As soon as they left the brick-red Gothic structure of Chennai Central, the tribal sniffed the air. The north-east monsoon was still active and the aroma of rain hung in the air like a moist perfume. 'Does this place have a sea?'
'Yes. How do you know?' asked Ashok.
'Eketi can smell it.'
They boarded one of the ubiquitous yellow-and-black autorickshaws and Ashok told the driver to take them straight to Rajagopal's residence on Sterling Road in Nungambakkam. As they entered the swirl of traffic outside the station, Eketi looked in wide-eyed wonderment at the imposing buildings and elegant showrooms lining the crowded boulevard. The city was full of hoardings, advertising the latest Tamil blockbusters, but what fascinated him most were the giant plywood images of politicians and film stars dotting the streets, some as tall as two-storey buildings. Chennai was a cut-out city. A giant smiling woman in a sari competed for votes with an old man in dark glasses. Lusty-eyed heroines and moustachioed heroes with exaggerated hair-dos towered over the traffic like colossi.
Sterling Road was a busy thoroughfare, full of commercial establishments, banks and offices, interspersed with large houses. The auto-rickshaw dropped them off directly in front of Rajagopal's The Curse of the Onkobowkwe 297 residence, which was an elegant green-and-yellow-painted villa. Two uniformed guards stood impassively on duty on either side of the high metal gates, which for some reason were open.
'Have you come for the prayer meeting?' a guard asked Ashok.
The welfare officer nodded blankly.
'Please go inside. It is in the main drawing room.'
'You wait here,' Ashok instructed Eketi, and entered the gate. He went along a curved driveway with well-kept lawns on both sides. The house had a solid teak door which was also open, and he stepped into a large drawing room from which all furniture had been removed. There were white sheets on the floor on which approximately fifty people were seated, mostly wearing lightcoloured clothes. Men sat on one side and women on the other. At the far end was a large framed picture of a young man with a crew-cut and a thick moustache, which was decorated with a garland of red roses. Incense sticks burnt in front of the picture, the smoke curling upwards in thin wisps. A good-looking, slightly overweight woman in her early thirties sat beside the picture. Clad in a plain white cotton sari with no frills and no ornaments, she looked every inch the grieving widow.
Ashok sat down in the last row of the men's section and put on a suitably solemn expression. Through discreet questioning of the other mourners he learnt that this was a condolence meeting for the industrialist Selvam Palani Rajagopal – known to friends as SP – who had died of a heart attack two days ago, caused by a sudden and unexpected business loss.
Ashok waited two hours for the assembly to be over. After the last of the mourners had left, he went up to the widow and folded his hands. 'My name is Amit Arora. So sorry to hear about SP's death, Bhabhiji, so sorry,' he mumbled. 'It is hard to imagine that a man of thirty-five can suffer a heart attack. I met him just ten days ago in Kolkata.'
'Yes. My husband had a lot of business in Kolkata,' she replied.
'How did you know Raja?' There was a strangled quality to her voice which he found oddly erotic.
'He was my senior in IIT Madras.'
'Oh, so you are also an alumni of IIT-M? It's strange Raja never mentioned you.'
'We sort of lost touch after graduation. You know how these things happen.' He spread his hands and fell silent. Somewhere inside the house a pressure cooker whistled.
'So are you also living in Chennai?' Mrs Rajagopal enquired.
'There are not too many North Indians here.'
'No. I now live in Kolkata. I left Chennai soon after graduating.'
A maid brought him tea in a bone-china cup.
'If you don't mind, there is one thing I wanted to ask you, Bhabhiji,' Ashok said in the oily tone of someone bringing up a delicate subject.
'Yes?' she responded warily.
'SP told me he had bought a shivling from an antique dealer in Kolkata. Can I see it?'
'Oh, that shivling? Adu Poyiduthu! It's gone. It is now with Guruji.'
'Guruji? Who is he?'
'Swami Haridas. Raja was his disciple for the past six years. Guruji came for the funeral yesterday. He saw the shivling and asked if he could have it. So I gave it to him. Now that Raja is gone, what would I have done with it?'
'Can you tell me where Guruji lives? Is it close by?'
'He lives in Mathura.'
