Benyamin: Yellow Lights of Death

Nibu walked out of the group. Biju and Nattapranthan followed him.

That was the last-ever Thursday Market.

An Email From Aravind

BENYAMIN, I’VE JUST finished reading your new novel. You can have your serious discussions of it with your writer colleagues and critics. My quick mail is to let you know my opinion on a very particular matter.

About the person called Senthil and the photos in his USB drive, I wish to come to a different conclusion. I don’t think he frequented pornography websites because he was a porn addict or had a sleazy curiosity about explicit images. I don’t know if you’re aware of it but such porn sites are the safest communication platform available now for terrorists across the world to transfer messages. They embed their secrets into the photos without anyone noticing anything. They can sit in any corner in the world and safely surf the sites and decode the secrets — in the pictures or in their captions. The information they decipher could be about what kind of weapons to use, which route to take, whom to contact, etc. Even if someone else stumbles upon these images and the messages they carry, he won’t be able to understand them.

This process of hiding messages in digital images, in audio and video files, is called steganography. Only if we scrutinize the audio files and video links of Senthil’s USB will we be able to find the hidden messages in them. I’ll do it for you someday when you visit. Please tell Salim and Biju to keep the drive safe with them.

And you keep writing novels. I’ll keep emailing you.

Aravind

Shanmughan

WHEN I FIRST met Shanmughan, he was creating a scene at the entrance of a hotel in Delhi. He was standing in front of me in a queue for security check. I was there to attend a literature festival. When the hotel security guard asked him something in Hindi, he started screaming back in English and Tamil. ‘You better talk to me in Tamil or English, don’t even utter a word of Hindi’—that was the meaning of his outburst. The security guard must have been stunned. He didn’t say a word.

As we went up to our rooms in the same lift, he was still fuming. ‘Why are they so hell-bent on teaching me Hindi? Let them learn Tamil!’ We reached the seventh floor, and lo, our rooms were adjacent. It was while opening the doors that we introduced ourselves to each other. When he heard that I was a writer, Shanmughan was full of respect. He had come to participate in an NRI global conclave. ‘We’ll meet later,’ I said and slipped into my room.

The journey had exhausted me, so I had dinner early and was lying on the bed when the bell rang. It was Shanmughan. He was a bit tipsy. I invited him into the room. He was from Malaysia where he managed a huge textile showroom. His family had settled there ages ago. He hadn’t forgotten his motherland. He had Person of Indian Origin status and visited Tamil-Nadu twice a year. His children attended a Tamil-medium school. It was his greatest desire to come back home someday.

He frequently quoted couplets from the Thirukkural . He believed that Thiruvalluvar was a greater poet that Valmiki, and Paranar a better one than Kalidasa. Not only did he love Sangam literature, he had a good knowledge of it. He knew well the classic texts, he knew all about thinai (he liked mullai the best) and preferred puram poems to those of akam .

I asked Shanmughan about the new generation of Tamil writers. He didn’t seem to know much. Let a greater poet than Thiruvalluvar be born in India, then let’s see — that was his opinion. According to Shanmughan, Tamil was the most ancient language in the world. The Cheras ruled the one true empire. And their capital city, Vanchi Muthur, was the centre of the world.

When I asked Shanmughan what was his ultimate desire in life, he blushed and named a famous actress. He wanted to spend a night with her. When I asked if that was the reason for his regular visits to India, he said that he had a bigger dream, but couldn’t talk about it. I tried to get it out of him, but he didn’t yield. I opened my bag and took out a bottle and two glasses. Shanmughan flattered me by praying to the bottle that it was his great luck to have a peg with a writer. He even kissed my hands. And after two rounds, more Thirukkural began to flow from his tongue.

When Shanmughan was in his element, I forced him to reveal his dream. He got up and briskly walked out to his room. I thought he wouldn’t return, but he did and spread out a roll of paper in front of me. It was an old map.

‘This is our dream!’

I didn’t get it at first. Then, when I studied it carefully, I understood that it showed the first Chera dynasty that had spread across the entire peninsula. ‘That ancient nation of the Cheras ought to be re-established. That’s our dream!’

‘Our dream? Whose dream is that?’

‘Tamizhaka Odukappatoor Viduthalai Izhakkam, a group started in the 1980s by a school teacher named Pulavar Kaliyaperumal. Former Naxalite Tamizharasan, Anpazhakan, etc. were part of it. At that point, its name was Tamil Nadu Liberation Army. In 2002, the Indian government banned the group. After that we split ourselves into various groups such as Tamilina Viduthalai Kazhagam, Vivasayangal Urpathiyalar Sangham, Tamil Desiya Penkal Viduthalai Izhakkam, Orumai Koruvar Orungamaippu, Tamil Nadu Ayyangar Peravai, Uthiyan Cheral Tamizhar Kazhagam and Tamizhaka Odukappatoor Viduthalai Izhakkam. If you inquire, you’ll find that each is a well-organized political, social, non-profit charity organization. But each organization’s aim is to unite the Tamils across the world and fight till we achieve victory.’

In the list, I had noticed the name ‘Uthiyan Cheral Tamil Kazhagam.! The Pondicherry one. The office Senthil had visited frequently. That means Senthil.?!

‘You think something like this will work out? In a country like India? It’s just a fantasy. Even after a hundred years of activism, you won’t be able to realize even the least bit of your dream.’ I bid him goodnight with a little ridicule and a lot of anger.

‘I’ll leave now, but we will fight till we attain victory!’ He left, reciting a classical poem.

I couldn’t sleep that night.

Leena

I RECEIVED AN email from an anonymous source proving that there was more to Andrapper’s life than we had discovered, and that there were more portions to the manuscript that had to be uncovered. This is how the mail read:

I was sitting on the terrace of my house when I saw a boat draw to a stop at the entrance. A young woman climbed up the stairs. I couldn’t recognize her. Assuming she was one of Chettathi’s friends, I went back to the novel that I was reading.

Momma called out after a while, ‘There’s a visitor for you!’

When I went down, I was stunned. Leena! Leena who sat next to me in the class photo. I had been searching for all my classmates and Leena had come in search of me.

‘How come you’re here?’

‘Why, can’t I come to see you?’

‘Oh no, it’s not that. How did you find my house?’

‘You think it’s difficult to find the Andrapper House in Diego? Tell any boat driver and he’ll drop you here blindfolded.’

‘Where are you coming from?’

‘From City Hospital. I had gone to meet Anita. She told me that you’d be here.’

‘I see, what did she say?’

‘You’d gone to meet her once or twice, right?’

‘Yes, yes. About a case.’

‘About the murder that you mention in your novel?’

‘How do you know about that?’

‘Anita told me.’

‘Ah! I’d once showed her a portion of my manuscript. Our classmates appear in it.’

‘What have you written about Anita in that?’