Benyamin - Yellow Lights of Death

‘Why, dear? You think I don’t approve of your visit?’ Momma said, unusually teasing. ‘My only worry is what will someone who sleeps till noon do with a pretty wife like you?’

Everyone laughed. But Melvin seemed on the verge of tears. Often, our actions are interpreted in ways that we would never even have thought of. When that happens, what else can you do but become helpless, like Melvin?

Chettathi took Momma inside.

I was contrite. ‘Melvin, I am sorry. I apologize for the misunderstanding. It’s a problem with the Andrapper house.’

‘That’s okay. They were not abusing me,’ said a conciliated Melvin.

‘Why did you want to see me?’ I asked Sudha.

She continued to be silent. Then she gathered herself and said, ‘For the past few days, I have been thinking of the case that Anita’s friend mentioned.’

‘What case?’

‘That murder. What I told you then was a lie. Actually, I was present when the case was being attended to.’

I stared at her in disbelief.

‘I attended to the man’s case. He had died before he reached the hospital. We didn’t have much to do other than filling the forms for the mortuary. I did that. I don’t know the rest. I was scared to admit it last time. But then I couldn’t sleep in peace. I don’t know if it’s right in terms of medical ethics and the law here. I wanted to tell you. That’s why I’ve dragged Melvin here and come to see you.’

Sudha said all this in one breath. The pressure that had been caused by the cover-up was pretty evident.

‘Are you sure he was shot?’

‘Yes, the doctor identified the wound. We recovered two bullets.’

‘Was that what you entered in the medical file?’

‘Yes. I saw what the doctor noted down.’

‘Then how come the case is missing from the hospital files?’

‘That I don’t know. Only they can answer that.’

‘Who was the doctor in charge?’

Sudha paused and then said, ‘Doctor Iqbal.’

‘We heard of it from Sudha-chechi. When we came to know that there was some mystery about this case, we kept quiet. Why would we get ourselves into trouble? That’s why we denied knowing anything. Sorry,’ Melvin said.

‘You haven’t done anything wrong! Even the Public Security is trying to erase this case. I just casually asked about it that day.’

‘Who told you about this?’ Melvin whispered as if we were discussing a secret.

‘I was witness to it.’

‘Witness?’

‘Yeah, I was present when the incident took place. I even came to City Hospital. But after that, the case totally vanished. I was curious about it. Also, the guy who died was an old classmate of mine.’

The conversation ended there.

Momma had made meatball pasta for them. A special dish for our guests. Melvin tried to slip away, but Momma was adamant. I hadn’t seen her so affectionately insistent. It looked like she believed Chettathi’s every word. Momma had accepted Melvin as my girl!

Mass Amnesia

MY BOAT STOPPED in front of City Hospital. Sudha’s account had energized me. Things were falling into place, I felt. When one makes multiple attempts to hit a target, at least one has to succeed. One person finally agreed that I wasn’t hallucinating about Senthil getting shot. And it wasn’t just any person but the nurse who had attended his case. What better proof could one want! Mr Vijay Mullikratnam, I’ll prove you wrong. I’ll go to any extent to do that. The next step was Dr Iqbal, the doctor who had attended to Senthil along with Sudha.

I headed straight to Emergency. Someone there told me Dr Iqbal was in the outpatient ward. I roamed around for an hour before going to his room. Patients, their relatives, scurrying nurses, attendants, trollies, drip stands, wheelchairs, plastered legs, wrapped-up bellies, vomiting, Band-Aids — the verandah was overflowing. I waded through it to the doctor’s room. Though it was past noon, there was a crowd outside his room. I went and sat with the patients.

An overweight nurse mistook me for a medical representative. ‘No time to spare for you today. Come on Tuesday.’

‘This is a personal visit.’

‘If it’s personal, then meet him at his house.’ She turned her back like an angry elephant and marched inside.

I wondered what makes some nurses so grumpy once they get into their uniforms. When she came out to call the next patient, she saw me again. ‘Haven’t you left yet? Whatever you say, don’t think I’ll let anyone inside without an admission card!’

Patients were looking at me with some sympathy mixed with a degree of contempt.

‘Sister, please. I request you to help me. It’ll be more crowded at his house. That’s why I’m here. I’ll take just five minutes of his time.’

She faltered at my pleading. ‘Hmm. Haven’t you seen the number of patients waiting? If there is time in between, I’ll call you. Don’t disturb me till then, okay?’

‘Yeah, okay.’

I walked past the partition and sat in the verandah. The flow of patients to the room was slow. The doctor took a minimum of fifteen minutes on each of them. If this continued, I wouldn’t be able to meet him for another three hours.

While I was sitting there, I noticed one of the patients — an African — looking at me often. It was as if he had something to tell me. There was a friendliness to him, but I couldn’t place him. After some time, he came up to me and asked, ‘Aren’t you Andrapper?’ When I nodded, he continued. ‘We were together at St. Joseph’s. I’m Mohammad Mustafa.’ Suddenly, as if a blanket had been whipped off my memory, a number of images came to mind. The guy who stood next to me in our fifth standard photo. Mohammad Mustafa. The one who, during a fight in sixth standard, stabbed a compass into Seyfu’s chest. Mohammad Mustafa. One who could never get his shirt buttoned straight. Mohammad Mustafa. He who used to pronounce ‘helicopter’ as ‘helicottepar’ and ‘bucket’ as ‘buttekk’, and ‘Adis Ababa’ as ‘Acid Ababa’. Mohammad Mustafa. The victim of our group song, ‘Yellow, yellow, dirty fellow sitting on a buffalo’. The curly-haired Mohammad Mustafa!

‘Why are you here?’ I asked.

‘Hey, man, why am I at the hospital? To get a shave!’ He laughed with impish glee, revealing his gums. I joined him, a bit shamefaced.

‘I come at least twice a month to meet this doctor. I’ve a horrible disease: sickle-cell anaemia. I have terrible body pain and have to take medication. Some doctors don’t prescribe the required dose. But this man is different. Just give him a little extra and he’ll recommend any dose. I tried ganja, but it wasn’t strong enough to numb the pain. Morphine is better. I can ignore the pain and swim in that high. That swimming has become my fate.’

Sickle-cell disease. Pain. Morphine. Fate. I couldn’t comprehend it fully. Before I could ask anything, the fat nurse called out his name. As patients leave the doctor’s room through another door, I couldn’t meet him later. I continued to wait but not for long. When the nurse called out a number and couldn’t find the patient, she gestured to me to go in. I said an extravagantly humble thanks, to which she responded with a stingy smile.

Inside was a fair, handsome man. The prayer bump on his forehead was prominent. Then the hairy ears, the cute bald head and the long nose.

He welcomed me, pointing at his watch. ‘It’s time for me to pray. The only routine I manage to keep among the vast number of things I don’t.’

‘I won’t disturb you. I just wanted to check on something small and I’m out.’

He smiled gently. ‘Tell me.’

‘I’ll come straight to the point. I’m doing a thesis. “Island: Its Lives and Minds”, that’s the subject.’