diego, they banned the festival through a decree. That led to huge riots in Diego during the late 1970s. The government was persuaded to allow the festival but without the ritual suicide. All under the watchful eyes of the Public Security. During Charu Nivedita’s visit, he had spoken to some elders who had memories of someone or the other from their families having died by the sword.

Many of the customs that are extinct in our native mainland still live on among the migrants. To see the soul of our ancient culture, one would have to go to Diego, Sri Lanka, Malaysia or Singapore, Charu Nivedita later wrote in Kalachuvadu .

A chap, who was chewing paan standing beside Periyar’s statue, helped me find Senthil’s house.

Anpu

SENTHIL’S HOUSE HAD an extended porch. It was bigger than what I’d expected, and had been smartened up recently. Two or three elders were sitting outside, chatting. I walked towards them. Seeing a stranger, they paused in their conversation and looked at me. I recognized one of them as Senthil’s Appa. It was only because of the similarity in their faces. Though dead, the face I saw in the hospital had strongly resembled the one before me.

‘Senthil’s Appa.?’ I grasped his hand and asked.

‘No, his Chittappa. Who are you? Haven’t seen you before.’ He got up slowly.

‘I was his friend. I came to know about this just recently.’

‘I see. You were working together. ’

‘No, we studied together at St. Joseph’s.’