The tribal eyed the open packet. 'Can Eketi also have one?'
Ashok raised his eyebrows. 'I thought you had vowed not to touch tobacco till you got the ingetayi?'
'Yes. But this is not my island. Here I can do as I please.'
'No, blackie,' Ashok sneered. 'Here you do as I please. Now go to sleep.'
Eketi lay down on the cold floor with the canvas bag as his pillow and chewed on a strip of dried boar. Soon he could hear Ashok's loud snores, but he found it difficult to sleep. The drumbeats appeared to be coming closer, making the wooden floor tremble. He got up and sat by the open window, watching the glow of a pandal in the far distance, observing the junkies and the dogs sheltering under the awnings in the street, breathing in the air of this vast and mysterious city, feeling a frisson of guilty pleasure.
The next morning he tagged along with Ashok, who was going for a walking tour of the area around the hotel. In the next two hours, he saw the white-domed Birla Planetarium, the impregnable brick-and-mortar octagon of Fort William, and the verdant green Maidan, full of gardens, fountains and memorials. He saw men exercising with huge weights, running, skipping, and walking with dogs. He smiled when he came across a group which was standing in a circle and simply laughing, and fell silent upon seeing the grandiose baroque of the Victoria Memorial, its white marble shading pink under the nascent sun. It was the biggest building he had seen in his life and the most beautiful. He shivered with the thrill of discovery.
They continued to walk, passing the tall Shaheed Minar column tower at the northern end of the Maidan, and ended up in Esplanade. The relentless bustle of thousands on the move, the high-rise buildings, the cacophony of sounds thrilled and amazed Eketi. He was especially fascinated by the sonorous trams, moving at a leisurely pace in the middle of the road. 'Can Eketi ride one?' He tugged at Ashok's sleeve and the welfare officer grudgingly relented. They boarded the next tram that came along. It was moderately crowded and they managed to squeeze themselves in. But at the very next stop a throng of commuters charged on and the tram became choked to the gills. Eketi got separated from Ashok and found himself trapped between two executives with briefcases in their hands. The crush of people was unbearable. Eketi began to feel suffocated. Fighting for breath, he dropped down and began burrowing through the legs of passengers, inching towards the rear exit. Managing eventually to reach the door, he swung himself out through the metal railing, used the open window as a ledge and nimbly hoisted himself over the top. Now he sat on the roof of the tram, just below the overhead electricity cable, with his black canvas bag beside him, and felt the liberating rush of a bird released from its cage.
The tram moved into Dalhousie Square, now known as BBD Bagh, the administrative epicentre of the city, and that is where his journey ended. A traffic constable on duty gaped at him in amazement, then ran in front of the tram and brought it to a jerky halt.
Inside the crowded tram Ashok Rajput had finally managed to find a seat. He wiped the sweat and grime from his forehead, looked distastefully at the seething mass of humanity swirling around him and wondered whether this would be his last journey by public transport. Kolkata, he had concluded, did not suit him. There was something about the air of the city – it congealed at the back of the throat like phlegm. And the snarling traffic, the sickly beggars, the filthy streets did not help matters. By this evening, if all went well, he would have the sacred rock in his hands. He had done considerable research on the ingetayi. It was reputed to be a piece of black sandstone, approximately thirty inches tall, shaped like a phallus and carved with indecipherable hieroglyphics, dating back at least seventy thousand years. He would get Eketi to steal it from Banerjee. Then he would get an exact replica made from a sculptor he knew in Jaisalmer. Eketi would then be quietly sent back with the replica to his hell hole on Little Andaman, and he would sell the original to Khosla Antiques, who had already agreed to pay him eighteen lakh rupees for the oldest engraved shivling in the world.
Ashok Rajput thought of all the things he would do once he got the money. First of all, he would go to see Gulabo. He had taken up the demeaning job of junior welfare officer on that faraway island, cut off from civilization, only to spite her for turning him down. He had not visited her in five years, though he had continued to send her money orders for two thousand rupees a month to pay for Rahul's education. But he had been unable to forget her. Gulabo called out to him over the expanse of all those thousands of kilometres of land and sea separating Rajasthan from the Andamans, invaded his dreams, still made him hot and furious with longing.
