Benyamin - Yellow Lights of Death

‘Very interesting. What do you mean by it?’

‘What are the difference between people who live on islands and those on the mainland? Do the limitations of an island change a person? Does his perspective become restricted? Is a person’s level of tolerance related to the vastness of nature? How does living on an island shape one’s mind? These are the avenues I’m pursuing.’

‘Nice and distinctive topic. All the best. As far as I know, being on an island does affect our viewpoint. We don’t take the long view, we see only short distances. So, myopia is very common. It’s yet to be studied how myopia influences a man’s intellectual insight and creativity. If you explore that, it’ll be a success.’

‘Are there any diseases specific to our island?’

‘Some skin diseases due to the constant contact with sea breeze. ’

‘Sir, what’s this sickle-cell disease?’

‘Oh right, there’s that. It’s a hereditary disease, which we can say is the result of the social restrictions on the island. A rare disorder of red-blood corpuscles that causes extreme pain in the joints. It is mostly found in communities that marry only among themselves. Here it’s prominent among the Chagos. It’s because of the island’s boundaries forcing them to marry only among themselves. That’s why now our government is promoting marriages with outsiders.’

‘Why do they ask for morphine, sir?’ I asked, thinking about Mohammad Mustafa.

‘There is no cure for that disease. One has to writhe in pain one’s entire life. The affected use morphine or any such drug to forget the pain. No other way to live.’

‘Sir, now to the third part of the thesis, “Islands: Accidents and Murders”. Doctor, you must remember that last month, a young man was bought here with gunshot wounds.’ I dived into my topic of interest.

‘Gunshot wounds? Don’t remember!’

‘But I remember you handling it. You were in the Emergency and attended to the case.’

The expression on his face changed suddenly. And as if to hide it, he sat kneading his forehead. ‘In OP, Emergency and at my house, I attend around a thousand cases a month. I don’t have such a sharp memory as you young men.’

‘That may be true, doctor. When the job is just a duty, it’s normal that we don’t remember everything about it. But the exceptional cases, — those we don’t forget. I think this is one of them.’

‘It is the person himself who has to decide what to remember and what to forget, others can’t do it for him. What is important for you may not be relevant for me. I, too, have the freedom to remember and forget, right?’

‘Of course! But if everyone forgets something that everyone is supposed to remember, then we should assume we have a problem. Don’t you agree, sir? Like short sight, a disease called short memory. Is it because we live on an island? Have you ever felt so, doctor?’

His face had turned dark.

‘My duty is to prescribe the right treatment to my patients. I’m doing that. The rest is beyond me. I don’t think I can help you in any way. It’s also getting late,’ he looked at his watch again.

‘I’ll come again, doctor. Perhaps you’ll have a better recollection of what happened, then.’

‘There is no medical book that says we can recollect events about which we’ve absolutely no clue. So another visit will be useless,’ he said as if it was the last word on the subject.

I left without thanking him. Gratitude is for people who deserve it.

The Room of Forefathers

SOMETIMES, IT’S LIKE that. From the hotbed of experiences, I return to the writing desk. It could be that writers become weakened by the very intensity of their experiences. Like diseases, weaknesses, too, are in our blood. There could be rare instances of writers flexing their muscle, but is there any writer around known for his fitness and strength?

It was one of those days for me. By evening, after returning from the hospital, the spirit of the written word had infected me. A spirit that affects one all of a sudden, without any external stimulus. Under that influence, I wrote a lot, and almost without any breaks. As I was writing, I felt the need for some reference books on Diego. I knew that the best place to get them would not be any library in Diego, but a room on the second floor of my house. We used to call it the Room of Forefathers. It was in that closed room that every historical record of the Andrapper family was kept. Many years ago, I’d gone into the room a few times with Valyappachan. I could only recall the smell of old books on the shelves, and the darkness. I wanted to enter the room again. The key was with Valyapapan. I went upstairs. Valyapapan was seated near the window, an open book on his lap, his eyes fixed on the lake, lost in some thought. When he turned to me, I made my request.

‘It’s not a room that anyone can enter casually. Our ancestors made some rules and regulations for it. Every senior member in the Andrapper family should be in the know about the entry, the person who wants to enter should record his name and signature in the register, and the room can be opened only in the presence of two witnesses. They should certify that nothing was taken out of the room. Even now, these rules are mandatory for everyone.’

‘Valyapapan, all these rules were made when there was a lot of wealth and power. To stop people stealing stuff. What’s there to steal now? Give me that key. I need to refer to some books,’ I said lightly.

‘It’s not a storehouse for wealth and treasures. It’s the Room of Forefathers. It stores the memories of the many generations that lived before us. It’s a holy place. Only those who know the value of it can be allowed to enter.’ Valyapapan became more serious.

‘I promise that I won’t do anything harmful to its sanctity.’ I became humble.

‘Okay. This is the first and last time. Never ask for it again. One more thing. Every rule has to be followed. Just that we don’t have any witnesses. Instead, let your conscience be the guard.’ Valyapapan handed over the key.

I couldn’t ignore those words. I wrote and signed my name in the register outside the room before opening the door. The scent of oldness wafted into my nose. I remembered the day I had held Valyappachan’s hand and stepped into the room. Now, when I stepped inside, I sensed the gravity of Valyapapan’s words. It was not just an ordinary room — generations were stacked in those shelves.

To one side was a pile of old records, in palm-leaf manuscripts and leather sheets. Another side had books, files and documents in paper. In exactly the middle of the room was a huge almirah, its racks labelled with the name of each forefather — it resembled a family cemetery. Hormis Avira Andrapper was at the extreme bottom. Above him were twelve ancestors: Philip Avira Andrapper, Antony Avira Andrapper, Joseph Andrapper, Stephen Andrapper, John Andrapper, Andrew Andrapper, Mathew Andrapper, Stanley Andrapper, Samuel Andrapper, Felix Andrapper, and at the very top, my Valyappachan, Rostin Andrapper.

For the generations to follow, there were empty racks waiting. From the next generation, Valyapapan Joseph Andrapper, from mine, my brother Jeff Andrapper because Valyapapan didn’t have any sons. I was not fortunate enough to be in the series. Only the firstborns of each generation were entitled to the glory.

I was curious to know what was inside the racks. I touched the handle of the almirah with great care when suddenly I heard the door bang. It was Valyapapan.

‘You said you only wanted books. There are no books in the almirah. Don’t take advantage of my affection for you.’

‘Valyapapan, it’s just out of curiosity. I’ve been staying in this house for all these years and if I haven’t seen this place, how can I be proud of being an Andrapper?’