'SP told me he had bought a shivling from an antique dealer in Kolkata. Can I see it?'

'Oh, that shivling? Adu Poyiduthu! It's gone. It is now with Guruji.'

'Guruji? Who is he?'

'Swami Haridas. Raja was his disciple for the past six years. Guruji came for the funeral yesterday. He saw the shivling and asked if he could have it. So I gave it to him. Now that Raja is gone, what would I have done with it?'

'Can you tell me where Guruji lives? Is it close by?'

'He lives in Mathura.'

' Mathura? You mean Mathura in Uttar Pradesh?'

'Yes. That is where he has an ashram. But he has branches all over India.'

Ashok slumped back. 'So now I will have to travel all the way to Uttar Pradesh!'

'Why? What is your interest in that shivling?'

'It is rather complicated… Can you give me Swamiji's telephone number in Mathura?'

'Actually Guruji is not in Mathura now.'

'Then where is he?'

'He has gone on a world tour. Yesterday he left Madras for Singapore. From there he will go to America, then Europe.'

'So when will he return to Mathura?'

'He will only return after two to three months.'

'Two to three months?'

'Yes. Your best chance of finding him will be at the Magh Mela in Allahabad in January next year. He told me he would be going there for discourses.'

'Thank you, Bhabhiji. Take care. I shall be in touch,' Ashok said, trying to mask the disappointment in his voice, and took his leave.

Eketi was still sitting on the kerb outside the entrance when Ashok emerged from the gates. 'What took you so long?' He looked quizzically at Ashok.

'The sea-rock has eluded us once again. Worse, it has left the country,' Ashok said dejectedly. 'It will come back only after three months. So I am taking you back to the island.'

'Back to the island?' Eketi sprang up in alarm. 'But you promised that we would return with the ingetayi.'

'I know. But what will I do with you for three months? I don't want to get into trouble with the Welfare Department.'

'But Eketi doesn't want to return to the island.'

Ashok looked at him sharply. 'Are you out of your bloody mind? Why don't you want to return?'

'What is there to return to? Eketi was trapped on that island, suffocated by it,' the Onge cried. 'I would look at the pictures of India in the book they gave us in school and dream about them. I observed the big ships crossing the ocean and wondered where they went to. I used to see the foreigners arrive with their cameras to gawk at us, and my mind used to go crazy. I felt like jumping into their boats and just going somewhere. Anywhere. That is why I came here. To escape from the island. And Eketi is not going back.'

'Is that why you volunteered to recover that rock?'

'Yes. Eketi wanted to come to India.'

'And you have no concern about what will happen to your tribe if they don't get that sacred rock back?'

'Eketi will help you recover the ingetayi. Then you can take it back, and Eketi will remain behind in your wonderful country.'

'So this was all part of a devious plan, eh? And have you thought of what you will do here?'

'Eketi will get married. Back home, old people marry all the young girls. I had no hope of finding a wife if I stayed on the island. Here I can have a new life. Get a wife.'

'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?'