Now he would go to Jaisalmer, shower her with wads of thousand- rupee notes and taunt her, 'You always called me a good for nothing. Well, what do you say now?' And then he would propose to her again. He was quietly confident she would accept him this time. Without any preconditions. He would give up his third-rate job dealing with wretched tribals in the middle of nowhere and settle down in Rajasthan. The ingetayi was the ultimate good-luck charm and it would change his life for ever.
He was jolted out of his reverie by the tram suddenly screeching to a halt.
'Korchen ta ki?' the cop barked, pointing a finger at Eketi and gesturing him to get down. 'Namun dada namun.'
As soon as Eketi descended from the roof, the tram conductor confronted him. 'Did you want to commit suicide? Ticket kothai?'
The passengers craned their necks out of the windows to stare at him.
'Nam ki?' the constable demanded.
Eketi simply shook his head.
'This fellow is not Indian,' the conductor declared. 'See how black he is. He looks African to me. Let's check inside his bag. He must be a drug-dealer.' He tried to pull the canvas bag from Eketi's shoulder.
'No!' Eketi cried and pushed the conductor away. The constable caught his ear and twisted it. 'Do you have a ticket?'
'Yes,' Eketi replied.
'Then where is it?'
'With Ashok Sahib.'
'And where is this Ashok?'
Eketi pointed towards the tram.
'I don't see any Ashok,' the constable said as he caught Eketi by the scruff of his neck. 'You'd better come with me to the police station, where we shall check what you have in your bag.'
He was about to drag Eketi over to the other side of the road when Ashok finally managed to extricate himself from the tram and came running towards the cop. 'Excuse me, Officer,' the welfare officer wheezed. 'This fellow is with me. I have his ticket.'
He produced two tickets from his breast pocket. The constable snatched the tickets and scrutinized them. With great reluctance, he let go of Eketi.
The moment they were out of earshot of the constable, Ashok delivered a stinging slap on the tribal's cheek. 'Now listen, you black swine,' he fumed. 'You pull another stunt like this and I'll let you rot in jail for the rest of your life. This is India, not your jungle where you can do as you please.'
Eketi glared at him and said nothing.
They returned to the hotel and had a light lunch. At around six p.m. Ashok decided to check out Banerjee's house.
They hailed an auto-rickshaw and Ashok gave the driver the address from a slip of paper in his wallet. 'Take us to Tollygunge. At the corner of Indrani Park and JM Road.'
The auto-rickshaw took them through quiet back lanes to avoid the mad rush of shoppers on the main streets. They alighted at the corner of Indrani Park and discovered the pond they were looking for almost immediately. It was little more than a depression in the ground, full of dirty monsoon water and edged with decaying reeds. But it was ringed by five houses, and the one on the extreme right had a bright-green roof.
'Banerjee's house!' Eketi exclaimed.
It was a typical middle-class residence, modest and undistinguished. Made of brick, it had a small garden surrounded by a wooden fence. The nameplate on the rickety gate said 'S. K. Banerjee'.
'Should Eketi go in and get the ingetayi?' the tribal asked.
'Do you think you can just enter the house and as
k Banerjee for the sea-rock?' Ashok scoffed. 'He stole it from you, now you will have to steal it from him.'
'How will Eketi do that?'
'That is something I will have to figure out.'
For the next hour, they cautiously surveyed the house from all possible angles, looking for an open window or back door. Ashok couldn't find any obvious vulnerability.
'Eketi knows how to go inside,' the tribal declared suddenly.
'How?'
'Through that.' Eketi pointed to a blackish-green chimney on the roof.
'Don't be foolish. You'll never be able to climb that roof, let alone get inside that narrow chimney.'
'Eketi will,' he declared confidently. 'I can show you right now.' He was about to jump over the fence when Ashok caught his shoulder. 'No, no, you idiot. You cannot break into someone's house in broad daylight. You have to wait for Banerjee and his neighbours to go to sleep.'