'Mathura? You mean Mathura in Uttar Pradesh?'
'Yes. That is where he has an ashram. But he has branches all over India.'
Ashok slumped back. 'So now I will have to travel all the way to Uttar Pradesh!'
'Why? What is your interest in that shivling?'
'It is rather complicated . . . Can you give me Swamiji's telephone number in Mathura?'
'Actually Guruji is not in Mathura now.'
'Then where is he?'
'He has gone on a world tour. Yesterday he left Madras for Singapore. From there he will go to America, then Europe.'
'So when will he return to Mathura?'
'He will only return after two to three months.'
'Two to three months?'
'Yes. Your best chance of finding him will be at the Magh Mela in Allahabad in January next year. He told me he would be going there for discourses.'
'Thank you, Bhabhiji. Take care. I shall be in touch,' Ashok said, trying to mask the disappointment in his voice, and took his leave.
Eketi was still sitting on the kerb outside the entrance when Ashok emerged from the gates. 'What took you so long?' He looked quizzically at Ashok.
'The sea-rock has eluded us once again. Worse, it has left the country,' Ashok said dejectedly. 'It will come back only after three months. So I am taking you back to the island.'
'Back to the island?' Eketi sprang up in alarm. 'But you promised that we would return with the ingetayi.'
'I know. But what will I do with you for three months? I don't want to get into trouble with the Welfare Department.'
'But Eketi doesn't want to return to the island.'
Ashok looked at him sharply. 'Are you out of your bloody mind? Why don't you want to return?'
'What is there to return to? Eketi was trapped on that island, suffocated by it,' the Onge cried. 'I would look at the pictures of India in the book they gave us in school and dream about them. I observed the big ships crossing the ocean and wondered where they went to. I used to see the foreigners arrive with their cameras to gawk at us, and my mind used to go crazy. I felt like jumping into their boats and just going somewhere. Anywhere. That is why I came here. To escape from the island. And Eketi is not going back.'
'Is that why you volunteered to recover that rock?'
'Yes. Eketi wanted to come to India.'
'And you have no concern about what will happen to your tribe if they don't get that sacred rock back?'
'Eketi will help you recover the ingetayi. Then you can take it back, and Eketi will remain behind in your wonderful country.'
'So this was all part of a devious plan, eh? And have you thought of what you will do here?'
'Eketi will get married. Back home, old people marry all the young girls. I had no hope of finding a wife if I stayed on the island. Here I can have a new life. Get a wife.'
'This takes the biscuit.' The welfare officer gave a sardonic laugh. 'You really think that a worthless idiot like you will get a wife here? Have you taken a look at yourself in the mirror? Who will marry a black midget like you?'
'Leave that to Puluga,' Eketi said petulantly.
Ashok's demeanour suddenly changed. 'Look, you bastard. This is not a tourist excursion I brought you on. You came to get the ingetayi. We didn't find it. So you must go back to Little Andaman. Tomorrow the Nancowry will sail for Port Blair from here, and you will be on that ship with me. I've had enough of your nonsense. Now come with me, we have to find a hotel for the night.'
r /> Ashok flagged down an auto-rickshaw, but the tribal refused to board it. 'Eketi will not go,' he said adamantly.
'Don't force me to hit you, blackie.' Ashok raised his hand.
'Eketi will not go even if you hit him.'
'Then should I call the police? Do you know that any tribal caught outside his reserve can be jailed immediately?'
Eketi's eyes flickered with fear, and Ashok pressed home his advantage. 'Now get in, you bastard,' he said through clenched teeth and pushed the tribal into the auto-rickshaw.
'Take us to Egmore,' he instructed the driver.
As they drove through the mid-afternoon traffic, the tribal sat in tense anticipation, like a sprinter crouching at the start line. His pulse quickened when the auto-rickshaw approached a busy intersection. The moment it stopped at the traffic light, he leapt out with his black canvas bag. Ashok could only watch, flabbergasted and helpless, as he dashed through the maze of cars, buses, scooters and rickshaws, and soon disappeared from the welfare officer's view.
