The first citizen

Who thought an Andamans holiday would hand me this incredible story? When our vessel HMS Cowrie arrived in Port Blair, we met members of the Kannada Sangha. Small world, I thought - not quite prepared for what followed.

“You should meet our first citizen,” they said. “A great philanthropist - and former inmate of the cellular jail….” It sounded interesting and I agreed. Krishnayya Nayak’s palatial house was perched on a hillock. He greeted me in a dimly lit foyer. He looked distinguished. His courteous and gentle bearing did not speak of jails or crimes.

After the usual courtesies, he showed me into a semi-dark study for the interview. His house was remarkably cheerless. The dim lighting and eerie silence made it worse. I hoped our meeting would be short. My host watched me in silence.

“What made you settle in this remote island?” I began.

He answered briefly: “I had nowhere else to go.”

“How long were you imprisoned?” I asked. “Thirty years.”

His voice betrayed no emotion. But I was lost for words. I guessed he was a political prisoner carelessly thrown into this dungeon and forgotten.

“Did you rebel against the British?” was my next question.

“No,” he replied, and added after a pause, “I was deported for murder.”

The room suddenly became warm. I felt my wet hands clinging to the chair as he continued. “I killed my brother.”

I could scarcely whisper “Why?”

He carelessly answered, “Some property dispute.”

I was not prepared for what happened next. He stood up and burst out angrily. “I was just 23 when my father died. This man cast me out and I became a homeless destitute. So, I came back one night and killed him here.” His voice betrayed no emotion.

The room began to spin as he approached me, a covered object in his hand. He asked “Are you going to publish my story?”

I clutched the chair. I was alone in a deserted house with a man who had blood on his hands. Was I insane to meet him? But he merely pressed an envelope into my hand. It contained his photograph and resume.

Anil was making Sunday’s front page. He adjusted the photograph saying “Let’s call it ‘Andamans - the land of the liberated!’”

I was back in the newsroom. How I loved that unkempt den. Phones ringing, typewriters pounding, news pouring in from all corners of the world. Reams of newsprint waiting to be “subbed.” These were familiar sights and this was where I belonged.

Krishnayya Nayak and his eerie mansion receded. His story now existed only in a newspaper.