Six Suspects (34 page)

Eketi pointed towards the tram.

'I don't see any Ashok,' the constable said as he caught Eketi
by the scruff of his neck. 'You'd better come with me to the
police station, where we shall check what you have in your bag.'

He was about to drag Eketi over to the other side of the road
when Ashok finally managed to extricate himself from the tram
and came running towards the cop. 'Excuse me, Officer,' the
welfare officer wheezed. 'This fellow is with me. I have his ticket.'

He produced two tickets from his breast pocket.
The constable snatched the tickets and scrutinized them. With
great reluctance, he let go of Eketi.

The moment they were out of earshot of the constable, Ashok
delivered a stinging slap on the tribal's cheek. 'Now listen, you
black swine,' he fumed. 'You pull another stunt like this and I'll let
you rot in jail for the rest of your life. This is India, not your jungle
where you can do as you please.'

Eketi glared at him and said nothing.

They returned to the hotel and had a light lunch. At around six
p.m. Ashok decided to check out Banerjee's house.

They hailed an auto-rickshaw and Ashok gave the driver the
address from a slip of paper in his wallet. 'Take us to Tollygunge.
At the corner of Indrani Park and JM Road.'

The auto-rickshaw took them through quiet back lanes to
avoid the mad rush of shoppers on the main streets. They alighted
at the corner of Indrani Park and discovered the pond they were
looking for almost immediately. It was little more than a
depression in the ground, full of dirty monsoon water and edged
with decaying reeds. But it was ringed by five houses, and the one
on the extreme right had a bright-green roof.

'Banerjee's house!' Eketi exclaimed.

It was a typical middle-class residence, modest and undistinguished.
Made of brick, it had a small garden surrounded by
a wooden fence. The nameplate on the rickety gate said 'S. K.
Banerjee'.

'Should Eketi go in and get the
ingetayi
?' the tribal asked.

'Do you think you can just enter the house and ask Banerjee
for the sea-rock?' Ashok scoffed. 'He stole it from you, now you
will have to steal it from him.'

'How will Eketi do that?'

'That is something I will have to figure out.'

For the next hour, they cautiously surveyed the house from all
possible angles, looking for an open window or back door. Ashok
couldn't find any obvious vulnerability.

'Eketi knows how to go inside,' the tribal declared suddenly.

'How?'

'Through that.' Eketi pointed to a blackish-green chimney on
the roof.

'Don't be foolish. You'll never be able to climb that roof, let
alone get inside that narrow chimney.'

'Eketi will,' he declared confidently. 'I can show you right
now.' He was about to jump over the fence when Ashok caught
his shoulder. 'No, no, you idiot. You cannot break into someone's
house in broad daylight. You have to wait for Banerjee and his
neighbours to go to sleep.'

They killed time by browsing at the many roadside market
stalls which had sprouted in Tollygunge during the
puja
season.
After a late dinner of appetizing fish curry and rice, they returned
to Banerjee's house.

The area around the pond was quiet. The lights in the neighbouring
houses had been switched off, but a single striplight still
glowed inside Banerjee's house.

They waited under the awning of a milk booth till the striplight
was extinguished just after midnight. Eketi instantly zipped
open his bag and took out lumps of red and white clay, together
with the pouch of pig fat. He removed his cap and began stripping
off his clothes. 'What are you doing?' Ashok asked in alarm.

'Eketi is preparing for taking the
ingetayi
. Onge have to show
it proper respect.'

He disappeared behind the booth and emerged half an hour
later wearing only a genital pouch and the jawbone around his
neck. There were horizontal stripes of red and white across
his face and a delicate white herringbone design along the
middle of his chest and abdomen. He looked like a trick of
the night.

'I hope no one sees you like this. Even I am getting the jitters.'
Ashok pretended to shiver and squinted at his watch. 'It is almost
one o'clock now. Time for you to climb that roof.'

Without a word, Eketi loped off towards Banerjee's house.

He jumped over the wooden railing around the house effortlessly
and clambered on to the roof with the nimbleness of a monkey,
his bare feet making no sound. The chimney was quite narrow, but
by twisting his body he managed to lower himself inside it, black
soot coming off on his hands like powder. Through the strategic
placement of hands and legs, the tribal climbed down the chimney
and landed on the kitchen counter with a little thud.

