Benyamin - Yellow Lights of Death

Papa and Momma were getting more anxious about my ability to achieve success in life as I grew older. But I could interpret their reaction only as a conspiracy to create a dreadful atmosphere in the house and push me out of it. For, I couldn’t consider the possibility of moving out of the house or the island. I had things to do. I had to stay back till I’d accomplished them. So I faced everything with absolute silence. It went on until the night when Papa got more drunk than usual, stood in the courtyard and trumpeted: ‘He has decided to destroy his life. No one should try to stop him from that. A man’s fate is not decided by God. He chooses it himself. Let him be.’ Momma carried on with her muttering and tears till noon the next day, but that too stopped.

Once calm returned, I thought of Anpu’s papers. I took a look at them again. Even a blind person could have sensed that there was something fraudulent in it had he known that Senthil was killed; otherwise, they were like any other government papers. How was I going to stop Anpu’s father from signing these at least for a short while? I decided to rely on measures such as not talking to him, not visiting him and not answering the phone if he called.

My probe into Senthil’s murder had come almost to a standstill. There had been no progress in my writing either. I couldn’t concentrate on anything. My thoughts were scattered. I couldn’t pummel and shape them into orderly structures of words. And there was nothing else to do. If I stayed home, Momma’s worries and complaints followed me around. I’d get ready in the morning and leave the house to wander around the streets of Pentasia or Seleucia. Those wanderings revised my opinion that I knew all the streets and bylanes of this small island where I had grown up. Exploring became fun. I found alternative routes and shortcuts to reach various familiar destinations and shops. I saw for the first time the Liberty Beach, where only the British had been allowed entry in the past, the Jew Street of the French times, the Dhivehi Language Institute and the British military camp. I got to know my island better.

It was amazing how Garcia had evolved in the last decade. During my high-school days, the roads of Diego had looked like the roads of an average village. Over the years, many rural locales had become urban. They now had skyscrapers, and each building had spacious boat-parking facilities, wide waterways leading to them, etc. I got lost at many places. I didn’t belong there, I felt a kind of strangeness. Places affordable only to the new rich were gaining prominence in Diego.

One day, while walking through one such crowded street of Seleucia’s Du Norde, I heard someone call out my name. I turned around to see someone clapping his hands in a nearby juice shop. At first, I doubted if it was for me, and then I went close.

‘Don’t you recognize me? I’m Babu. We studied together.’

‘Babu! Why are you here?’

‘Here? This is my shop.’

‘Oh, I see. But I haven’t seen you before. ’

‘You’ll see me only if you come this way. Well, why would you rich guys come this way? This is a fake goods market for the poorer lot.’

‘How is your business?

‘It’s okay. What will you have? Mango, musambi, grapes, pineapple, kiwi?’

‘Thank you. I don’t want anything.’

‘Oh, don’t act pricey. Come, sit. Hey, man, make a special mango juice for him. By the way, I forgot to ask. What do you do now?’

‘I’m a novelist.’

‘Novelist? You still have the old craziness, huh?’

‘Some craziness is not to be junked.’

‘You still have the stamp collection?’

That reminded me of the hobby I’d once had. I had a huge collection. Almost three-fourths of it was Babu’s contribution. He made me pay for it. Bugger. It had taken me a long time to figure out that all his stamps were fake. That they were pictures cut out from foreign magazines. I was such an idiot.

‘You fooled me with those duplicate stamps,’ I said.

‘True. I was thinking the same! You were my first victim. Not because you were a simpleton but because you were the richest in our group. Now I fool the richest people in the world. Not with this juice business, okay? There is no fraud in that. But this is just a side business. The real deal is somewhere else.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Don’t ask. I’ve done all the fraud and forgery possible in the world. Fake phone-recharge coupon, fake channel recharge, resale of cable TV, duplicate computer programmes, movie piracy, music piracy, blue film business. Then at a slightly higher level, duplicate ID cards, passports, ATM cards, that’s another section altogether. There is nothing I don’t do.’

‘You’ve become a god of fraud! Don’t you know all this is illegal?’

‘Illegal! What’s legal? Whose law made by whom? The law for the rich to become richer, what else? Do you know how many cheap services are sold for big money with government help? Can any poor man afford to pay the price they ask? No. That means none of the facilities will reach poor people. We don’t want to rot and die without knowing and enjoying these things. So, we snatch them for ourselves using all possible tricks. Why do telephone companies need such huge profit margins every year? Nothing will happen if it dips a bit. So I sell fake recharge coupons. What do TV companies think? That we poor shouldn’t watch the major channels? So I sell duplicate cards. When they think we don’t have to update our computers or learn new techniques, we make sure we do. So pirated programmes are sold. Don’t these film stars take crores to preach against pirated cassettes? Why should we go to theatres, pay through our nose and make them richer? Damn them. I’ll sell duplicates. The rich can buy the original and watch. Nobody in the world should live on a poor man’s money. You come with me. ’ He took me to a nearby shop. It had an extensive collection of vintage goods. ‘This is also mine.’

I walked around, looking at the artefacts, wondering how he had got so many antique items in Diego.

‘How old do you think this is?’ he asked me, showing me a wooden sculpture of the Buddha.

‘Some forty years? Sixty? Hundred?’

‘Around eighty years old. You want this?’

‘How much is it for?’

‘Eight hundred francs.’

‘That’s a good deal.’

He laughed. ‘No, you are a dumbo. I’d fooled you when we were children. Enough of that,’ he said, taking my hand and stepping out of the shop. ‘Actually, that is just three days old. After it is made, it’s dipped in mud, scratched with sandpaper, etc. Anyone will easily think it’s a hundred years old. More than enough to dupe fools like you. They will grab it and proudly exhibit it in their living room. Nothing feels better than fooling a rich man who brags.’

He laughed again.

When a nation conspires to loot its poor people, they, in turn, defy it with parallel nations, like this business in fakes.

The juice that Babu served me was too sweet.

Sputum

I LOGGED ON to the Internet after a long time. There were invites to join some four or five amusing Orkut groups. One was a group of people with names starting with C. Another for lovers of pink. A ‘lazy lot’ group. A left-handers’ group. One for stamp collectors. Another for people who like the game ituly . One for those who puke after drinking. Strange are the ways that people find to connect with each other.

There were also two ‘friend’ requests. One was from an old associate. The other from Melvin. I was pleasantly surprised. After her visit to my house, I wasn’t sure if she’d ever want to see me again. She wrote: Hi, haven’t seen you around. Have you forgotten us?

I added her as a friend, and replied: How can I? I’ll drop in sometime. I’ve been a bit busy.