He ran for a long time, dodging carts and cows, darting through empty playgrounds and passing jam-packed cinema halls. Finally he stopped to catch his breath in front of a cycle repair shop. Stooped on his haunches, he drew in a lungful of air and then took a good look at his surroundings. The cycle shop was situated in the middle of a bustling market. In the distance he could see a traffic island with a big statue in the centre. For a long time he stood at the edge of the road, inhaling the noxious fumes from passing trucks and cars, listening to the din that radiated from the crossing, feeling increasingly like a lost boy in a crowd of strangers. He was also beginning to feel hungry. That is when he noticed a tall man standing on the opposite side of the road, wearing fashionable dark glasses, a loose white linen shirt and grey trousers. He was leaning casually against the metal railing of a bus shelter and smoking a cigarette. Like him, the stranger also had small knots of closely coiled hair. But what drew him to the man was the colour of his skin, almost as jet black as his.
Eketi crossed the road and moved towards the bus shelter. The stranger noticed him almost immediately and quickly crushed the cigarette under the heel of his shoe.
'Who do we have here? An African brother!' he exclaimed.
Eketi gave him a nervous smile.
'And where might you be from, my brother? Senegal? Togo? Parlez-vous françis?'
Eketi shrugged his shoulders and the stranger tried again. 'Then you must be from Kenya. Ninaweza kusema Kiswahili.'
Eketi shook his head. 'Myself called Jiba Korwa from Jharkhand,' he said.
'Oh! So you are Indian? How wonderful.' The stranger clapped his hands. 'Do you speak Hindi?'
Eketi nodded.
'I speak eight languages, and your language is one of them,' he said in perfect Hindi. 'I studied in Patna University,' he added by way of explanation.
'What is your name?' Eketi asked.
'Michael Busari at your service, from the great city of Abuja in Nigeria. My friends call me Mike.'
At that very moment a policeman rode past on his motorcycle and Eketi instinctively ducked behind the bus shelter. He continued to skulk even after the cop had crossed the intersection.
Mike patted him on the shoulder. 'I can see that you are in some sort of trouble, brother. The world is not a good place, especially for black people. But fear not, now I shall protect you.'
There was something deeply reassuring about the Nigerian's manner, which appealed immediately to Eketi. 'Do you know this city well?' he asked.
'Not really, brother. I've lived mostly in North India. But I know enough about Chennai to guide you.'
'I am hungry,' Eketi said. 'Can you give me something to eat?'
'I was going to have lunch myself. What would you like to eat?'
'Do they have pig meat here?'
'Pork, eh? I can arrange that for dinner. But for lunch let's go to McDonald's.'
'What's that?'
'You've never tasted a Big Mac? Then come, brother, allow me to introduce you to the wonderful world of junk food.'
Mike led the way to a nearby McDonald's where he bought Eketi a full-size meal and an ice-cream cone. As the tribal polished off a juicy burger, Mike draped his arm across Eketi's shoulder. 'Now tell me, my friend, what have you done? Have you killed someone?'
'No,' said Eketi, munching on his French fries.
'Then you must have robbed someone?'
'No,' said Eketi and slurped his Coke. 'I have only run away from Ashok.'
'Ashok? Now who is this Ashok?'
'Kujelli!' said Eketi and bit his lip. 'He is a bad man who was troubling me.'
'Oh, so he was your employer? And you got fed up of him and ran away from your village?'
'Yes, yes,' Eketi nodded eagerly, beginning on the ice cream.
'But how did you land up in Chennai, brother? That's a long way from Jharkhand.'
'Ashok brought me here for some work. I don't know what,' said Eketi and gave a satisfied burp.
'If you are on the run, I'm presuming you don't have a place to stay. Is that right?' Mike asked.
'Yes. I don't have a house here.'
'No problem. I shall take care of that as well. Come, let me take you to my pad.'
They boarded a garish green MTC bus for T. Nagar, where the Nigerian rented a modest two-room house. Mike took Eketi inside and pointed to an oversized sofa in the drawing room. 'You can sleep on that. Now get some rest while I nip across to buy provisions for dinner.'
Mike had taken off his dark glasses and for the first time Eketi saw the Nigerian's eyes. They were cold and emotionless, but the tribal was reassured by his smile, which was full of warmth and friendship. Mike was also an excellent cook and his dinner of lentil soup and spicy pork sausages had Eketi licking his fingers.