They killed time by browsing at the many roadside market stalls which had sprouted in Tollygunge during the puja season. After a late dinner of appetizing fish curry and rice, they returned to Banerjee's house.
The area around the pond was quiet. The lights in the neighbouring houses had been switched off, but a single striplight still glowed inside Banerjee's house.
They waited under the awning of a milk booth till the striplight was extinguished just after midnight. Eketi instantly zipped open his bag and took out lumps of red and white clay, together with the pouch of pig fat. He removed his cap and began stripping off his clothes. 'What are you doing?' Ashok asked in alarm.
'Eketi is preparing for taking the ingetayi. Onge have to show it proper respect.'
He disappeared behind the booth and emerged half an hour later wearing only a genital pouch and the jawbone around his neck. There were horizontal stripes of red and white across his face and a delicate white herringbone design along the middle of his chest and abdomen. He looked like a trick of the night.
'I hope no one sees you like this. Even I am getting the jitters.' Ashok pretended to shiver and squinted at his watch. 'It is almost one o'clock now. Time for you to climb that roof.'
Without a word, Eketi loped off towards Banerjee's house.
He jumped over the wooden railing around the house effortlessly and clambered on to the roof with the nimbleness of a monkey, his bare feet making no sound. The chimney was quite narrow, but by twisting his body he managed to lower himself inside it, black soot coming off on his hands like powder. Through the strategic placement of hands and legs, the tribal climbed down the chimney and landed on the kitchen counter with a little thud.
It took him only a few seconds to get used to the pitch darkness. He opened the kitchen door and stepped into a gallery. There were three doors to his left. He entered the first one. It was an empty bathroom and there was no sign of the sacred rock in it. He tiptoed out and tried the second door. It was unlocked, but the moment he stepped inside a switch flicked on and his eyes were dazzled with light. He saw a bespectacled old man sitting on the bed, wearing light-blue pyjamas.
'Come in, I've been expecting you,' Banerjee said in Onge, his voice deadpan.
'Where is our ingetayi?' Eketi demanded.
'I will tell you. But first tell me who you are. I know you people can travel out of your bodies. Are you real or are you just a shadow?'
'What difference does it make?'
'You are right,' he said morosely. 'Even dreams can kill. So are you going to kill me for stealing your sacred rock?'
'Onge people are not like Jarawas. Eketi has come only for the stone. Where is it?'
'It is no longer with me. I got rid of it ten days ago.'
'Onerta? Why?'
'Because it is cursed, isn't it? I should have known. It took away my son, my only son.' Banerjee's voice broke.
'What happened?'
'He was studying in America. Two weeks ago, he died in a freak road accident. I know I am to blame. If only I had not taken your ingetayi, Ananda would have been alive,' Banerjee sobbed.
'Who has it now?'
'I will tell you, but on one condition.'
'What?'
'You have to tell me how to bring a dead person back to life.'
Eketi shook his head. 'Even Nokai cannot do that. No one can challenge the will of Puluga.'
'Please, I beg you. My wife is going insane grieving over our son. I cannot continue like this any more,' Banerjee cried with folded hands.
'It is the curse of the onkobowkwe. You have invited it upon yourself,' Eketi shrugged. 'Now tell me who has the ingetayi.'
'No,' Banerjee said with sudden fierceness. 'If you cannot bring my son back to life, then you are not getting your ingetayi either.' With the speed of a cat, he jumped off the bed, darted out of the door and locked himself inside the bathroom.
'Open up.' Eketi banged at the door, but Banerjee refused to open it. Seething with frustration, the tribal made a thorough search of all the other rooms in the house, damaging a couple of cupboards and breaking some porcelain idols in the process, but did not find the sacred rock. In Banerjee's bedroom, however, he discovered a black leather wallet lying on the bedside table. He grabbed it, walked to the front door, undid the latch and let himself out into the garden.
Two minutes later he was back at the milk booth.
'What happened? I saw a light come on. Is everything all right?' Ashok asked breathlessly.
'Yes.'
'But where is the sacred rock?'
'It is not in the house.'
'Not in the house? That means Banerjee must have sold it. Did he give any clue?'
