Six Suspects (40 page)

'No, let me surprise her as well,' Ashok said.

'Who is this fellow with you?' The boy pointed at Eketi.

'This is a servant I picked up from the island. He will work for
us now.'

'That is excellent! Lalit, our last servant, ran away last week.
But how come he is so black?'

'Didn't you see the photos I sent you? All tribes in the
Andaman are like him. But he will be a good worker. Why don't
you show him the servants' quarters at the back?' Ashok said and
bounded towards the veranda.

The boy looked suspiciously at Eketi. 'Are you an
adamkhor
?
A cannibal?'

'What is a cannibal?' Eketi asked.

'Men who eat other men. Uncle says the Andaman Islands are
full of cannibal tribes.'

'Only Jarawas are like that. But I've never met one.'

'If you had you wouldn't be standing here today,' the boy
laughed. 'My name is Rahul. Come with me.'

He led Eketi through the main door into a side lane which ran
parallel to the house. A teenage boy in vest and shorts stood on the
pathway with a large Alsatian, which began growling. 'Hey, Rahul,
who is this
kalu
with you?' the teenager shouted, tightening the
leash on the dog.

'He is our new servant,' Rahul replied.

'Where did you get him from? Africa?'

Rahul did not respond.

'
Jungli! Habshi!
' the boy heckled Eketi as he passed him. The
dog strained to break the leash.

'Don't mind Bittu, he is always making fun of people,' Rahul
said half apologetically.

The servants' quarters were at the back of the house, two dark,
dingy windowless rooms with string beds and coarse blankets,
separated by a common toilet. The
haveli
was perched close to
the edge of one of the fort's ninety-nine bastions, and immediately
behind the servants' quarters was a sandstone parapet
where a cow was tethered. It basked in the sun, chewing and
flicking its tail occasionally to keep off the flies. Eketi leaned
over the parapet and saw the fort wall and below it a steep rocky
slope. In the distance the city of Jaisalmer spread like a brownand-
grey tapestry. Square houses with flat roofs lay in haphazard
profusion, looking like matchboxes from this height. Close
to the horizon he could even make out the sand dunes of
the Thar desert, resembling frozen waves. He sniffed the air and
was surprised to discover no hint of water near that sea of
sand.

Suddenly there was a sharp yelp at his back and he turned
around to see the Alsatian lunging at him, its mouth drawn in a
tight snarl. 'Bittu! What have you done?' Rahul screamed, but the
tribal showed no trace of fear as he gently placed his hand on
the mastiff 's back. It quietened completely and began licking his
hand, emitting low whines of pleasure.

'How did you do that?' Rahul asked in wonder.

'Animals are our friends,' said Eketi. 'It is the
inene
we need to
worry about.'

'Who are these
inene
?'

'People like your friend.' He jerked his head at Bittu.

A deep roar pierced the atmosphere just then, making
the ground tremble. Eketi looked up and caught two jets streaking
across the sky. They banked left and disappeared into the
clouds.

'Aeroplane!' the tribal shouted excitedly.

'Not aeroplanes, fighter jets,' Rahul rebuked him gently. 'We
have a big air-force base in Jaisalmer. Every day you can see
MiG-21s go roaring past. These jets even have bombs.'

'I saw a bomb in Allahabad. It killed thirty people,' said Eketi.

'Only thirty?' Rahul scoffed. 'These jets have bombs which
can instantly kill more than a thousand people.'

Another jet went screaming past. 'Is it going to drop a bomb
on us?' Eketi asked in alarm.

'No,' Rahul laughed. 'Come now, Mother must be waiting to
meet you.'

The drawing room of the
haveli
was a small, rectangular chamber
cluttered with antique Shekhawati furniture – carved and
decorated settees, padded chairs and low stools. The dhurries on
the floor gave off a musty smell of disuse. The mantelpiece was
dominated by an old tiger-skin trophy, complete with the preserved
head with glass eyes, an artificial cast tongue and teeth
bared in an open jaw. The walls were plastered with photographs
of a tall, broad-shouldered man with a jutting chin and an impressive,
thick moustache that curved upwards at both ends. The room
was a shrine to him. He appeared in various poses, mostly with a
long rifle in his hands.

