Benyamin - Yellow Lights of Death

‘I’ll wait. Please come.’

The coffee shop was open in the morning and then only in the evening. My fellow witness came to the jetty soon after the shop closed for the morning. Though I regularly saw him at the coffee shop, I didn’t know his name. It was during this trip to the Diego Daily ’s office that I got properly acquainted with him.

Sadur Abdul Majid lived in the nearby island of Hamla with his wife and three children. He moved to Diego from Pondicherry twenty years ago, at the age of eighteen. He had been working at the same coffee shop for the last eight years.

‘Do you know who I am?’ I asked him.

‘I don’t want to know. I’ve seen you at the coffee shop, that’s good enough.’

‘Then how did you have the courage to come with me?’

‘I saw something and just have to tell that to a Public Security officer. Why do I need courage to admit that I saw something?’

‘Then why didn’t you admit it when the Public Security asked?’

‘The owner wouldn’t let me. He always says it is his shop, his rules. What right did I have. That bastard.’

‘Is there such an issue here in Diego?’

‘Very much so. you don’t know. It’s an issue faced by us poor people. And I’ve been here for decades. Imagine the plight of the new immigrants. “What are you doing here? Why are you here?” I’m fed up of these questions that make me feel like a suspect.’

‘You are from this place! Why would anyone ask you such things?’

‘There is an invisible wall between people like you and the migrants. If you breach that wall and come this side, then you’ll understand our situation. Nobody will come to your side and tell you.’

I was reminded of my life in Thiruvananthapuram. I had faced a similar experience. There, I had been a migrant for three years there. A migrant who had come to share and also loot all that the natives had kept for their own enjoyment. As a migrant, I was treated as a person not entitled to any benefits or fruits of the country’s progress. I had to make sure I followed the rules there, not make any trouble, not try to grab authority, show muscle power or gain fame, make no attempt to love their women or enter their family — I was to remain an alien. It hurt when the people of Kerala meted out such treatment to me. Despite my experience, I had failed to see that in my own land, another set of people faced the same hostility from my fellow citizens. We always care only for ourselves. Others are our enemies. Was it the same across the world?

‘Let it be, sir. That is how it is. Tell me, what’s your relationship with Senthil?’ Majid asked.

‘Senthil? You know him?’

‘Yeah, quite well. He was also a regular at the coffee shop. Not just that, he travelled to Pondicherry once a month. I gave him things to hand over to my parents. He’s been at my house in the mainland many times.’

‘What was he doing in Pondicherry?’

‘Don’t know. Must be some office work. But he used to go there pretty regularly. That’s all I know. Are you his friend?’

‘We studied in the same class in school. But on the day of the incident I was seeing him after a long, long time. I’ve been pursuing it since then, but it has reached nowhere. I should have come to you before.’

‘Where are we going now? Doesn’t look like the Public Security department.’

‘We aren’t going to the Public Security office, but to the Diego Daily . It’s a newspaper. They might be able to help us, that is, if they want to.’

‘I doubt it, sir. A lot of journalists came to the coffee shop and asked questions. Nothing happened. Nothing.’ Majid dismissed them with contempt.

‘The media had come there to report?’ That was news to me.

‘Yeah, they had come. Lots of questions. They heard our answers and left. But nothing got printed. The poor man’s issues don’t get printed in this stupid place.’

‘This won’t be like that, Majid. I know someone very well. He could turn it into big news.’

‘Okay, let’s see,’ he said in a tone of challenge.

When we reached, Rajanbabu sir was away on lunch break. ‘Please sit, he’ll be back soon,’ said the receptionist.

He was back within ten minutes. ‘Hello, Junior Andrapper, how come you are here? Is your novel complete?’ he asked, enveloping me in a warm embrace.

‘No, sir, but I will finish it soon. I’ve come on another matter.’

‘Come, let’s go to my cabin.’

I introduced Majid to him as we walked in.

‘You chose a good time to come. I’ll get busy with the desk in a while. Tell me, what’s the matter?’

I narrated my story to him — from the shooting at the coffee shop to meeting Majid. The only two characters I avoided mentioning were Sudha-chechi and Melvin. Majid added some details to my story, saying that media reporters failed to report the story.

Rajanbabu sir listened to the whole story patiently, with folded hands. After we finished, he pulled out a bunch of papers from his drawer and placed them before me. A detailed report on Senthil’s death! I glanced through it. Needless to say, it followed the point of view of the Public Security. The facts were presented in an orderly manner to support their arguments. The quotes of the boat driver who carried Senthil, the doctor’s death certificate, investigative outputs from officer Vijay Mullikratnam, etc. The last piece of paper really shook me. It was an affidavit from Senthil’s father, certifying a natural cause of death.

Careful not to show the effect the papers had on me, I returned the lot to him.

‘I’m one of those who believes journalists shouldn’t get emotionally taken in by news. It’s natural to have doubts about a death when it’s your friend’s or acquaintance’s. But the duty of the journalist is to find out the truth. To do that, we approach various people and clear our doubts. We ask questions. Conduct an investigation. Our reporter followed the same procedure in your coffee shop, too. But every finding doesn’t have to get printed. We publish only unbiased information. When the Public Security office presents such clear evidence, then we have to believe their version — that there was nothing suspicious about Senthil’s death.’

‘Even after listening to us, do you honestly think the Public Security’s version is the right one?’

He fumbled for a minute.

‘Journalism is not about my personal beliefs. I’m only a part of a big system. The decision of that system is more important.’

‘Okay, sir. I have one question before we leave. I know that journalists don’t follow up on natural deaths. How did Senthil’s case come to your attention?’

As an answer to that, Rajanbabu sir took another sheet of paper from his drawer and showed it to me. It was a fax message making the accusation — that Senthil’s death was a murder. It demanded a probe into the issue to expose the truth. It was from a group called Uthiyan Cheral Tamil Kazhagam.

I was hearing of the group for the first time.

I was about to ask Rajanbabu sir about it, when he got a call.

‘Oh my God!’ He jumped out of his seat.

‘What happened, sir?’

‘The chancellor has passed away!’

‘Oh, so what!’ Majid wasn’t concerned.

‘When?’ I asked.

‘Just now, the news came just two minutes ago.’ Rajanbabu rushed out of the cabin.

I understood no more help could be expected from the Diego Daily office. I left the office with Majid.

Philip Gunawardhane! The chancellor of Diego Garcia. He was of Sri Lankan origin and a Catholic. These twin advantages had worked in his favour and that of the Diego Republican Party’s in every election. Negating all other socio-religious equations, Lankans who make up nearly 30 per cent of the population, and Catholics who add up to 45 per cent were behind Philip Gunawardhane. Even Malayalis, who were greater in number, could not affect his chances. He had started his political life from the lowly post of municipal councillor. Then senator, vice chancellor, and for the last five years, chancellor. I’d seen him in person at one or two functions some years back. He appeared to be in his prime. In recent years, on television, he never looked less than hale and hearty. So his demise was unexpected.