'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?'
'Champi,' she replied.
'Champi. That's a nice name. What does it mean?'
'I don't really know. It is just a name.'
'Then you should change it to Chilome.'
'Why?'
'In our language, chilome means "moon". You are as beautiful as the moon.'
'Ja, hut,' Champi said and blushed. After a while she spoke again. 'You know, you're the first outsider who has spoken to me in a year.'
'And you are the first girl I have spoken to since leaving my island.'
'Island? What island?'
'Kujelli!' Eketi thumped his head. At the same time a shrill voice came from inside the first outhouse. 'Champi! Beti, breakfast is ready!'
'Mother is calling me,' said Champi and stood up. She walked with her right arm outstretched, treading a path which had been seared into her brain through endless repetition. It was only then that Eketi realized that the girl was blind.
Ashok took him to see Vicky Rai's farmhouse after lunch. They went through the Sanjay Gandhi slum, a warren of narrow, dark alleyways containing a conglomeration of small, squalid huts held together by bamboo poles and tattered burlap bags, their roofs an ugly patchwork of tarpaulin, plastic sheets, pieces of metal, old clothes – anything the owners could lay their hands on – and weighed down with rocks as protection against the wind. A group of men wearing pathan suits lazed in the open while their women filled pots of water from a municipal tap or chopped vegetables. Naked children caked in dust played with mangy dogs. Piles of rubbish and animal waste littered the ground like dead leaves. The smell of wood smoke and dung cooking fires drifted in the air.
Eketi tugged at Ashok's sleeve. 'Do people really live in these huts?'
Ashok stared at him irritably. 'Of course they do. Have you never been to a slum?'
Eketi shook his head slowly. 'Even birds make better nests on our island.'
Almost directly opposite the slum stood Number Six. Set behind high metal gates, it was a triple-storey marble mansion, towering over the neighbourhood like a permanent taunt. Behind the mansion the fluted sandstone minaret of the Qutub Minar peeked out, barely a kilometre away.
Crossing the road to take a closer look at the farmhouse, Ashok and Eketi came to the rust-coloured boundary wall, fifteen feet high and topped by barbed wire. 'How will we ever manage to enter this place?' the tribal wondered. 'Even Eketi cannot climb this wall.'
'We will. Don't worry,' Ashok assured him as they passed the main gate, which had at least six guards in police uniforms. They rounded a corner and turned left towards the northern end of the property. They came across a service entrance which appeared to be unguarded. Ashok tried the door, only to find it firmly locked from inside. The barbed-wire-topped boundary wall stretched for another five hundred metres and had no cavities, gaps or fractures which could be exploited. It was only when they were circling the rear boundary that Ashok saw something which made him pause. Tucked inside the cement wall was a small brown metal door, probably some kind of pedestrian entrance. It didn't appear to be in use as the paint had flaked off and the edges were rusted. Ashok tried the rusty metal handle, but the door did not open. In fact, there was so little give that it appeared not only to be locked but also boarded up from the inside. He stepped back and surveyed his surroundings. Behind him was a clump of eucalyptus trees and then a thorny jungle, full of acacia bushes. The brambles made the entire area behind Number Six not only uninhabitable but also virtually inaccessible. 'If only we could get this door to open,' he said wistfully.
'Eketi can open this door by getting inside the boundary wall,' the tribal remarked.
'But how will you get inside the boundary wall?'
'Through this,' Eketi said, tapping the tall eucalyptus tree.
'But the branches of this tree don't extend over the wall. How will you do it?'
'I will show you,' Eketi said and began sliding up the trunk of the eucalyptus tree. Within seconds he had reached the top. Catching hold of a sturdy branch, he began pulling it down with his weight till it became taut as a slingshot. Then kicking the trunk with his feet, he launched himself like a human arrow at the branches and foliage of a jamun tree jutting over the boundary wall. As a horrified Ashok watched, he flew through the air and landed on top of the jamun tree. From there it was child's play for him to make his way to the ground. A minute later the rusted metal gate creaked open.
'You know you are mad, don't you?' Ashok shook his head as he entered the door. The tribal grinned, unmindful of the numerous cuts and scratches on his body.