'Who is this man?' Eketi asked.

'That is my father,' Rahul said proudly. 'Bravest man in the
whole world. You see the tiger skin on the wall? He killed that
tiger with his bare hands.'

'I killed a pig once with my bare hands. So where is your father
now?'

'In heaven.'

'Oh! How did he die?'

Before Rahul could respond, his mother entered the room,
trailed by Ashok. Gulabo was a striking woman in her early
thirties with an oval face, an imperious aquiline nose, dark
eyes, fine eyebrows and thin lips. The curve of her mouth suggested
stiff haughtiness, but her dark eyes hinted at deep
sorrows.

She was dressed in a white
kanchi
, a long, loose backless blouse
worn over a red pleated skirt. Her head was covered by an orange
odhni
, but her neck and hands were devoid of jewellery. The lateafternoon
sunlight filtered through a latticed window, creating
filigrees of light and shade on the stuccoed walls. It caught the
angular planes of Gulabo's face, severe and unrelenting. This was
a woman not to be trifled with.

She sat down on the divan and appraised the tribal. '
Tharo
naam kain hai
?'

'Better you speak in Hindi, Bhabhisa,' Ashok advised. 'Tell her
your name,' he gestured to Eketi.

'I am Jiba Korwa from Jharkhand,' Eketi parroted.

'But I thought he was from Andaman?' Gulabo lifted her
eyebrows.

'He is, Bhabhisa, but no one must know that. That is why I
have given him this new name.'

'So what can you do?' Gulabo asked Eketi.

'He will do whatever you say, Bhabhisa,' Ashok interjected,
but she cut him short.

'I didn't ask you, Devarsa, I asked him.'

'Whatever you say,' Eketi replied.

She explained his duties rigorously and then waved dismissively
at his shorts and T-shirt. 'What are you doing in those ridiculous
clothes? From tomorrow you must put on a proper outfit with
turban. Then you will at least look like a Rajasthani.'

Eketi's new outfit consisted of a buttoned-up white shirt, highwaisted
trousers billowing at the hips and tapering down to the
ankles, and a ready-made red turban speckled with orange dots
which fitted snugly over his head. He stood in front of the mirror
and made a face.

As he picked up a broom, his mind went back to his
island. He used to hate the drudgery of housework forced on
him by the welfare staff, but the experience of the construction
site had transformed him. He now had labourers' hands which
couldn't remain idle. So the whole day he worked in the
haveli
, sweeping floors, washing dishes, ironing clothes,
making beds. By five o'clock all his chores would be completed
and he would then sit down with Rahul in the living room
to watch TV. Rahul's main interest was watching movies full of
blood and gore, which the tribal found distasteful. On the rare
occasions when he got the TV to himself, Eketi engaged in
ceaseless channel surfing. He would flick through Doordarshan
and HBO, Discovery and National Geographic, taking in the
fleeting images from distant worlds. He saw the snow-covered
mountains of Switzerland and the wildlife of Africa, the
gondolas of Venice and the pyramids of Egypt, but he didn't see
what he was desperate to see, a glimpse of his island in the
Andamans.

Ashok's family was vegetarian and Gulabo was a good cook. Her
dishes had the distinctive flavour of Rajasthan, piquant and zesty.
Even though Eketi missed eating pork and fish, slowly he began to
relish the staple diet of
dhal
,
bati
and
churma
. Gulabo added
generous helpings of clarified butter to her
missi rotis
and never
failed to give Eketi a full glass of buttermilk with every meal. He
grew especially fond of her desserts.

Life in the
haveli
followed a set pattern. Rahul spent half the
day in school. Ashok spent most of his time inside the house,
closeted with Gulabo. And every evening Eketi would sit by the
fort wall, one arm draped over the parapet railing, and peer into
the gathering darkness, listening to the whispering wind as it
blew over the crenellated ramparts of the fort, waiting for Ashok
to take him home.

On one particularly warm day in early March, when Rahul was
in school and nothing disturbed the drowsy stillness of the torpid
afternoon, Eketi was mopping the floor outside Gulabo's room.
Ashok was inside with her and Eketi caught snatches of their
conversation.

'This tribal is the best servant we have ever had. I've never
seen someone work so hard. Can't he stay here for ever?'

