Benyamin - Yellow Lights of Death

I couldn’t respond to his comments and questions.

‘I saw a great writer in you. I hoped that you would groom that talent. But for you kids, it must have been just a joke.’

‘No, writing is not a joke for me, sir. I will write a beautiful novel about Diego. One which Diego can be proud of. It’s in me — half on paper, and the rest in my mind. Whatever happens, I’ll complete it. Nothing can stop that — be it another novel by anybody or another award for anybody or another incident. If my novel doesn’t exist, I won’t exist.’ I sounded mad.

For a while, he stared at me. ‘Good. This is the confidence I was looking for from young men like you. Once you complete it, please come and show it to me. I wish to serialize it in my weekly.’

‘Certainly, sir. But before that, I need to see you once. I have something urgent to discuss with you.’

‘You are most welcome to drop in. Just give me a call before coming.’

He walked inside in a hurry.

My thoughts were on Senthil.

Publisher

I WANTED TO leave quickly. But there were a lot of acquaintances, colleagues in literature, all equally sad. Some who couldn’t send a novel to the contest. Some who hadn’t won the contest. But none talked about the contest or Mohandas. The discussions ranged from Ben Okri, Leela Soma and Kaavya Viswanathan to activism and blogging, and the Paris Poetry Festival and the Man Booker Prize. I joined them. I wanted to uproot any thoughts about Mohan and his novel from my mind. Else, they would lie there undigested and eat me up.

We were standing in groups and chatting when someone pointed out that somebody was calling out my name.

‘I’m Srikumar, from Kochi. I’ve come with Perumbadavam sir.’

Hearing ‘Kochi’, our eyes widened. Any place name in the mainland and the presence of anyone from there, widened our eyes. We welcomed him, heartily shaking hands.

‘Can I talk to you alone for a minute?’ he asked me.

‘Of course.’

We moved away a bit.

‘I’m the editor-in-charge of Z Books, which is a medium-sized publishing house in Ernakulam. I usually attend all the book festivals. I know I can find interesting writers at these gatherings. Rarely have I got it wrong. Rather than publishing the second-rate stories of celebrated writers, I like to go with the first work of fresh, raw talent. If the writer is talented, it’s visible in their debut. It may go unnoticed, and the print run and sales may be low, but it will stand out from the rest. I was sure I could find such a person here too.’ He kept talking. ‘More than works that win awards, I like the manuscripts which get rejected. Most of the time, those are better than the one that won. I met a couple of people yesterday. To be honest, it sounded as though their work might be better than Mohan’s Archipelago . Awards are won by compromised works that accede to the status quo, which won’t annoy anyone. Such works don’t interest me. And yesterday, I happened to hear about your new novel. I liked what I heard. I’ve been looking for you since then. If we hadn’t met here, I would have found your house and come there. I am that intrigued! Please publish your work with me.’

More than the sudden offer, it astonished me that he had come to hear about the story of the novel.

‘Who told you that I was working on a novel?’

‘That was what I meant by unexpected. I now feel like I came to Diego only to meet you.’

‘Tell me who told you?’

‘What does it matter? Won’t you please agree to publish your novel with me? I don’t promise you awards or reviews by famous critics or a high print run. But I can find you the best readers. You’ve to trust me on that.’

‘It’s not a matter of trust. I haven’t even finished half the novel. I’ve no clue when I’ll complete it or how it will end. How can you commit to publish such a novel?’

‘I was excited the moment I heard the story. I’ve been restless till this moment — about meeting you. It’s fantastic. There has never been such a work in Malayalam, for sure.’

‘You are dodging my question again. I’ve not told anyone about my novel. How did you come to hear about it? Did my father tell you? Or Rajanbabu sir?

‘I don’t wish our discussion to become an argument that leads nowhere. I’m not one of those publishers with bags full of cash who keep producing books like piglets. I publish just ten to fifteen books a year. Books that will become part of history or create a new path. That’s my dream. It is my insatiable desire for books and reading that keeps me in publishing. It is that person in me who doesn’t want to miss your work in any way.’

‘But there is no surety that I’ll complete the novel.’ I tried to dissuade him again.

‘That’s okay. I’ll wait till it is complete. I won’t call up and pester you like other publishers. I have the sense to know that all great works are born after great struggle. I’ll give you the time to go through that great struggle. So, are we in an agreement?’

‘We don’t need an agreement. If I ever finish writing the novel, you’ll be its publisher. This is the word of a writer.’

Thus, I gave the rights to publish an unwritten book to editor Srikumar of Z Books, Ernakulam. But how he came to know the plot of my novel remained a riddle.

Melvin

ORKUT BECAME AN obsession with me after Melvin’s scraps started appearing regularly.

Scraps, comments on my photos, invites to communities, messages. as Melvin’s visits increased, I gradually became addicted. I used to be aloof about the discussions and comments on various social networks until then. Even if I had a different opinion on some topics, I never got involved in any discussions. Melvin broke the mould.

With that, my writing almost stopped. The anxiety about Senthil disappeared. Anpu called twice from her mobile phone, but I didn’t bother to pick up. It was as if I was in a trance. I was on the Internet all the time. Checking every hour for a scrap; responding if there was one, upset if there was none.

There was nothing much in the scraps. Random queries. Casual hellos. Routine greetings. That was all. Still I waited for her response.

When she started sending scraps about Senthil’s death, I made the scrapbook private, and requested her not to mention anything in public. She wrote a long mail of apology the very next day. On reading it, I wanted to see her. I didn’t inform Anita. I just directly went to the palace-like hostel where she stayed. I’d decided to go to the hospital if she wasn’t home. Sometimes, it seems like the world works the way we want it to.

When I reached, there was only Melvin at home. The rest of the nurses were away at the hospital. She didn’t panic on seeing me. She received me happily. We had cardamom tea and talked for a long time. There was no hurry to pack me off.

I’m usually not a talker, but a listener. I had the same impression about Melvin. When two such people meet, the conversation ends after a few greetings and then they try to move away from each other. But it seemed that when she was left to be herself, Melvin was quite a talker.

‘The dreams we have become real some time later, don’t they?’ Melvin asked out of the blue.

‘Why the doubt? That has been the belief of man for a long time. But it rarely happens. It is a coincidence if dreams and reality match.’

‘I don’t know if you’ll believe me. I dreamt last night that Anita-chechi’s friend would visit today.’

‘Who, me?’

‘Hm.’

‘Really?’

‘I swear in the name of Mariam.’

‘Was it daydreaming or.?’

‘It was a dream.’

My phone rang. It was Anpu. I hesitated about whether to answer. I was sure it was to ask about the papers. What could I say? I didn’t take the call. The phone rang for a while before coming to a stop.