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 ocean'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.'
The Nigerian receded into the shadows and Eketi advanced towards Munusamy's door. A servant was expecting him. He led Eketi up a flight of steps and showed him into a drawing room where a balding, middle-aged man was seated on a cream sofa. Mr Munusamy wore a white shirt over a cream-coloured veshti. He had a round face dominated by two features: a small rectangular moustache which looked like hair jutting out of his nose, and three horizontal lines of yellow clay on his forehead.
'Welcome, welcome,' he greeted Eketi.
Eketi bowed and handed over the envelope.
Munusamy quickly read Mike's note and looked at the tribal with a crestfallen expression. 'I was looking forward to meeting the great Michael Busari, but it turns out you are just his agent.'
'Give me money,' Eketi said.
'Here it is,' said Munusamy and pulled out a small briefcase which he had neatly concealed behind his legs.
As Eketi bent down to pick up the briefcase, a flashbulb popped in his face with the suddenness of lightning. Almost simultaneously five policemen rushed into the room from various doors and pounced on him.
'You are under arrest,' an Inspector announced. Before he could comprehend what was happening, he was handcuffed and bundled into a police van.
At the police station, a decrepit-looking building with a shingle roof, he was thrown inside a large cell. He protested his innocence in broken English, and tried to plead with the constables, but they threatened him with sticks. So he curled up on the cement floor and waited for Mike to show up. He was confident his friend would explain everything and have him released from the lock-up before long.
The police station remained a hive of activity all through the night. First to be brought in was a tough-looking hoodlum dressed in a brown leather jacket. Then came a drunk. He swayed into the lock-up and crashed down senseless on the floor. Finally two young boys, no more than sixteen, were dragged inside and mercilessly beaten up by the constables. With each passing hour a sinking dread spread in Eketi's stomach.
Mike didn't turn up even by noon the next day, but a certain Inspector Satya Prakash Pandey from Bihar Police did. He was pot-bellied and constantly chewed betel nut. He had a stern face, with a curled-up moustache, and he gave an impression of fretful impatience, like a wild animal on a leash. The only silver lining was that he spoke Hindi.
'I have come to take you with me to Patna,' he informed Eketi. 'That is where Michael Busari is wanted for murder.'
'Murder?'
'Yes. He swindled a businessman, who committed suicide. Now you, motherfucker, will be our star witness in the court case against Busari.'
'But Mike is a good man.'
'Good man?' the Inspector guffawed. 'Your boss Mr Michael Busari, also known as the Hawk, is wanted in connection with fourteen cases of cheating in seven States. He has defrauded several businessmen with his black dollar and bogus oilinvestment swindles. So we laid a trap for him in Chennai. Mr Munusamy was the decoy, and Busari was supposed to be our prize. But instead, we've got you. Are you Nigerian too?'
'No. I am Jiba Korwa from Jharkhand.'
'From Jharkhand? Where in Jharkhand?'
'I… I don't remember.'
'You don't remember, eh? Don't worry, this hand of mine has cleared the minds of many hardened gangsters. You are just a greenhorn,' the Inspector smirked.
With his wrists handcuffed, Eketi was driven to the railway station the next afternoon and put on a train to Patna. The only other person in the first-class cabin with him was Inspector Pandey.
The train began its three-day journey to Patna at three twenty-five p.m. and an hour later the Inspector commenced his interrogation. 'OK, sisterfucker, I want to know everything about you,' he said and spat out a stream of blood-red betel-nut juice through the metal bars on the window.
'I told you, I am Jiba Korwa from Jharkhand,' said the tribal.
'And what were you doing in Chennai?'
'I just came to visit.'
Without any warning, the Inspector slapped him with his open palm. Eketi reeled back in pain. 'I told you to tell me the truth, sisterfucker. Once again, where are you from?' the Inspector barked.
'Jharkhand.'
'Which village in Jharkhand?'
'I don't know,' said Eketi and was rewarded with another stinging blow on his cheek.
'I am asking for the last time. Tell me the truth or you will die on this train.'
The grilling continued all through the evening and all through the night. By the middle of the next day, Eketi caved in, unable to withstand the punishment any longer. Sobbing and sniffling, he revealed everything about his journey from Little Andaman, about Ashok, and about his meeting with Busari.
The police officer heard out Eketi patiently. Inserting yet another fresh paan into his mouth, he gave a satisfied grunt. 'Finally you have told the truth, motherfucker. They say my hand is like an iron claw; it always manages to extract the facts from the suspect.'