It took him only a few seconds to get used to the pitch darkness.
He opened the kitchen door and stepped into a gallery. There
were three doors to his left. He entered the first one. It was an
empty bathroom and there was no sign of the sacred rock in it. He
tiptoed out and tried the second door. It was unlocked, but the
moment he stepped inside a switch flicked on and his eyes were
dazzled with light. He saw a bespectacled old man sitting on the
bed, wearing light-blue pyjamas.

'Come in, I've been expecting you,' Banerjee said in Onge, his
voice deadpan.

'Where is our
ingetayi
?' Eketi demanded.

'I will tell you. But first tell me who you are. I know you
people can travel out of your bodies. Are you real or are you just
a shadow?'

'What difference does it make?'

'You are right,' he said morosely. 'Even dreams can kill. So are
you going to kill me for stealing your sacred rock?'

'Onge people are not like Jarawas. Eketi has come only for the
stone. Where is it?'

'It is no longer with me. I got rid of it ten days ago.'

'
Onerta?
Why?'

'Because it is cursed, isn't it? I should have known. It took
away my son, my only son.' Banerjee's voice broke.

'What happened?'

'He was studying in America. Two weeks ago, he died in a freak
road accident. I know I am to blame. If only I had not taken your
ingetayi
, Ananda would have been alive,' Banerjee sobbed.

'Who has it now?'

'I will tell you, but on one condition.'

'What?'

'You have to tell me how to bring a dead person back to life.'

Eketi shook his head. 'Even Nokai cannot do that. No one can
challenge the will of Puluga.'

'Please, I beg you. My wife is going insane grieving over our
son. I cannot continue like this any more,' Banerjee cried with
folded hands.

'It is the curse of the
onkobowkwe
. You have invited it upon
yourself,' Eketi shrugged. 'Now tell me who has the
ingetayi
.'

'No,' Banerjee said with sudden fierceness. 'If you cannot bring
my son back to life, then you are not getting your
ingetayi
either.'
With the speed of a cat, he jumped off the bed, darted out of the
door and locked himself inside the bathroom.

'Open up.' Eketi banged at the door, but Banerjee refused to
open it. Seething with frustration, the tribal made a thorough
search of all the other rooms in the house, damaging a couple of
cupboards and breaking some porcelain idols in the process, but
did not find the sacred rock. In Banerjee's bedroom, however, he
discovered a black leather wallet lying on the bedside table.
He grabbed it, walked to the front door, undid the latch and let
himself out into the garden.

Two minutes later he was back at the milk booth.

'What happened? I saw a light come on. Is everything all right?'
Ashok asked breathlessly.

'Yes.'

'But where is the sacred rock?'

'It is not in the house.'

'Not in the house? That means Banerjee must have sold it. Did
he give any clue?'

'No. But I brought you this.' Eketi handed over the leather
wallet. Ashok flipped it open. There was very little cash inside, but
he whistled as he extracted a business card. 'Calcutta Antique
Traders,' it said. 'Prop. Sanjeev Kaul. 18B, Park Street, Kolkata
700016.'

'I bet you Banerjee has sold the
ingetayi
to this dealer,' Ashok
declared.

'So how do we get it from him?'

'I will pay him a visit tomorrow.'

'But how do we go back to the hotel? Will we find a taxi now?'

No sooner had the tribal said this than an auto-rickshaw
spluttered to life in a nearby alley. They ran towards it. 'Will you
take us to Sudder Street?' Ashok asked the driver, a middle-aged
man who reeked of alcohol.

The driver looked at him with large eyes, then looked at Eketi,
and ran screaming from his vehicle.

Park Street was a modern, upmarket shopping area, full of
designer clothes shops and trendy boutiques. Calcutta Antiques
turned out to be a fairly big establishment next to a fancy
Continental restaurant. Ashok Rajput entered through an ornate
brass door to find extensive repair work being done inside the
shop. The ceiling was blackened with soot and there was a strong
smell of charring. A tall, fair man with an overly long nose looked
at him enquiringly.

'What happened here?' Ashok asked.

'We had a devastating fire three days ago. Half our shop burned
down. We lost a lot of antiques, but luckily no one was injured.'

'Are you Mr Sanjeev Kaul?'

