The carnival contained several large tents housing attractions for the whole family. Laughter rang out from the Hall of Fun House Mirrors and shrieks from the Freak Show, which promised a man without a stomach and a woman grafted on to a snake's body. There was even a giant wheel, a photo studio and a magic show. But the biggest queue was outside a tent advertised as RANGEELA DISCO DHAMAKA. Men ogled at the ten-foot billboard over the entrance which had cut-outs of two girls in oversized bras and hot pants striking provocative poses. The sound of loud music came from inside the tent.
A ticket vendor sitting inside a booth winked slyly at him. 'Wanna have a look? Only twenty rupees.'
'No,' laughed Eketi. 'Why waste money just to see a woman's breasts?'
He showed much more interest in the archery stall, where customers tried to win teddy bears by using a bow and arrow to puncture balloons pinned to a square board. After observing several failed attempts, he stepped up to the stall owner and handed over a ten-rupee note from the five he still had with him. A group of small children clustered around him and cheered him on. As he took aim, the sinews in his body tensed up. Memories of that last pig hunt on the island came rushing back, touching him with its distant excitement. He released the arrow and it hit the balloon right in the centre of the board. The children whooped and jumped; the owner grimaced and parted with a teddy bear. Eketi handed the toy to a little girl and picked up another arrow. By the time he left the stall, the children had twenty teddy bears to play with and the tearful manager was preparing to close his booth.
Buoyed by his success in archery, Eketi jauntily crossed a gravel road and found himself in a completely different area of the Magh Mela grounds, where the air hummed with the chanting of mantras and the chiming of bells. The akharas were here, serving as the temporary headquarters of the various spiritual sects whose leaders competed openly for the attention of the public by employing heavy-duty public-address systems.
It was here that he encountered the Nagas once again. The naked sadhus were gathered around a courtyard, sitting on rough charpoys smoking chillums or doing physical exercises. In the centre of the courtyard was a mound of ash which they used to daub their bodies with. The sadhus retreated to a large white tent after a while and Eketi gingerly stepped into the courtyard. He stripped off his clothes, stuffed them inside his canvas bag and dived into that mound of ash as though it was a tankful of water. Like a buffalo wallowing in the mud, he rolled in the ash, smearing his face, his body and even his hair with grey, luxuriating in the thrill of being naked once again.
As he was about to leave, a Naga sadhu emerged from the tent. The tribal crouched on the ground like a cornered animal, but the sadhu smiled at him through glazed eyes and offered him a chillum. Eketi smiled back and took a deep drag. Even though he had been addicted to zarda – chewing tobacco – on the island, he was unprepared for the heady rush of marijuana. It made him feel inexplicably light-headed, as though several small windows had opened up in his brain, making the colours brighter and the sounds sharper. He swayed on his feet and clutched the sadhu for support, who grinned at him and shouted 'Alakh Niranjan!' – 'Glory to the One who can neither be seen nor tainted!' In that instant Eketi became one with the Nagas, and they accepted him as one of their own. Theirs was a house without any distinctions. The ash bleached away all difference, reduced everyone to a uniform shade of grey, and their psychedelic trance brooked no differentiation of class or caste.
Eketi relished being without clothes and roamed the township like a free spirit with licence to paint his body. Living like a Naga sadhu carried other advantages as well. Devotees gave him alms, restaurant owners gave him free meals, and the guards at the Hanuman Temple never objected to his sleeping on the covered veranda at night. Within a week, he had learnt to say alakh niranjan and offer blessings to devotees, wield a trident and dance around the sacred fire with the other Nagas.
He especially enjoyed smoking the chillum. The ganja made him forget his pain. It made him forget Dolly and Ashok and Mike, it made him forget about what he would do next, where he would go next. He was content to live simply for the moment.
