Benyamin: Yellow Lights of Death

‘I called suddenly because a story of mine was published in the Diego Daily on Valentine’s Day. Have you seen it? If you haven’t, please try to get it and read it. ’

I hadn’t seen it. If I’ve to read all the stories published everywhere, I’ll need to be on 24x7 like the banks’ ATM ad. So I just skim through the titles. Sometimes, at the most, I read a paragraph, that’s all. Jayendran used to say that for every novel that I got down to reading, I allowed a margin of fifty pages. From that point onwards, it was the duty of the writer to take me forward. But those days are gone. Now, if you can’t buy a reader in the first five pages, then it’s impossible to get him.

‘ Diego Daily gave a full page for my story, which opposes Valentine’s Day celebrations. Our Rajanbabu sir liked the story very much.’

Diego Daily is the most prominent newspaper in Diego Garcia, and the only morning paper. The rest are eveningers — lousy ones that print TV news from the mainland. The Daily devotes one page each for every major language in Diego. It’s a unique language daily. A whole page for a story — that too in Malayalam — is not a small thing.

‘A doctor from City Hospital is going to translate it into English because he likes the story. ’ Mohandas kept on talking without waiting for replies. I felt disappointed. How many stories have I written! They had romance, history, sex, politics, criticism, but none of the editors sent me letters, no reader praised my stories. No one translated them into any other language. Here, a story, which I would have passed on, is getting translated into English. What had I got wrong?

‘I called you to say something important. I’m writing a novel! You must have heard that Pentasia This Month is conducting a contest for the best novel. It can be written in any language. I’m going to submit my manuscript. Without winning awards, today’s novels can’t gain popularity.’

‘What’s the title of the novel?’ I asked just for form’s sake.

‘Archipelago.’

My disinterest in listening to him till then gave way to shock. I was really shocked. ‘When I said I’m writing, I meant I’ve completed three-fourths of it. Shall I read you a part of the first chapter?’ he asked.

‘No, perhaps another time.’

I disconnected the phone in fear.

Archipelago! You won’t believe me, but really, really, that’s the title I’d decided for my own novel. I had dreamt of it for a long time. How can a novel based on these islands have a name better than that! Pity, he had stolen that title. Oh god, was he also writing on the same subject and along the same lines? I have always dreaded that. After I get an idea for a story, I fear that someone in some other corner of the world has got the same idea and that he is competing with me in writing the story. So, I hurry up to finish the story and publish it before my faceless enemy does. Those were just fears, but the case of Mohandas was not like that. He had come very close to my subject. Now when I start writing my novel, it’ll not be my enemy who will be writing the same story hiding in some unknown corner of the world, it’ll be you, Mohandas Purameri! Only you. I’ll be competing neck and neck with you. I’ll finish writing the novel before you. I’ll find a title better than your Archipelago. I’ll win the contest. I ran to my study and doggedly began to write.

Customs Officer

ON A DAY when I got bored of writing, I took a boat to Port Louis. It is a small harbour town in Diego Garcia. It takes hardly fifteen minutes by boat from Seleucia to get there. Beyond the narrow alleys to the jetty and the bustling shops and St. Martins lay the main road to the port. Along the two-kilometre stretch are shady trees and open-air coffee shops, adding to the beauty of Port Louis. Tables and chairs spill onto the brick-laid road. Food is cooked fresh right in front of you. The aroma of coffee and ghee! It is my favourite hangout. I can sit in a corner, sip coffee and contemplate in peace. I can observe the arrivals and departures of the port workers, the hustle and the bustle. I can overhear the traders’ and exporters’ mathematics and mutterings. From these, I can find something for my novel. It is not being solitary in a room but being in a crowd that makes for better thinking. In each person’s rush and panic and pain, there is a story. If I sit alone in a room, what story will I get; all I will be doing is staring at an empty mind. In any case, Momma wouldn’t let me stay idle at home. ‘What? Has Valyapapan’s disease caught you too?’

I had hardly sat down after ordering a butter coffee when I heard someone call out. About four tables away, a young woman was waving at me. I didn’t recognize her at first. She got up and walked up to me — Jesintha! I stood up in surprise. She was with me till Class VII at St. Joseph’s. A Tamil. She had changed completely. Jeans, T-shirt, shades. There was only a distant resemblance to the dark, petite girl of my memory.

‘How many years has it been! I’m amazed. We live in such a small place and still it took so much time for us to meet again!’ She pulled up a chair and sat close.

‘Really! It’s not those who’re far, but who’re near who are difficult to meet. You’re still in Peruntheruvu, aren’t you?

‘No, we moved to Cornish two years ago. I was in Sri Lanka before that. I completed my higher studies there.’

Cornish! I was surprised. It’s the area of Diego’s newly rich. A man-made island filled with the villas of ministers, movie stars and businessmen. Jesintha there? I remember her family.

She must have perceived my astonishment. ‘I’m currently with the port. A smart customs officer can now live at Cornish.’ She smiled and got up. ‘It’s time to get to work. We’ll meet again.’ She strode past.

I was incredulous. Does a customs officer in Garcia earn enough to settle in Cornish? The bribes wouldn’t be much — Diego is not a country with many restrictions or taxes. The Diego government allows free import of all products. The customs is just for name’s sake, that’s all. How was she earning so much? There must be something. I was unaware of the changing times. Was it the ‘lag’ from my education in Thiruvananthapuram, as everyone says?

Division A

MOMMA WAS SWEEPING the house in the morning. Things were scattered outside. She was cursing the men in the family for letting the house get dusty and dirty. Once it was a family where women did not even look at the men. It’s only during the heyday of a family that the men are held in esteem. Otherwise, they are destined to be abused by the women.

In the trash heaped outside, I spotted a photograph. One taken during my upper-primary schooldays at St. Joseph’s during Class V. I picked it up and dusted it. I grieved that it had aged in such a short time. Some of the faces were lost, but none were unrecognizable. Partly through the photo and partly through memory, they were knowable. There was Sseri sir. In faded attire. He was our Malayalam teacher for a long time. A hard-core fan of Cherusseri’s poems. His name was Surendran. We called him Sseri sir. He had come from Kerala to Diego to teach Malayalam. He was a native of Payyannur.

The first language in our school was English. French, Malagasy, Tamil, Divehi, Malayalam or Sinhala could be chosen as one’s second language. Most would opt for their ancestral tongue as their second language. I chose Malayalam. That’s how I ended up in Sseri sir’s class.

Next in the photo was our class teacher, Monica D’Souza. She was a Goan, if I remember right. She was in the school only for a short time. Then the headmaster, William Hodges. He’d enter the classroom with the customary line: ‘When I was in Ethiopia. ’