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.'
'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.