Lying on the sofa that night, feeling sated and safe, the Onge thanked Puluga for the kindness of strangers. And the tastiness of pork.
Michael Busari loved to talk. And even though he addressed Eketi while he was speaking, the tribal felt he was talking to himself. Through these monologues, Eketi learnt that Mike had been living in India for the past seven years. He said he was a businessman with several ventures and had come to Chennai a week ago to conclude a transaction with a jewellery merchant by the name of J. D. Munusamy. 'This is where I might need your help, brother.' He patted Eketi on the knee.
'What kind of help?'
'I have persuaded Mr Munusamy to make a major investment in the Nigerian oil industry. It is a venture which will bring him a very hefty profit. As the middleman, I am entitled to my commission. Munusamy was to have transferred one hundred thousand dollars to my bank account, but at the last minute he said he would give me cash. I want you to collect that cash on my behalf from his house. Can you do this little job for your brother?'
'For you I can even give my life,' Eketi said and hugged Mike.
'Good. Then you shall have an appointment with Mr Munusamy at nine p.m. on 26 October – that's two days from now. Till then relax, enjoy, eat, drink.'
Eketi took that advice to heart, spending the rest of the day lazing in the house, watching television and gorging on pork sausages. In the evening he requested Mike to take him to the beach, and the Nigerian obliged.
They went through the clogged artery of Mount Road with its gleaming skyscrapers and neon-lit shopping plazas. Eketi became delirious as the MTC bus entered the narrow alleys of Triplicane, full of old houses and ancient temples, and the heavy smell of salt entered his nostrils. He craned his neck to catch a glimpse of the sea, and lost all interest in the impressive statues and imposing memorials lining the promenade.
He was the first passenger to jump out of the bus the moment it stopped at Marina Beach. Even at this time of night the beach was quite crowded. Several families relaxed on the sand, eating their dinner. Children rode horseback, squealing with delight, while their mothers shopped for trinkets in lantern-lit shops. The swirling beam of a lighthouse sent glitter across the oc
ean's surface. The lights of a distant ship twinkled in the night as the foamy waves rolled gently on to the shore. Eketi inhaled the tangy air of the ocean, redolent of salt and fish, and from that single smell a whole island rose in his memory. He waved at Mike, still a good hundred metres behind him, and began wading into the water fully clothed.
'Jiba! Jiba! Come back!' Mike shouted, but the tribal was already well out to sea and swimming farther away. He emerged from the ocean twenty minutes later, his skin glistening with tiny pearls of water, seaweed clinging to his clothes, sand dripping from the hole in his cap.
'You had me worried sick,' Mike grumbled.
'I thought I would take a bath,' he grinned.
'And what's that you are hiding?'
Eketi brought out his right hand from behind his back. 'Dinner!' he declared, holding up a large fluttering fish.
Mike bought two cans of Coke, Eketi lit a fire, and they shared a tasty meal of roasted fish.
'So how are you liking Chennai, brother?' Mike asked.
'I am loving it!' Eketi gushed. 'I am going mad with all the sounds, colours and lights of this wonderful world.' He took another swig from the Coke can, poked at the dying embers with a stick, and looked at the Nigerian intently. 'You are the nicest and kindest man I have met.'
'We are brothers, my friend, you and I.'
'Can you also help me find a wife?'
'A wife? Of course. Once you do that little job for me, I will have a dozen girls lined up for you to choose from.' Mike's promise was enough to make Eketi approach the operation to collect money from the jewellery merchant with the pleasurable anticipation of a pig hunt. He was in unusually high spirits as Mike took him to Guindy, in the south-western part of the city.
Munusamy's house was deep inside a residential block and there was a hushed stillness in the area compared to the kinetic bustle of the main streets. A pallid streetlamp cast intriguing shadows on a row of duplex apartments lining both sides of the road.
Mike pointed out Munusamy's house, Number Thirty-Six, which had a carved wooden door. 'I will be waiting for you just around the corner,' he whispered to Eketi and handed him a small envelope. 'Give this to Munusamy. I have explained everything in this note, so you won't have to open your mouth. Best of luck.'