'Yes. What can I do for you?'

'My name is Ashok Rajput. I am with the Tribal Welfare
Agency in the Andamans,' he declared in an officious tone and
produced his laminated ID card. 'I am here in connection with the
theft of an ancient stone artefact belonging to the Onge tribe. Did
Mr S. K. Banerjee sell a
shivling
to you?'

'Yes. About ten days ago.'

'Do you realize, Mr Kaul, that you are in violation of the
Antiquities and Art Treasures Act 1972?'

'Banerjee did not tell me that it was an antiquity from the
Andamans.' Kaul frowned. 'Look, I was not aware I was breaking
any law. I thought it was just an old rock .'

'I would like to see it.'

'I am sorry, it is no longer with me. Last Monday I sold it to a
client of mine from Chennai.'

'Chennai?'

'Yes.'

'Oh no!' said Ashok and balled his hands into fists. 'I want full
details of this person to whom you sold the stone.'

Ten minutes later he emerged from the showroom with a slip
of paper bearing yet another address. When he returned to the
hotel room, Eketi was still sleeping.

'Get up, you bastard, and start packing,' he said.

'Where are we going now?'

'To Chennai,' Ashok replied. 'To meet one Mr S. P. Rajagopal.'

'And how will we go?'

'By train.'

Howrah station was busier than usual because of the festive season.
Eketi gazed at the chaos on the platforms, the rows of passengers
sprawled on the cold floor, the shrill vendors selling magazines and
sodas, and especially the porters in red, their heads loaded with
suitcases and boxes. He observed the sweat pouring down their
faces and turned to Ashok. 'Why do you people work so hard?'

'Because we don't get free meals like your tribe,' Ashok said
scornfully. 'Do you know how much these tickets to Chennai have
cost me? This trip is becoming a nightmare.'

'But Eketi is loving it!'

As the train came hurtling towards the platform, Eketi
tightened up in alarm. He cowered behind Ashok for a few
moments before gingerly stepping inside the sleeper compartment.
Women shrank back as soon as he entered, and clutched
their handbags nervously. Children looked at him in fear and
receded into their fathers. Eketi smiled. A dazzling, pearl-white
smile. The train relaxed.

He grabbed a seat next to the window and didn't budge from
it throughout the twenty-seven-hour journey, feeling the sun in
his eyes, the wind in his face, watching the changing kaleidoscope
of colours as dull brown cornfields gave way to lush green
rice fields, marvelling at the vastness of this country where you
could travel for hours, passing village after village, and still not
reach your destination. As day dimmed to night, the relentless
rhythm of the train became a lullaby which gently rocked him
to sleep.

Everything was different about Chennai. The weather was hotter
than Kolkata and more humid. The men were swarthier and wore
moustaches. The women were dressed in colourful saris and had
flowers in their hair. No one spoke Hindi.

As soon as they left the brick-red Gothic structure of Chennai
Central, the tribal sniffed the air. The north-east monsoon was still
active and the aroma of rain hung in the air like a moist perfume.
'Does this place have a sea?'

'Yes. How do you know?' asked Ashok.

'Eketi can smell it.'

They boarded one of the ubiquitous yellow-and-black autorickshaws
and Ashok told the driver to take them straight to
Rajagopal's residence on Sterling Road in Nungambakkam. As
they entered the swirl of traffic outside the station, Eketi looked
in wide-eyed wonderment at the imposing buildings and elegant
showrooms lining the crowded boulevard. The city was full of
hoardings, advertising the latest Tamil blockbusters, but what fascinated
him most were the giant plywood images of politicians
and film stars dotting the streets, some as tall as two-storey buildings.
Chennai was a cut-out city. A giant smiling woman in a sari
competed for votes with an old man in dark glasses. Lusty-eyed
heroines and moustachioed heroes with exaggerated hair-dos
towered over the traffic like colossi.

Sterling Road was a busy thoroughfare, full of commercial
establishments, banks and offices, interspersed with large houses. The
auto-rickshaw dropped them off directly in front of Rajagopal's
The Curse of the
Onkobowkwe 297
residence, which was an elegant green-and-yellow-painted villa. Two
uniformed guards stood impassively on duty on either side of the
high metal gates, which for some reason were open.