Vikas Swarup - Six Suspects

'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.

The bus dropped them in front of the Bhole Nath Temple in Mehrauli. 'This is where I have arranged for our stay,' said Ashok, 'courtesy of Mr Singhania, a very rich businessman who is on the temple's board.'

Eketi was impressed by the temple complex. He was even more impressed by Ashok's suite, which was usually reserved for visiting saints. Spacious and well-furnished, it had marble flooring and a bathroom with gold-plated fittings. Eketi himself was not staying in such luxury. He had been banished to an outhouse, to an empty shack next to the sweeper's quarters. It was just a bare room, without even a bed.

As Eketi put his canvas bag on the floor, the aroma of food drifted in through the open door and made his mouth water. Breakfast was being prepared in the neighbouring kholi.

He stepped out of his shack and found himself in a garden. The temple was just stirring to life, but already he could see a fair number of worshippers inside the sanctum sanctorum. A girl was sitting all alone on a wooden bench under a beautiful tree. Even though her back was towards him, she sensed his presence immediately and attempted to get up.

'No, please don't go,' he said hastily.

She sat down again, covering her face with her right palm. Only her black eyes were visible through the finger-wrapped chrysalis of her face.

'Why are you hiding your face?' he asked.

'Because I don't like talking to people.'

He sat down next to her. 'Neither do I.'

There was an awkward silence between them till the girl spoke again. 'Why don't you go away, like the others?'

'Why should I go away?'