Benyamin - Yellow Lights of Death

‘The gentleman’s name?’ Biju made a questionnaire.

‘Andrapper,’ Salim said.

‘No, let’s now call him Pachu Andrapper. That was his nickname in school,’ Anil said.

‘OK. Place?’

‘The land of peacocks and langurs, Diego Garcia.’

‘Any other details?’

‘He’s unmarried. Can’t be that old,’ said Nibu.

‘Title of the book he’s writing?’ Nattapranthan reminded us.

‘ The Book of Forefathers. ’

‘Anything else?’

‘Who are the main characters in the second segment?’ Mashu asked and proceeded to answer the question: ‘Anpu, Appa, Jyoti, Salu, da Vinci Vinod, Anita, Melvin, Rahim, Bilal and some nurses.’

‘All right, now comes the difficult part. Who among these people will have the third segment? How will it come to us?’ asked Biju.

‘Through the same source: St. Joseph’s, Seleucia.’ Nibu Achachan gave us the easy way out.

‘We might get twice lucky, but there won’t be a mail,’ said Salim.

‘How about a third time?’ Nattapranthan came up with the idea: ‘There is a pervert among them. What was his name? Yes, Rahim. Let’s email him, posing as a woman. He’ll fall for it.’

There was a round of clapping.

‘Fine, let’s find his address.’

We gathered around the computer and did a quick search for a Rahim from St. Joseph’s, Seleucia. We drafted a letter and were about to send it to him when Mashu came up with another idea. ‘Let’s send it in Anpu’s name. He’ll be more responsive if it’s from her. Let’s write that it’s about Senthil’s death, and ask him if he has the number or email ID of his classmate, Pachu.’

We all agreed to that. Soon an email ID was created in Anpu’s name: anpudg@gmail.com.

‘What’s the “dg” for?’ I was confused.

‘Diego Garcia,’ said Nattapranthan.

‘Oh, Baldy, your intelligence is awesome,’ Nibu planted a kiss on Nattapranthan’s bare head.

‘We are committing a cybercrime using my computer. If I get caught, I’ll tell on all of you,’ I threatened.

‘See how scared the novelist is!’ Biju said. ‘And he is the one out to catch a criminal!’

‘I’ve already made it clear that I’ve no interest in finding the criminal,’ I said, raising my hand.

‘No? Now be truthful. How many of us don’t care about finding him? Raise your hands,’ Biju said.

I was the only one to raise my hand.

‘You guys want Andrapper to find Senthil’s murderer?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ said Nibu. ‘What’s the point of shadowing his path otherwise? I believe that Andrapper will find out in the end.’

‘Let’s hope he does,’ Mashu said.

After sending the mail to Rahim, the assembly wrapped up that meeting.

As if he was addicted to the computer and spent the whole day at it, Rahim’s reply came within half an hour. It was filled with the sorrow of losing Senthil. And concerns about Anpu. Just a few lines towards the end: ‘Was Pachu asking about Senthil? If so, I’ve no clue at all. Never trust him in any way. He has bad-mouthed you in the past. He was always good at seducing girls.’ And more such advice.

I burst into laughter. Anyway, I decided not to let him be. I sent another provocative and flirty mail. ‘I know Bilal is in Australia. Is there a way of getting his contact details?’ I added as a postscript. His reply came in ten minutes. His tone had changed. There was visible desperation in his queries about Anpu. ‘Please give me your mobile number. Let’s chat more often. Let’s make sure we meet’, etc. He’d however included some details that I needed: Bilal had left Australia some time back. Rahim had no clue where he was now, but he sent me his email ID.

I emailed Bilal the same night, before going to sleep: ‘I’m a publisher and am trying to find out about a novel written by Pachu Andrapper. If he is currently in Australia, please let me know how to get in touch with him.’

Next morning, as soon as I woke up, I ran to the computer. There were at least ten emails from Rahim. His queries ranged from what’s for breakfast to what colour nightie I had worn last night! But there was no email from Bilal. After two days, I sent a reminder. That got me a reply. Bilal said he had left Australia for France. Till recently, he had been in touch with Andrapper, who had even decided on the date he’d reach Paris. But there was no news after that. Emails to him bounced back.

This was crucial information. But when I sent him a few more emails with the hope of getting to know more, there was no reply. I told him that I was supposed to collect the portion of the novel Andrapper had given him. He didn’t respond to that either. That door seemed shut.

The Thursday Market convened twice. Many discussions took place, many ideas came up, many possibilities were debated, but we were unable to reach a conclusion. The only thing we agreed on was to try the St. Joseph’s route again, and I did, but to no result.

One day, we were going to a movie in Anil’s 1980s’ Ambassador which we called Cultural Ambulance. It ferried ailing culture vultures every day, as Anil often said, so what else could its name be? An idea suddenly struck Nattapranthan’s bald head. ‘Turn the car back! I’ve a hunch about Operation Diego Garcia. If I’m right, then the person I’ve identified will have the next segment of the novel.’ In response to our flurry of questions, he wanted us to turn around and go to my house to look up the printout of the second part of the novel. ‘If you don’t get it right, then we’ll tattoo your head and march you on the street,’ threatened Nibu. So we ditched our movie plan and went to my house. On the way, we tried to identify the one who would have the rest of the manuscript. Nattapranthan rejected each and every choice of ours.

At my place, while riffling through the printout, he asked, ‘Did any of you see a Salu in this story?’

‘I remember a Salu,’ Salim said. ‘He was the one helping Andrapper find his classmate, Jyoti.’

‘Isn’t that his role in this story?’ Nattapranthan asked emphatically. When we nodded in agreement, he asked, ‘Then why has Andrapper mentioned his phone number? What’s the purpose of that number?’

That question stumped us. It’s true. If that was not a clear clue, nothing else could be. We celebrated the breakthrough and called that number immediately.

It was a house in Alappuzha. An old lady who picked up the phone said Salu was not home yet. We asked her for his mobile number. ‘Ayyo dear, there is no electricity here, please call later,’ she said and hung up. We couldn’t bear to wait till the next morning, as Salu was the only option left. The next day, early morning, I called him and introduced myself as a publisher. I had to sweat a lot to make him understand whom I was talking about. It was only when I said Diego Garcia that Salu finally figured it out.

‘Oh, Chuang Tzu! We were friends, thanks to Orkut,’ he said.

‘Why Chuang Tzu?’

‘That’s what I used to call him!’

His replies to my questions were evasive and vague. When I asked if Chuang Tzu had sent anything to him, he pleaded ignorance and disconnected the call.

I wasn’t convinced. It felt like he was trying to hide something. I called Salim and gave him an update. Let’s go to his house and meet him, he suggested. If he doesn’t answer the phone, how will we find the place, I said in hesitation. ‘We’ll go to every house in Alappuzha and see if there is a Salu,’ he said. The enthusiasm to get things done even if it meant any corner of the world — that’s what I liked about Salim.

So, without taking others from the Thursday Market, we left for Alappuzha soon after. At that point of time, I had no clue how to find Salu or to find out if he had the third portion of the novel. When we were close to town, Salim called Salu’s house and got his mobile number. Then Salim called Salu and told him that Jyoti who worked in the railways gave us the number and that we had a packet to be delivered to her house. Was it possible to come to town and collect it, Salim asked. The ruse worked. ‘I’ll be there in half an hour, in front of the bus stand,’ Salu said.