Six Suspects (35 page)

'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.'

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?'