The welfare officer was in a state of mild euphoria as he took his first few steps inside the grounds of Number 6. He couldn't believe that within hours of arriving in Delhi he was actually inside the farmhouse. The sound of flowing water entered his ears, together with the mechanical hum of a lawnmower. He glimpsed a gardener busy shaving the grass on the lawn, barely a hundred feet away, and was about to duck behind a tree when he realized that the natural darkness of the wooded area would make it impossible for anyone on the lawn to detect him. From where he stood, the layout of the entire complex was clearly visible and once the gardener had moved further away he pointed out the main features to Eketi – the three-storey mansion in the distance, the Olympic-sized pool, the gazebo, and the small temple in the right-hand corner of the lawn. 'That is where the ingetayi is. I am absolutely certain,' he told Eketi.
'Then let's go and get it,' Eketi said.
'Haven't you learnt anything in the last five months?' Ashok rebuked him. 'Didn't you see the gardener? And there will be twenty other servants and guards in the house. We will be caught in a second.'
'Then let's do it at night, under cover of darkness.'
Ashok indicated the tall electric poles placed at regular intervals on the lawn. 'These are powerful spotlights. I bet you at night they light up this whole area like day.'
'Then how will we do it?'
'Have patience. Something will come to me,' said Ashok.
They spent another fifteen minutes exploring the wooded area, coming across two magnificent peacocks. At the very edge of the wood, near the north-eastern corner, they saw a man-made waterfall. Water cascaded down a few large boulders into a narrow canal which ran alongside a cobbled pathway leading towards the garages and the front gate. Ashok tiptoed towards the garages, which were shuttered, took a good look around and then hurried back to Eketi. 'I've got a plan,' he said excitedly. 'But you must remember the location of these two garages.'
They went out through the same rear gate and walked back to the temple.
Champi was sitting on the wooden bench in the back garden again when Eketi returned. He felt drawn to her like a magnet. As he sat down beside her, Champi smiled. 'Oh, you are back.'
'Do you sit here all the time?' he asked.
'I like it here,' she replied. 'It is quiet. Everyone else prefers the front garden.'
'I didn't know you were blind. Your eyes look just like everyone else's. How did it happen?'
'I was born like this.'
'It must be very hard, not being able to see who you are talking to.'
'I have got used to the blackness now.'
'Maybe Nokai will have a
cure for your blindness.'
'Who is Nokai?'
'Our torale, medicine man.'
'Really? Can he really make me see?'
'Short of bringing a dead person back to life, he can do anything.'
'Then will you take me to him? To Jharkhand?'
'Actually he doesn't live in Jharkhand. He lives on an island.'
'What is this island you keep talking about?'
Eketi dropped his voice to a whisper. 'I will tell you if you promise to keep it a secret.'
'Allah kasam. Promise.' Champi pinched her neck.
'I am not really Jiba Korwa from Jharkhand. I am Eketi Onge from Gaubolambe,' he said conspiratorially.
'Where is that?'
'Little Andaman.'
'And where is that?'
'That is in the middle of the ocean. You get there on a big ship.'
'Then why have you come here?'
'I have come to take back a sacred stone which was stolen from us.'
'And what will you do once you get your sacred stone?'
'I will go back to my island.'
'Oh!' said Champi and fell silent.
'At first I wanted to stay,' Eketi continued. 'I thought I would start a new life here, get a wife. But now I want to go back. The people here behave as if they own the world. And they treat me like I am some kind of animal.'
'I don't think like that,' said Champi.
'That is because you cannot see me. I am not like you people. I am different. And every time someone calls me blackie, something curls inside me. I feel as if I have committed some kind of crime. But the colour of my skin is the colour of my skin. There is nothing I can do about it.'
'I agree. Just as I cannot do anything about my face. It is God's will,' Champi said and slowly raised her right hand. With her index finger, she traced the contours of his face, memorizing every angle, every shallow curve and declension. 'Now I can see you.'
Eketi shivered from her touch and looked into her unseeing eyes. 'Tell me, are you married?'
'What kind of question is that?' Champi giggled. 'Of course not.'
'Neither am I. Will you come with me to my island?'
'And what do you promise me there?'