In this fashion a month went by. Maghi Purnima arrived, the last of the major bathing days before Mahashivratri and the end of the Magh Mela. Eketi was sitting by the riverbank, watching a steady stream of pilgrims take a dip in the sangam, when the ground beneath him shook and a massive explosion ripped through the area like a roll of thunder. So strong was the force of the blast that he toppled down. He saw black smoke rising behind him, billowing up into the sky like a whirling cloud. And then shrieks started reverberating in the air. When he got up, there were people lying everywhere, bleeding and screaming. He saw a young boy with his leg blown off, a torso lying headless. The sand was strewn with broken glass, bloodstained clothes, slippers, bracelets and belts. A tea stall made of corrugated iron had been reduced to a smouldering mass of mangled metal. Men and women with blood dripping down their faces were running around with demented looks, desperately calling out the names of their near and dear ones. Fires raged in several places.
The speed of the attack – everything seemed to have happened in the twinkling of an eye – confounded Eketi. Its ferocity overwhelmed him. The Mela had descended into utter chaos. Already a mini stampede was breaking out near the river as the pushing, jostling pilgrims piled on top of each other in their desperation to get out. Police sirens were sounding everywhere. Quickly putting on his red T-shirt and khaki shorts, Eketi followed the hordes sprinting towards the exit. Once he had reached the safety of the main road, he tapped a rickshaw-puller standing by the roadside. 'Which way to the railway station, brother?'
Allahabad railway station bore no sign of the carnage happening in another part of town. Trains came and went. Passengers embarked and disembarked. Porters hustled and bustled. It was business as usual.
Eketi leaned against a cold-water dispenser and wondered which train to take. He had no knowledge of Indian cities, and he had no money. That is when his eyes fell on a thin, clean-shaven man with short black hair sitting on a station bench a short distance away, with a cigarette in his mouth and a grey suitcase nestling between his legs. He gave a start when he realized it was Ashok Rajput.
Eketi could easily have turned around and walked away, but he went up to the welfare officer and folded his hands. 'Hello, Ashok Sahib.'
Ashok looked at him and almost choked. 'You!' he exclaimed.
'Eketi made a big mistake by leaving you,' the tribal said contritely. 'Can you now send me back to my island? I don't want to stay here even one extra day.'
Ashok's initial fluster quickly subsided and Eketi saw the old scornful arrogance return to the welfare officer's face. He threw away his cigarette. 'You worthless black swine. I've spent the last four months desperately searching for you. And you think you can just walk up to me and ask me to send you back? You think I am a bloody travel agent?'
The Onge kneeled down on the ground. 'Eketi begs forgiveness. Now I will do anything you say. Just send me back to Gaubolambe.'
'Then first swear that you will obey my every command.'
'Eketi swears on spirit blood.'
'Good.' Ashok softened. 'On that condition I will take you back to Little Andaman. But not immediately. I still have some business to finish here. Till then you will work as my servant. Understood?'
The Onge nodded.
'What were you doing in Allahabad?' asked Ashok.
'Nothing. I was simply passing time,' said Eketi.
'Did you visit the Magh Mela?'
'Yes. I am coming straight from there.'
'You are lucky to be alive. There was a terrorist attack, one of the biggest. They say at least thirty people were killed in the bomb blast.'
'Were you there too?'
'Yes. I care more about your tribe than you do. I came to the Magh Mela searching for the sacred rock.'
'So did you get it?'
'No,' Ashok said regretfully. 'A thief stole it from S
wami Haridas's tent in the mêlée after the bomb blast.'
'Then is it gone for ever?'
'I don't know. I am hoping it will surface when the thief tries to sell it to someone.'
'So where are you going now?'
'To my hometown. To Jaisalmer. That is where you are also going, by the way.'
Their train arrived in Jaisalmer the next morning. The railway station was like a fish market, with a rabble of rickshaw- and taxidrivers chanting the names of their hotels, touts holding banners advertising all manner of guesthouses, and a mob of commission agents accosting passengers with offers of cut-price camel safaris and free Jeep taxi services, only to be driven back by policemen with sticks.
