Benyamin: Yellow Lights of Death

Dear author, it was my dream to write a novel and see it become the best and most read novel ever published in Malayalam. How many years have I wasted on that dream! But my destiny did not want me to become a novelist. My destiny held something else.

If you ever succeed in collecting the parts of my story, don’t turn it into a novel. Publish it as my autobiography.

I hereby grant you the rights to it through this email. I certify that my family, friends or any other person will not have any ownership of it. If someone asks for evidence, tell them that my act of sending the first part to you is proof by itself. I really hope to meet you in person someday.

With love,

— The one who wanted to be a novelist

When I received the second mail, I was in the middle of spinning the yarn for my upcoming novel, Nedumbassery . It had so completely occupied my imagination that I had time for nothing else. So, once again I ignored the mail. Two more arrived and went past me. I managed to complete ten chapters of Nedumbassery , and then I was hit by the cursed writer’s block. Despite my best efforts, the story would not move forward.

The characters were fighting over who would narrate the rest of the story. In all probability, it was a symptom of the distress that I was going through. Neither the characters nor I could escape from the struggle. The novel was stalled. The writing came to a halt. I was frustrated. For days, I could do nothing. I randomly picked up books to read, but I was unable to focus on them.

One evening, while browsing through blogs, I suddenly remembered that old mail. Curious to know about the mysterious sender’s life story, I searched my inbox and finally dug up the mail and downloaded the attachment. They were scanned images of handwritten text. I started reading it.

The Beginning

I HURRIED HOME through the narrow streets of Seleucia. I was shivering, as if caught in a polar vortex, my hands glued to my body. Just a while ago, I had been wandering in an alley when a story idea dawned on me. The visuals were still buzzing in my head. Some snatches of dialogue were crystal clear, more beautiful than I could ever think of. If even a word moved left or right, the whole beauty of the sentence would be lost. These words were oozing out of some unknown corners of my heart.

I walked as if I was on a mission, unwilling to be distracted. I didn’t bother to pause over anything or pay notice to the sights of the street. A couple of acquaintances walked past. I did see them from the corner of my eye, but I didn’t acknowledge them. If I’d stopped to talk to them, they would have dragged me into the usual chit-chat. The words that I’d been guarding carefully in my mind would have leaked out. Some strangers looked at me in amazement. They were probably wondering whether it was as cold as I was making it out to be. Or they might have thought that I was sick. I didn’t worry even a bit about what they were thinking.

A friend did stop me in my tracks. He shook my hand and asked me how I had been. How was my job? How was my family? I stammered and answered in monosyllables. And because my answers were not satisfactory, he probably said to himself, ‘Oh lord, what happened to him!’ Somehow, I escaped.

When I reached the Krishnaswami temple, another friend waved at me from the other side of the road. I didn’t pay any heed. Then he made a teasing remark: ‘Da, don’t think so much. Our lives are not worth such lofty thoughts. Even Derrida wouldn’t have thought so much while walking. ’ The mere mention of Derrida had me on the verge of laughter. Well, how the hell does he know about Derrida? Is he a voracious reader or did he catch it from the speech of some intellectual? Or did he overhear one of his smarter friends talking about the famous philosopher?

Then I promptly went back to my beautiful words. I repeated them in my head. No, nothing has been lost. My mind remembered every single thing. It knew every situation. My god! Some of the dialogue. the scenes. what were they? I had stumbled upon a metaphor that no one had used before. What was it? Like a ghost house. No, not that. Like a ghost form. No. It was something else. Something that fit the sentence perfectly like a glove. Oh god! I’d forgotten it. It was lost forever!

I cursed myself for not carrying a pencil or a piece of paper. I wanted to knock on some door, any door, and beg for a pen and some paper, and scribble the lines from my memory then and there. But how would people react to this madness? If I had been a famous writer, I could have got away with anything. If I had walked into a stranger’s house with such an odd request, they would have welcomed me and made me use their writing table to note down whatever was on my mind.

They would have served me strong cardamom tea, maybe even some banana fries, and left me in silence. After some time, when I’d finished jotting everything down, a shy girl would have come up to me blushing, to ask if she could read it. My handwriting would have made me hesitate for a moment, but I’d have offered it to her with pride. As she received it with trembling hands and started reading, her family would have gathered around her quietly. The magic of my words would have given them goosebumps and made their body hair rise like that of a fighter cock’s. Then, for a long time, they would have proudly narrated the story to their neighbours and friends.

And when my novel got published, one of the first copies would have been bought by the family. When I pass that house on some later day, the same girl would have run to me for an autograph on the book. When I returned it with words of love, she would have kissed it as a holy book. Thereafter, she would have kept the novel in their prayer room. Before she took it in her hands again, she would have purified herself with a bath. She wouldn’t have let anyone touch it without cleaning their hands.

Swaying and staggering, I reached home somehow. Loud noises could be heard. Chettathi was watching TV with a friend and speaking louder over the noise. ‘Please reduce the volume of both the TV and your chat, I have to write,’ I begged her.

‘Oh, a writer. ’ she laughed at my plea with contempt.

Well, she didn’t know that I was writing a novel and some lines from it were playing hide and seek in my mind, like a nervous cat. ‘Please. switch it off. for a little while. Let the world be peaceful. Just for a little while.’ I begged her, clutching her feet. They must have been shocked and scared by my behaviour. They hastily turned off the TV.

They must have suspected that I’d gone mad. But they didn’t know about the beautiful lines hidden in my mind like a playful cat.

In that wonderful moment when the world fell silent, I entered my room and wrote the first lines of my novel.

I hurried home through the narrow streets of Seleucia. I was shivering, as if caught in a polar vortex, my hands glued to my body.

Dread of Death

ONE FINE MORNING, I got a phone call.

‘This is Das!’

I didn’t recognize the voice.

‘Mohandas Purameri,’ he elaborated.

The name sounded familiar, but I was still not sure.

‘I don’t know if you remember me. We were together at the Parana literary group. And also at my photo exhibition. ’

Oh, Mohandas! He’s a fairly well-known photographer in Pentasia. I remember once attending an exhibition of his work, and commenting that it was among the best that could be found in such a place. But it’s better not to recall the Parana literary group. It was a union of twenty-five of us to protest against the five-star culture of senior writers. It had budding talent from all the languages spoken in Diego Garcia. For Malayalam, there was Mohan, Jayendran and me. It was a big craze then. We used to refer to it as a postmodern literary co-operative, etc. But one by one, each of the members started hiding behind the flanks of various writers’ forums. They were the smart ones. They got good reviews in magazines, and won endowments and awards.