'No. But I brought you this.' Eketi handed over the leather wallet. Ashok flipped it open. There was very little cash inside, but he whistled as he extracted a business card. 'Calcutta Antique Traders,' it said. 'Prop. Sanjeev Kaul. 18B, Park Street, Kolkata 700016.'
'I bet you Banerjee has sold the ingetayi to this dealer,' Ashok declared.
'So how do we get it from him?'
'I will pay him a visit tomorrow.'
'But how do we go back to the hotel? Will we find a taxi now?'
No sooner had the tribal said this than an auto-rickshaw spluttered to life in a nearby alley. They ran towards it. 'Will you take us to Sudder Street?' Ashok asked the driver, a middle-aged man who reeked of alcohol.
The driver looked at him with large eyes, then looked at Eketi, and ran screaming from his vehicle.
Park Street was a modern, upmarket shopping area, full of designer clothes shops and trendy boutiques. Calcutta Antiques turned out to be a fairly big establishment next to a fancy Continental restaurant. Ashok Rajput entered through an ornate brass door to find extensive repair work being done inside the shop. The ceiling was blackened with soot and there was a strong smell of charring. A tall, fair man with an overly long nose looked at him enquiringly.
'What happened here?' Ashok asked.
'We had a devastating fire three days ago. Half our shop burned down. We lost a lot of antiques, but luckily no one was injured.'
'Are you Mr Sanjeev Kaul?'
'Yes. What can I do for you?'
'My name is Ashok Rajput. I am with the Tribal Welfare Agency in the Andamans,' he declared in an officious tone and produced his laminated ID card. 'I am here in connection with the theft of an ancient stone artefact belonging to the Onge tribe. Did Mr S. K. Banerjee sell a shivling to you?'
'Yes. About ten days ago.'
'Do you realize, Mr Kaul, that you are in violation of the Antiquities and Art Treasures Act 1972?'
'Banerjee did not tell me that it was an antiquity from the Andamans.' Kaul frowned. 'Look, I was not aware I was breaking any law. I thought it was just an old rock .'
'I would like to see it.'
'I am sorry, it is no longer with me. Last Monday I sold it to a client of mine from Chennai.'
'Chennai?'
'Yes.'
'Oh no!' said Ashok and balled his hands into fists. 'I want full details of this person to who
m you sold the stone.'
Ten minutes later he emerged from the showroom with a slip of paper bearing yet another address. When he returned to the hotel room, Eketi was still sleeping.
'Get up, you bastard, and start packing,' he said.
'Where are we going now?'
'To Chennai,' Ashok replied. 'To meet one Mr S. P. Rajagopal.'
'And how will we go?'
'By train.'
Howrah station was busier than usual because of the festive season. Eketi gazed at the chaos on the platforms, the rows of passengers sprawled on the cold floor, the shrill vendors selling magazines and sodas, and especially the porters in red, their heads loaded with suitcases and boxes. He observed the sweat pouring down their faces and turned to Ashok. 'Why do you people work so hard?'
'Because we don't get free meals like your tribe,' Ashok said scornfully. 'Do you know how much these tickets to Chennai have cost me? This trip is becoming a nightmare.'
'But Eketi is loving it!'
As the train came hurtling towards the platform, Eketi tightened up in alarm. He cowered behind Ashok for a few moments before gingerly stepping inside the sleeper compartment. Women shrank back as soon as he entered, and clutched their handbags nervously. Children looked at him in fear and receded into their fathers. Eketi smiled. A dazzling, pearl-white smile. The train relaxed.
He grabbed a seat next to the window and didn't budge from it throughout the twenty-seven-hour journey, feeling the sun in his eyes, the wind in his face, watching the changing kaleidoscope of colours as dull brown cornfields gave way to lush green rice fields, marvelling at the vastness of this country where you could travel for hours, passing village after village, and still not reach your destination. As day dimmed to night, the relentless rhythm of the train became a lullaby which gently rocked him to sleep.
Everything was different about Chennai. The weather was hotter than Kolkata and more humid. The men were swarthier and wore moustaches. The women were dressed in colourful saris and had flowers in their hair. No one spoke Hindi.