Vikas Swarup - Six Suspects

When he returned home that evening he found the house in complete disarray. The cupboard had been ransacked, there was blood on the floor, and there was no sign of Dolly. It was a tearful Rekha who filled him in. Apparently Rajneesh Gupta had come to the colony that afternoon with three hired goons armed with hockey sticks. They had barged into Dolly's house and beaten her senseless. The eunuch had bled profusely and had required thirty stitches. 'She is now in the district hospital in Kabir Chaura, hanging on to life by a thread.'

'No! No!' the Onge cried and ran out blindly. He had just reached the gates of the hospital when a group of eunuchs trooped out. Four of them held aloft a bamboo stretcher on which lay a body wrapped in a white shroud. They were followed by three other eunuchs, chanting 'Ram Nam Satya Hai. He didn't need to look at the dead body to know it was Dolly, being taken on her final journey. The death chant rang in his ears with the pealing clarity of hammer hitting metal. The breath went out of his lungs as though someone had punched him in the stomach. He slumped down on the ground like a broken puppet.

He returned from the hospital in a daze and walked with heavy steps to Dolly's house. Entering it, he went straight to the pillaged cupboard and made a desperate search for his savings, only to find every rupee gone. He stood for a while in the room, staring at the dried bloodstains on the floor, imagining the savagery of the afternoon. Then abruptly he picked up his canvas bag and walked out of the colony.

As he crossed Chowk, the air began to resonate with the sound of chanting and the jangling of bells. He looked up at the darkening sky. The sun had set and the Ganga Aarti, the evening prayer ceremony, had begun on Dasashwamedh Ghat. But today he felt no temptation to walk down to the river. Dolly had gone to some special heaven for eunuchs. This city was done with her. And he was done with this city.

On the outskirts of Varanasi, close to the highway, he came across a stalled truck. It was laden with pilgrims who were going to a place called Magh Mela. The driver, a turbaned Sikh with a long black beard, was trying to repair a puncture. Eketi begged him for a lift and the Sikh relented.

Just before sunrise on 22 January the truck offloaded its human cargo on a concrete bridge overlooking the Ganges, and Eketi found himself in yet another new city.

Dawn was breaking lazily over the holy city of Prayag. The air was cold and bracing. Waves lapped gently at the sandy riverbank. The crimson rays of the embryonic sun tinged the water with rainbow hues. Wooden boats swayed lazily at the river's edge. A smoky haze hung in the atmosphere, clothing the landscape in shades of grey. Flocks of birds rose in the air, smudging the ruddy sky with dark little spots. A sea of coloured banners and saffron pennants fluttered in the wind. In the distance, Naini Bridge rumbled into life as an express train clattered over its metal frame. Akbar's Red Fort dominated the skyline, dwarfing the makeshift buildings and tents which had sprouted all across the temporary township.

This, Eketi learnt, was the Magh Mela, an annual bathing festival. As he stood on the sandy riverbank, a procession of dancers and musicians arrived, preceded by a messenger who carried a turban aloft on a pole. The musicians created a cacophony of gong and drum beats, conch shells and trumpets, heralding the arrival of the Naga sadhus. A mighty roar went up as a group of ash-smeared monks ran into the water wearing nothing but marigold garlands, brandishing steel swords and iron tridents and screaming, 'Glory to Mahadev!' Devotees moved away in fright or bowed in reverence the moment the naked Nagas appeared. Eketi stood transfixed as the sadhus splashed themselves with water and cartwheeled on the sand. He was fascinated by their long matted hair and fearful red eyes, but most of all he was fascinated by their utter disdain for clothes.

The Nagas were followed by the heads of the various spiritual sects. These saffron-wrapped saints arrived by various means of transport. One came on a spluttering tractor, while another sat on a silver throne in the back of a trailer. Some were borne aloft on leopard-skin rugs in jewelled palanquins, while others came in golden chariots with silk umbrellas, trailed by hundreds of followers singing their praises and chanting bhajans.

The converging point for all these groups was sangam, that sliver of water which demarcated the meeting point of north and west, where the yellowish-brown currents of the Ganga merged with the bluish-black waters of the Yamuna. The shallow water was crawling with shivering devotees. Men in various stages of undress, displaying all makes of underwear, ladies struggling to protect their modesty while offering prayers with both hands, little boys splashing in the muddy water. Orange marigold flowers bobbed on the water's surface alongside empty Tetra Pak containers and transparent plastic trash. Chants hailing Lord Shiva and Mother Ganges rent the air.

Eketi also took a quick dip in the cold water and then hung around the riverbank, enjoying the free puris and jalebis being doled out by well-heeled devotees, and generally lazing in the sun. When it became too hot he decided to explore the Mela grounds and walked straight into a makeshift bazaar, reeking of incense and spice. Here women tried on a million coloured glass bangles and purchased copious quantities of vermilion sindoor, while little children lay siege to toyshops, begging their fathers to buy them plastic guns and miniature glass animals. Roadside astrologers enticed customers with good-luck charms for everything under the sun. Book stalls did brisk trade with their cheaply printed devotional booklets and lurid posters spread out on the ground, where the old gods and goddesses – Krishna, Lakshmi, Shiva and Durga – jostled for space with new ones – Sachin Tendulkar, Salim Ilyasi, Shabnam Saxena and Shilpa Shetty. A flute vendor kept repeating the same monotonous tune, an indefatigable salesman tried to persuade housewives to try their hand at his seven-in-one aluminium grater, and a glib-talking hawker sold snake oil as a cure for impotence.

The carnival contained several large tents housing attractions for the whole family. Laughter rang out from the Hall of Fun House Mirrors and shrieks from the Freak Show, which promised a man without a stomach and a woman grafted on to a snake's body. There was even a giant wheel, a photo studio and a magic show. But the biggest queue was outside a tent advertised as RANGEELA DISCO DHAMAKA. Men ogled at the ten-foot billboard over the entrance which had cut-outs of two girls in oversized bras and hot pants striking provocative poses. The sound of loud music came from inside the tent.

A ticket vendor sitting inside a booth winked slyly at him. 'Wanna have a look? Only twenty rupees.'

'No,' laughed Eketi. 'Why waste money just to see a woman's breasts?'

He showed much more interest in the archery stall, where customers tried to win teddy bears by using a bow and arrow to puncture balloons pinned to a square board. After observing several failed attempts, he stepped up to the stall owner and handed over a ten-rupee note from the five he still had with him. A group of small children clustered around him and cheered him on. As he took aim, the sinews in his body tensed up. Memories of that last pig hunt on the island came rushing back, touching him with its distant excitement. He released the arrow and it hit the balloon right in the centre of the board. The children whooped and jumped; the owner grimaced and parted with a teddy bear. Eketi handed the toy to a little girl and picked up another arrow. By the time he left the stall, the children had twenty teddy bears to play with and the tearful manager was preparing to close his booth.