Benyamin: Yellow Lights of Death

O Mother, Thaikkattamma,

Grace us with thy presence, we beseech thee,

Hear and answer our petitions.

He chanted some more prayers and hymns for a while.

‘Now, tell me. Why have you come?’ he asked as he stretched both his hands and placed them together above the lamp.

‘One of our friends is missing. We want to know where he is.’

‘How long has he been missing?’

‘For almost a year.’

‘Where is he from?’

‘Diego Garcia.’

‘Diego Garcia!’

‘Yes.’

‘What is his name?’

‘Andrapper.’

He withdrew his hands in a flash, as if he had burnt his fingers, and blew out the lamp.

‘What happened?’ I asked anxiously.

‘Thaikkattamma doesn’t like to know where he is now. That’s all. Get up!’ He was already on his feet.

‘No.’ Anil pulled me back as I was about to rise. ‘We need to know where he is. We paid good money to find that out. We are not leaving without the truth.’

‘You can take the money back when you leave. Don’t argue against the decisions of Thaikkattamma.’

‘The money wasn’t paid to be returned, but to fulfil our need. Whether Thaikkattamma likes it or not, Meljo, you will have to tell us the truth.’ Anil was adamant.

All of a sudden, Meljo rushed towards one of the doors and rang the bell next to it. We could hear the commotion inside. All the doors to the prayer room were latched on the outside.

‘Tell me the truth. Who are you? Why did you come here? What is it that you want?’ he asked in a soft but angry tone.

I wavered a bit, scrambling for answers. Once again, Anil came to the rescue. ‘Meljo, we haven’t promised anyone that we will return from this trip alive,’ he warned. ‘But some of our friends know that we were headed here. So don’t try to scare us off. I’m Anil. This is Benyamin, a writer. We are Andrapper’s friends. We are searching for him and that’s how we landed here. We need clear answers.’

‘Here! What’s his connection to Valyedathu Veedu?’ Meljo feigned ignorance.

‘Nothing at all?’ asked Anil. ‘Meljo, don’t try to fool us. We know you. We know this house. We know all about Andrapper’s ties with this house. This is the last place that he visited. Don’t lie to us in front of the family deity, Thaikkattamma.’

Meljo deflated visibly. He went and opened the door, gesturing at those guarding it to leave. Then he asked us to follow him.

He led us back to the reception room. ‘How do you know him?’ Meljo asked as he sat down. ‘What’s between him and you two?’

‘The novel that he was writing— The Book of Forefathers —is with Benyamin. It has all the details of his life. He has elaborately described the roads he had taken and the places he had visited. Valyedathu Veedu plays a prominent role in those pages.’

Meljo looked defeated; resting his chin on his hand, he said, ‘I’ve also been searching for that cheat for so long. ’

‘Cheat?’ That took us by surprise.

‘Yes. He promised me and my Valyapapan that he would return soon. We waited for a long time, but he didn’t come. We rang him up many times, but he didn’t pick up the phone. He deceived this family. He betrayed our love for him.’

‘No, Meljo. If what he’s written in the book is true, he didn’t cheat you. He left meaning to return,’ I said.

‘How did you get hold of his book?’ Meljo wondered. ‘I’ll tell you.’

Sipping the tea that his servant brought, I began to narrate parts of the story to him.

The Preface

ONE FINE MORNING, I received an email from a stranger. Its contents went something like this:

Dear author,

I have bittersweet emotions as I write this mail. I happened to read your novel that was published recently. I consider it one of the best novels I have ever read. I’m still enjoying the hangover of the experience. Reading it inspired me with strength and energy. I can draw upon them to face any challenge.

I’d like to meet you someday. I have a story to tell. I strongly believe that if you listen to the story, you won’t be able to resist the temptation to write about it. In fact, it is a story that I wanted to write. But due to unforeseen circumstances, I don’t think I’ll be able to write it.

Of late, I have been living under immense stress. I have no clue what’s going to happen tomorrow. In such a situation, I don’t think I can write anything. I assume you write about the desert heat sitting in an air-conditioned room. Nothing wrong in that. Stories are not penned by those who experience them, but by those who listen to them. Only they can write stories.

To acknowledge that you have read my mail, please update your Orkut status message to: ‘I don’t believe for a moment that creativity is a neurotic symptom’ (Aldous Huxley). I’ll understand from it that you have read my mail. Please don’t try to reply to this address. This is a disposable email ID. Within an hour, this account will disappear.

Because of some personal issues, I cannot reveal my identity or give you my real email address. Hope you will understand.

Wishing you all the best to write more wonderful works.

— A reader

Honestly, I didn’t give much importance to the mail. For starters, I don’t take such fraud mails seriously. I believe that people who can’t reveal their identities don’t deserve any consideration. Another thing, after my last novel was published, I have been bombarded with dozens of mails from readers who wanted me to hear their stories. Each one of them bored me to death with their clichés and repetitions. I felt sick at the very thought of reading another one. On top of that, I had a lot of pending work. So I didn’t bother too much about that mail.

I had forgotten all about it. Months later, I got another mail from a different account.

Dear novelist,

I don’t know whether you remember me. I had sent you a mail some months ago. I mentioned that I had a story to tell you. But I’m afraid that the mail must have got lost in the hundreds that reach your inbox every day.

I’m going through days that are a hundred times more stressful and terrible. I have forgotten the story I wanted to write. But I tried my hand at writing about my life. About the experiences I had to endure and the situations I had to face. There is no order or chronology to it. I just scribbled something. I’ve kept them as notes. I’ve no clue whether the jottings are in the form of an autobiography or a novel or an essay. But whatever has been written, there is no exaggeration in it. No imagination either.

Dear author, with much affection, I send you the first part of my life story. Whenever you get some free time from your busy schedule, please have a look. You’ll definitely find it useful.

Unfortunately, I won’t be able to send the remaining parts of my story. There are many reasons for it. One, you ignored my request to acknowledge the receipt of my first mail. Two, because of that, I don’t know how considerate you are about my life and words. Three, if by any chance, you misplace it, my life story will be lost forever. Four, if you are a coward, you will hand it over to the police. That will endanger my life further.

So, I’m sending the remaining part of the story to the people mentioned in the story, and who I think are trustworthy. If the first part piques your interest, you can collect the rest from the others and combine everything. My autobiography will be complete only when all the parts are together. Again, due to reasons of security, I don’t wish to disclose my identity or theirs. Please don’t think that I don’t trust you. As you read, you’ll understand my reasons.