Six Suspects

'This takes the biscuit.' The welfare officer gave a sardonic laugh. 'You really think that a worthless idiot like you will get a wife here? Have you taken a look at yourself in the mirror? Who will marry a black midget like you?'

'Leave that to Puluga,' Eketi said petulantly.

Ashok's demeanour suddenly changed. 'Look, you bastard. This is not a tourist excursion I brought you on. You came to get the ingetayi. We didn't find it. So you must go back to Little Andaman. Tomorrow the Nancowry will sail for Port Blair from here, and you will be on that ship with me. I've had enough of your nonsense. Now come with me, we have to find a hotel for the night.'

Ashok flagged down an auto-rickshaw, but the tribal refused to board it. 'Eketi will not go,' he said adamantly.

'Don't force me to hit you, blackie.' Ashok raised his hand.

'Eketi will not go even if you hit him.'

'Then should I call the police? Do you know that any tribal caught outside his reserve can be jailed immediately?'

Eketi's eyes flickered with fear, and Ashok pressed home his advantage. 'Now get in, you bastard,' he said through clenched teeth and pushed the tribal into the auto-rickshaw.

'Take us to Egmore,' he instructed the driver.

As they drove through the mid-afternoon traffic, the tribal sat in tense anticipation, like a sprinter crouching at the start line. His pulse quickened when the auto-rickshaw approached a busy intersection. The moment it stopped at the traffic light, he leapt out with his black canvas bag. Ashok could only watch, flabbergasted and helpless, as he dashed through the maze of cars, buses, scooters and rickshaws, and soon disappeared from the welfare officer's view.

He ran for a long time, dodging carts and cows, darting through empty playgrounds and passing jam-packed cinema halls. Finally he stopped to catch his breath in front of a cycle repair shop. Stooped on his haunches, he drew in a lungful of air and then took a good look at his surroundings. The cycle shop was situated in the middle of a bustling market. In the distance he could see a traffic island with a big statue in the centre. For a long time he stood at the edge of the road, inhaling the noxious fumes from passing trucks and cars, listening to the din that radiated from the crossing, feeling increasingly like a lost boy in a crowd of strangers. He was also beginning to feel hungry. That is when he noticed a tall man standing on the opposite side of the road, wearing fashionable dark glasses, a loose white linen shirt and grey trousers. He was leaning casually against the metal railing of a bus shelter and smoking a cigarette. Like him, the stranger also had small knots of closely coiled hair. But what drew him to the man was the colour of his skin, almost as jet black as his.

Eketi crossed the road and moved towards the bus shelter. The stranger noticed him almost immediately and quickly crushed the cigarette under the heel of his shoe.

'Who do we have here? An African brother!' he exclaimed.

Eketi gave him a nervous smile.

'And where might you be from, my brother? Senegal? Togo? Parlez-vous françis?'

Eketi shrugged his shoulders and the stranger tried again. 'Then you must be from Kenya. Ninaweza kusema Kiswahili.'

Eketi shook his head. 'Myself called Jiba Korwa from Jharkhand,' he said.

'Oh! So you are Indian? How wonderful.' The stranger clapped his hands. 'Do you speak Hindi?'

Eketi nodded.

'I speak eight languages, and your language is one of them,' he said in perfect Hindi. 'I studied in Patna University,' he added by way of explanation.

'What is your name?' Eketi asked.

'Michael Busari at your service, from the great city of Abuja in Nigeria. My friends call me Mike.'

At that very moment a policeman rode past on his motorcycle and Eketi instinctively ducked behind the bus shelter. He continued to skulk even after the cop had crossed the intersection.

Mike patted him on the shoulder. 'I can see that you are in some sort of trouble, brother. The world is not a good place, especially for black people. But fear not, now I shall protect you.'

There was something deeply reassuring about the Nigerian's manner, which appealed immediately to Eketi. 'Do you know this city well?' he asked.

'Not really, brother. I've lived mostly in North India. But I know enough about Chennai to guide you.'

'I am hungry,' Eketi said. 'Can you give me something to eat?'

'I was going to have lunch myself. What would you like to eat?'

'Do they have pig meat here?'

'Pork, eh? I can arrange that for dinner. But for lunch let's go to McDonald's.'

'What's that?'

'You've never tasted a Big Mac? Then come, brother, allow me to introduce you to the wonderful world of junk food.'

Mike led the way to a nearby McDonald's where he bought Eketi a full-size meal and an ice-cream cone. As the tribal polished off a juicy burger, Mike draped his arm across Eketi's shoulder. 'Now tell me, my friend, what have you done? Have you killed someone?'

'No,' said Eketi, munching on his French fries.

'Then you must have robbed someone?'

'No,' said Eketi and slurped his Coke. 'I have only run away from Ashok.'

'Ashok? Now who is this Ashok?'

'Kujelli!' said Eketi and bit his lip. 'He is a bad man who was troubling me.'

'Oh, so he was your employer? And you got fed up of him and ran away from your village?'

'Yes, yes,' Eketi nodded eagerly, beginning on the ice cream.

'But how did you land up in Chennai, brother? That's a long way from Jharkhand.'

'Ashok brought me here for some work. I don't know what,' said Eketi and gave a satisfied burp.

'If you are on the run, I'm presuming you don't have a place to stay. Is that right?' Mike asked.

'Yes. I don't have a house here.'

'No problem. I shall take care of that as well. Come, let me take you to my pad.'

They boarded a garish green MTC bus for T. Nagar, where the Nigerian rented a modest two-room house. Mike took Eketi inside and pointed to an oversized sofa in the drawing room. 'You can sleep on that. Now get some rest while I nip across to buy provisions for dinner.'

Mike had taken off his dark glasses and for the first time Eketi saw the Nigerian's eyes. They were cold and emotionless, but the tribal was reassured by his smile, which was full of warmth and friendship. Mike was also an excellent cook and his dinner of lentil soup and spicy pork sausages had Eketi licking his fingers.

Lying on the sofa that night, feeling sated and safe, the Onge thanked Puluga for the kindness of strangers. And the tastiness of pork.

Michael Busari loved to talk. And even though he addressed Eketi while he was speaking, the tribal felt he was talking to himself. Through these monologues, Eketi learnt that Mike had been living in India for the past seven years. He said he was a businessman with several ventures and had come to Chennai a week ago to conclude a transaction with a jewellery merchant by the name of J. D. Munusamy. 'This is where I might need your help, brother.' He patted Eketi on the knee.

'What kind of help?'

'I have persuaded Mr Munusamy to make a major investment in the Nigerian oil industry. It is a venture which will bring him a very hefty profit. As the middleman, I am entitled to my commission. Munusamy was to have transferred one hundred thousand dollars to my bank account, but at the last minute he said he would give me cash. I want you to collect that cash on my behalf from his house. Can you do this little job for your brother?'

'For you I can even give my life,' Eketi said and hugged Mike.

'Good. Then you shall have an appointment with Mr Munusamy at nine p.m. on 26 October – that's two days from now. Till then relax, enjoy, eat, drink.'

Eketi took that advice to heart, spending the rest of the day lazing in the house, watching television and gorging on pork sausages. In the evening he requested Mike to take him to the beach, and the Nigerian obliged.