'The idiot wants to go back to his island.'

'But I thought you were quitting your job?'

'I am. I don't need it any more. I'm going to get a lot of money.'

'From where?'

'It is a secret.'

'Tell me a little bit more about the tribal.'

'Let's not talk about that tribal. Let's talk about us. You know,
Gulabo, that I love you.'

'I know.'

'Then why won't you marry me?'

'First prove your manhood. Your brother killed a man-eating
tiger with his bare hands. What have you done?'

'Is my love not enough?'

'For a Rajput woman, honour is more important than love.'

'Don't be so heartless.'

'Don't be such a coward.'

'Is that your final answer?'

'Yes. That is my final answer.'

Ashok emerged from the room a little while later, looking
grim-faced. He went out of the house and returned late in the
evening. 'You may be headed for your island soon,' he told Eketi.
'I have just found out where the
ingetayi
is.'

'Where?'

'It is now in Delhi, with an industrialist called Vicky Rai. Pack
up. That is where we are going tomorrow.'

They arrived at New Delhi railway station early on the morning
of 10 March, Ashok with his suitcase, Eketi with his black canvas
bag, and took a DTC bus for Mehrauli.

As the bus passed the landmarks of the capital city, Ashok kept
up a running commentary for Eketi's benefit. But New Delhi
failed to excite the Onge. The Victorian grandeur of Connaught
Place, the imposing edifice of India Gate and the majestic
presidential complex atop Raisina Hill elicited barely a flicker of
interest. As far as Eketi was concerned, the sprawling metropolis
was yet another soulless jungle of glass and concrete with the
same snarling traffic and discordant sounds that he had become
inured to. He pined only for his island.

The bus dropped them in front of the Bhole Nath Temple in
Mehrauli. 'This is where I have arranged for our stay,' said Ashok,
'courtesy of Mr Singhania, a very rich businessman who is on the
temple's board.'

Eketi was impressed by the temple complex. He was even
more impressed by Ashok's suite, which was usually reserved for
visiting saints. Spacious and well-furnished, it had marble flooring
and a bathroom with gold-plated fittings. Eketi himself was not
staying in such luxury. He had been banished to an outhouse, to
an empty shack next to the sweeper's quarters. It was just a bare
room, without even a bed.

As Eketi put his canvas bag on the floor, the aroma of food
drifted in through the open door and made his mouth water.
Breakfast was being prepared in the neighbouring
kholi
.

He stepped out of his shack and found himself in a garden.
The temple was just stirring to life, but already he could see a fair
number of worshippers inside the sanctum sanctorum. A girl was
sitting all alone on a wooden bench under a beautiful tree.
Even though her back was towards him, she sensed his presence
immediately and attempted to get up.

'No, please don't go,' he said hastily.

She sat down again, covering her face with her right palm.
Only her black eyes were visible through the finger-wrapped
chrysalis of her face.

'Why are you hiding your face?' he asked.

'Because I don't like talking to people.'

He sat down next to her. 'Neither do I.'

There was an awkward silence between them till the girl spoke
again. 'Why don't you go away, like the others?'

'Why should I go away?'

'Because I look like this.' She turned towards him suddenly,
removing her palm from her face.

Eketi saw that she had pockmarks all over her cheeks and the
lower half of her face was disfigured by a harelip. He understood
her game instantly. She was trying to frighten him off with her
ugliness. 'That's all?' he laughed.

'You are a strange one. What's your name?' she asked.

'They call me by many names. Blackie, cannibal, bastard . . .'

'Why?'

'Because I am different from them.'

'That you are,' she said and lapsed into silence again. Sunlight
dappled the garden through the dense foliage of the papaya trees
which ringed the edges. A magnificent orange bird fluttered close
to the bench. Eketi made a cooing sound from deep within his
throat and the bird hopped on to his outstretched hand. He held
the bird and gently put it in the girl's lap.

'Is this a trick?' the girl asked.

'No. Birds are our friends.'

'Where are you from?' she asked, releasing the bird.

'I am Jiba Korwa from Jharkhand.'

'Jharkhand? Isn't that the new State? But so far away.'

'I am actually from even further. But that is a long story. What
is your name?'