As he was about to leave, a Naga sadhu emerged from the tent. The tribal crouched on the ground like a cornered animal, but the sadhu smiled at him through glazed eyes and offered him a chillum. Eketi smiled back and took a deep drag. Even though he had been addicted to zarda – chewing tobacco – on the island, he was unprepared for the heady rush of marijuana. It made him feel inexplicably light-headed, as though several small windows had opened up in his brain, making the colours brighter and the sounds sharper. He swayed on his feet and clutched the sadhu for support, who grinned at him and shouted 'Alakh Niranjan!' – 'Glory to the One who can neither be seen nor tainted!' In that instant Eketi became one with the Nagas, and they accepted him as one of their own. Theirs was a house without any distinctions. The ash bleached away all difference, reduced everyone to a uniform shade of grey, and their psychedelic trance brooked no differentiation of class or caste.

Eketi relished being without clothes and roamed the township like a free spirit with licence to paint his body. Living like a Naga sadhu carried other advantages as well. Devotees gave him alms, restaurant owners gave him free meals, and the guards at the Hanuman Temple never objected to his sleeping on the covered veranda at night. Within a week, he had learnt to say alakh niranjan and offer blessings to devotees, wield a trident and dance around the sacred fire with the other Nagas.

He especially enjoyed smoking the chillum. The ganja made him forget his pain. It made him forget Dolly and Ashok and Mike, it made him forget about what he would do next, where he would go next. He was content to live simply for the moment.

In this fashion a month went by. Maghi Purnima arrived, the last of the major bathing days before Mahashivratri and the end of the Magh Mela. Eketi was sitting by the riverbank, watching a steady stream of pilgrims take a dip in the sangam, when the ground beneath him shook and a massive explosion ripped through the area like a roll of thunder. So strong was the force of the blast that he toppled down. He saw black smoke rising behind him, billowing up into the sky like a whirling cloud. And then shrieks started reverberating in the air. When he got up, there were people lying everywhere, bleeding and screaming. He saw a young boy with his leg blown off, a torso lying headless. The sand was strewn with broken glass, bloodstained clothes, slippers, bracelets and belts. A tea stall made of corrugated iron had been reduced to a smouldering mass of mangled metal. Men and women with blood dripping down their faces were running around with demented looks, desperately calling out the names of their near and dear ones. Fires raged in several places.

The speed of the attack – everything seemed to have happened in the twinkling of an eye – confounded Eketi. Its ferocity overwhelmed him. The Mela had descended into utter chaos. Already a mini stampede was breaking out near the river as the pushing, jostling pilgrims piled on top of each other in their desperation to get out. Police sirens were sounding everywhere. Quickly putting on his red T-shirt and khaki shorts, Eketi followed the hordes sprinting towards the exit. Once he had reached the safety of the main road, he tapped a rickshaw-puller standing by the roadside. 'Which way to the railway station, brother?'

Allahabad railway station bore no sign of the carnage happening in another part of town. Trains came and went. Passengers embarked and disembarked. Porters hustled and bustled. It was business as usual.

Eketi leaned against a cold-water dispenser and wondered which train to take. He had no knowledge of Indian cities, and he had no money. That is when his eyes fell on a thin, clean-shaven man with short black hair sitting on a station bench a short distance away, with a cigarette in his mouth and a grey suitcase nestling between his legs. He gave a start when he realized it was Ashok Rajput.

Eketi could easily have turned around and walked away, but he went up to the welfare officer and folded his hands. 'Hello, Ashok Sahib.'

Ashok looked at him and almost choked. 'You!' he exclaimed.

'Eketi made a big mistake by leaving you,' the tribal said contritely. 'Can you now send me back to my island? I don't want to stay here even one extra day.'

Ashok's initial fluster quickly subsided and Eketi saw the old scornful arrogance return to the welfare officer's face. He threw away his cigarette. 'You worthless black swine. I've spent the last four months desperately searching for you. And you think you can just walk up to me and ask me to send you back? You think I am a bloody travel agent?'

The Onge kneeled down on the ground. 'Eketi begs forgiveness. Now I will do anything you say. Just send me back to Gaubolambe.'

'Then first swear that you will obey my every command.'

'Eketi swears on spirit blood.'

'Good.' Ashok softened. 'On that condition I will take you back to Little Andaman. But not immediately. I still have some business to finish here. Till then you will work as my servant. Understood?'

The Onge nodded.

'What were you doing in Allahabad?' asked Ashok.

'Nothing. I was simply passing time,' said Eketi.

'Did you visit the Magh Mela?'

'Yes. I am coming straight from there.'

'You are lucky to be alive. There was a terrorist attack, one of the biggest. They say at least thirty people were killed in the bomb blast.'

'Were you there too?'

'Yes. I care more about your tribe than you do. I came to the Magh Mela searching for the sacred rock.'

'So did you get it?'

'No,' Ashok said regretfully. 'A thief stole it from Swami Haridas's tent in the mêlée after the bomb blast.'

'Then is it gone for ever?'

'I don't know. I am hoping it will surface when the thief tries to sell it to someone.'

'So where are you going now?'

'To my hometown. To Jaisalmer. That is where you are also going, by the way.'

Their train arrived in Jaisalmer the next morning. The railway station was like a fish market, with a rabble of rickshaw- and taxidrivers chanting the names of their hotels, touts holding banners advertising all manner of guesthouses, and a mob of commission agents accosting passengers with offers of cut-price camel safaris and free Jeep taxi services, only to be driven back by policemen with sticks.

Ashok blinked in the blazing sun and wiped the perspiration from his brow with a handkerchief. Even though it was the last week of February, dry heat crackled in the air like electricity.

The welfare officer seemed to know everyone in Jaisalmer. 'Pao lagu, Shekhawatji,' he said to the superintendent at the station. 'Khamma ghani, Jaggu,' he greeted the owner of a corner cafeteria, who hugged him warmly and offered him a cold drink.

'This is my city,' Ashok wagged a finger at Eketi. 'You try anything funny and I will know in a second. Understand?'

The Onge nodded his head. 'Once Eketi has sworn on spirit blood, he has to keep his promise. An Onge who breaks his promise earns the wrath of the onkobowkwe. He dies and becomes an eeka, condemned to live below the earth.'

'I am sure you wouldn't want such a terrible fate,' said Ashok. They boarded a battered auto-rickshaw which made a racket as it navigated the narrow streets of the city.

Eketi saw scattered houses, some cows sitting on the side of the road and a woman walking with a pot of water on her head. All of a sudden he shouted, 'Stop!'

'What's the matter?' Ashok asked, clearly annoyed at the interruption.

'Look!' Eketi shrieked, pointing in front of him. Ashok saw a group of three camels lumbering down the road.

'You've never seen them before, but they are perfectly harmless animals.' Ashok laughed and told the driver to continue. Minutes later they were inside a street market. Rajasthani women in dazzling red-and-orange odhnis, their arms loaded with bangles, crowded around clothes shops and fruit vendors while the men sported colourful turbans and impressive handlebar moustaches.