Benyamin - Yellow Lights of Death

‘Oh, okay. That was a long time ago. He had finished studies, got a nice job and was happy. Hah. Everything is god’s will.’ He sighed. ‘Anybody inside.? Senthil’s friend has come. ’

He pulled up a chair for me. I sat. He inquired about me — name, place, studies and job. Except my Andrapper connection, I told him everything.

A few minutes later, someone older than I’d expected stepped out of the house. I was sure it was Senthil’s Appa.

Seeing him, I got up. He stared at my face. I felt a strange fear. Didn’t you just stand there when my son got shot? When the Public Security came, didn’t you evade being a witness? Isn’t that why they are now giving excuses for not finding his killers? Why did you come here? Aren’t you one of them? Many such questions would arise, I feared. I felt an urge to scoot off before that happened.

He held my shoulder and started crying. ‘Left us. he left us all. without saying a word. he left. ’

I tried to hold him close and comfort him. He stood weeping on my shoulder as though he had found a refuge.

However, he quickly composed himself and wiped away his tears. He then addressed the people sitting around: ‘Don’t you know him? He is our Andrapper’s child. Was my son’s best friend. They were together in school. Don’t you know? Senthil always used to talk about him.’

When he mentioned the Andrapper name, the group’s suspicious looks gave way to that of respect.

Senthil’s father turned towards the house. ‘Can’t you see that Andrapper’s child has come? Get him something to drink!’

‘No, it’s fine.’ I tried to stop him. But he went inside. I walked back to the others.

‘You know Senthil?’ one of them said. ‘He was well educated. Soon after Plus Two, he went to Madras. Studied there for five years. Came back and got a job immediately. You know, right? At the Accountant General’s office. His marriage had been arranged. Should have taken place in two months. Who thought it will all end up like this!’

So, all of them had come to know of everything. I, with all those unnecessary doubts stuffed in my head, had walked up and down to the Public Security department. What a blunder! I should have come here straight.

‘Any idea what actually happened?’ I asked.

‘It was a cardiac arrest.’

‘What?’ I got up in shock.

‘Yeah. It was a cardiac arrest. He’d left in the morning for work. Couldn’t make it to the office — he died on the boat. Then, just as a formality, the body was taken to the hospital. That’s all.’

‘Who said this?’

‘Who said, as in.?’ They looked at each other for a minute, unable to comprehend my question.

I quickly realized my folly. Before they could ask or I could say anything more, fortunately, a girl walked into the scene with a tumbler and a jar of water.

They turned to her. I did too. She was so beautiful that I couldn’t turn my eyes away. My mind briefly lost its poise. She poured some water into the tumbler and gave it to me.

‘Aren’t you my brother’s friend? I know you. Do you recognize me?’ she asked, with a smile loaded with sadness.

‘No.’

‘I was also there in St. Joseph’s. Senthil’s sister. Anpu.’

Yes. Anpu. Anpu. Anpu. Her name and face rushed to my memory. A name and face that shouldn’t have been forgotten, but had been forgotten. She was our junior in school and was beautiful even back then. Senthil, Anpu and Jesintha used to come together to school. During lunch, she would come to our classroom and share the food from Senthil’s plate. There was an intensity to the brother — sister relationship. To see her, the boys would scramble around the classroom during lunch. And here I was, not being able to identify her!

My mind was stirred up by what I had just heard. Cardiac arrest! What an idiotic tale! Who made them believe that? Haven’t any of them heard that Senthil was shot? I finished the water that Anpu gave in one gulp.

‘More?’

‘Um.’

She poured another glass of water. I finished that too at one go.

‘More?’

‘Um.’

I drank that too in a gulp.

‘More?’

‘Um.’

She stared at me in disbelief. As if I had come from a place without water.

‘More?’

‘No, thanks.’ I handed over the tumbler. She went back inside. I wanted to see Senthil’s Amma. But she never came out. I sat there for some more time.

The rest of their discussion was about the chances of getting a heart attack at such a young age. I didn’t have anything to contribute to it. After a while, I got up to leave.

Senthil’s Chittappa looked inside the house and shouted, ‘Anpu! Senthil’s friend is leaving.’ She came out running. I said bye to her.

She accompanied me to the end of the street. We didn’t utter a word to each other. Just before parting, I said we’ll meet again later, and left.

Yeah, left. It was one kind of leaving. I don’t remember getting into the boat and reaching home. My mind was completely muddled. I felt a strange fear. I latched the door to my room and went to bed. For the next four days, I had high fever.

Wedding Cassette

MOMMA DIDN’T LET me go out for two days after I recovered from the fever. ‘I told him not to sit idle in the house. My mistake. And so he goes roaming around east and west. That too in the damn sea breeze. As Papa says, show some responsibility and write something.’ Momma was all over me.

I did try. To be responsible. To be a writer. To sit tight and write. But I did not succeed much. The enigma of Senthil had wrapped itself around my mind like a viper, making it impossible for me to think about anything else. Cardiac arrest! The relatives of someone who had been shot dead in public were made to believe that he had died of a heart attack. How could I tell them the fact? Even if I tried, would they believe it? What proof did I have to present to them? Nothing, not a single thing.

I was going crazy sitting in the closed room. I went out for a walk along the lakeside.

Children were playing cricket in a field nearby. Diego’s new generation had turned to cricket, following the changes in the mainland. During my childhood, India, Pakistan and Sri Lanka were winning world cups. Back then, when the new migrants from the mainland ardently watched cricket, all our games were carried out in water. In fact, Diego’s national game was water polo. We were into swimming, rowing, water volleyball, diving and bellyflopping. Today’s children had come out of the water, to the ground. I stood there for a while watching them play.

They were playing with a bat they’d made out of wood, and a rubber ball. Three not-so-straight branches had been stripped to make the stumps. A game that was played at the international level — with the players ensconced in protective guards — was being played fearlessly by the children. Their enthusiasm bowled me over. How sincerely they enjoyed the game! The most surprising aspect was that there was no umpire to control their game. The players were themselves the observers. The non-striker called the no-ball. The bowler decided if the batsman was out LBW or not. He even consulted with the batsman. Most of the decisions were made without a fuss. If it was a crucial call — a run-out or a catch or a stumping — they would discuss among themselves to reach a decision. The player who was given out accepted the outcome without getting upset. I was amazed by the honesty in their play. I felt contempt for the professionals and their games.

When I got back home in the evening, Chettan, his wife and Momma were watching a wedding cassette. It had been sent from the mainland. My Chettathi was from the mainland. It was the wedding of one of her relatives. ‘If you aren’t seized by the spirit of writing, come and sit with us. Let’s see if we can find a girl for you,’ Chettathi called out.