Ashok blinked in the blazing sun and wiped the perspiration from his brow with a handkerchief. Even though it was the last week of February, dry heat crackled in the air like electricity.
The welfare officer seemed to know everyone in Jaisalmer. 'Pao lagu, Shekhawatji,' he said to the superintendent at the station. 'Khamma ghani, Jaggu,' he greeted the owner of a corner cafeteria, who hugged him warmly and offered him a cold drink.
'This is my city,' Ashok wagged a finger at Eketi. 'You try anything funny and I will know in a second. Understand?'
The Onge nodded his head. 'Once Eketi has sworn on spirit blood, he has to keep his promise. An Onge who breaks his promise earns the wrath of the onkobowkwe. He dies and becomes an eeka, condemned to live below the earth.'
'I am sure you wouldn't want such a terrible fate,' said Ashok. They boarded a battered auto-rickshaw which made a racket as it navigated the narrow streets of the city.
Eketi saw scattered houses, some cows sitting on the side of the road and a woman walking with a pot of water on her head. All of a sudden he shouted, 'Stop!'
'What's the matter?' Ashok asked, clearly annoyed at the interruption.
'Look!' Eketi shrieked, pointing in front of him. Ashok saw a group of three camels lumbering down the road.
'You've never seen them before, but they are perfectly harmless animals.' Ashok laughed and told the driver to continue. Minutes later they were inside a street market. Rajasthani women in dazzling red-and-orange odhnis, their arms loaded with bangles, crowded around clothes shops and fruit vendors while the men sported colourful turbans and impressive handlebar moustaches.
And then, through the haze of heat and dust, a magnificent yellow sandstone fort rose in the distance like a shimmering mirage. With its majestic ramparts, delicately sculpted temple towers and myriad bastions suffused with honey-coloured light, the citadel looked as if it had sprung straight out of some medieval fantasy.
Eketi rubbed his eyes to make sure they were not playing tricks on him. 'What is that?' he asked Ashok in an awestruck voice.
'That is the Jaisalmer Fort. And we are going right inside it.'
The auto-rickshaw protested as it climbed Trikuta Hill, atop which perched the golden fort. As the fort neared, Eketi saw that the bastions were actually half-towers, surrounded by high turrets and joined by thick walls.
They entered the fort complex through a giant gate which led to a cobbled courtyard, from where a maze of narrow lanes led in all directions. The courtyard was full of pavement shops selling colourful quilts, stone artefacts and puppets. A turbaned musician played the sarangi while his similarly dressed companion peddled the manjira, regaling a flock of foreign tourists who flitted around them, snapping pictures.
As the auto-rickshaw travelled deeper inside, the fort became a city within a city, dotted with magnificent houses. Signboards, banners and electric wires disfigured many of these ancient havelis, but the intricacy of the carvings on their latticed façdes was nothing less than poetry in stone. The secret, serpentine alleys teemed with activity. Little corner shops sold everything from soap to nails. Roadside fruit-sellers sat with high piles of apples and oranges. Bearded tailors pedalled away at their sewing machines to the bleating of goats. Music blared from roadside restaurants and mingled with chants from the nearby Jain temples. Children flew kites from crumbling rooftops and cows masticated leisurely in the middle of the road.
As they passed a row of painted mud-and-thatch houses, Ashok directed the driver to his ancestral residence, a large, dilapidated double-storeyed haveli with latticed windows and a carved wooden door studded with iron spikes. The door was unlocked and they entered an open courtyard.
A lanky boy, around thirteen years of age, dressed in white kurta pyjamas, emerged from the veranda. 'Chachu!' he shouted in delighted surprise and ran to Ashok, who embraced him with surprising tenderness.
'How tall have you grown, Rahul!' the welfare officer said.
'You are seeing me after five years, Uncle,' the boy replied.
'Is Bhabhisa home?' Ashok asked.
'Yes. She is in the kitchen. I will call her.'
'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.'