And then, through the haze of heat and dust, a magnificent yellow sandstone fort rose in the distance like a shimmering mirage. With its majestic ramparts, delicately sculpted temple towers and myriad bastions suffused with honey-coloured light, the citadel looked as if it had sprung straight out of some medieval fantasy.

Eketi rubbed his eyes to make sure they were not playing tricks on him. 'What is that?' he asked Ashok in an awestruck voice.

'That is the Jaisalmer Fort. And we are going right inside it.'

The auto-rickshaw protested as it climbed Trikuta Hill, atop which perched the golden fort. As the fort neared, Eketi saw that the bastions were actually half-towers, surrounded by high turrets and joined by thick walls.

They entered the fort complex through a giant gate which led to a cobbled courtyard, from where a maze of narrow lanes led in all directions. The courtyard was full of pavement shops selling colourful quilts, stone artefacts and puppets. A turbaned musician played the sarangi while his similarly dressed companion peddled the manjira, regaling a flock of foreign tourists who flitted around them, snapping pictures.

As the auto-rickshaw travelled deeper inside, the fort became a city within a city, dotted with magnificent houses. Signboards, banners and electric wires disfigured many of these ancient havelis, but the intricacy of the carvings on their latticed façdes was nothing less than poetry in stone. The secret, serpentine alleys teemed with activity. Little corner shops sold everything from soap to nails. Roadside fruit-sellers sat with high piles of apples and oranges. Bearded tailors pedalled away at their sewing machines to the bleating of goats. Music blared from roadside restaurants and mingled with chants from the nearby Jain temples. Children flew kites from crumbling rooftops and cows masticated leisurely in the middle of the road.

As they passed a row of painted mud-and-thatch houses, Ashok directed the driver to his ancestral residence, a large, dilapidated double-storeyed haveli with latticed windows and a carved wooden door studded with iron spikes. The door was unlocked and they entered an open courtyard.

A lanky boy, around thirteen years of age, dressed in white kurta pyjamas, emerged from the veranda. 'Chachu!' he shouted in delighted surprise and ran to Ashok, who embraced him with surprising tenderness.

'How tall have you grown, Rahul!' the welfare officer said.

'You are seeing me after five years, Uncle,' the boy replied.

'Is Bhabhisa home?' Ashok asked.

'Yes. She is in the kitchen. I will call her.'

'No, let me surprise her as well,' Ashok said.

'Who is this fellow with you?' The boy pointed at Eketi.

'This is a servant I picked up from the island. He will work for us now.'

'That is excellent! Lalit, our last servant, ran away last week. But how come he is so black?'

'Didn't you see the photos I sent you? All tribes in the Andaman are like him. But he will be a good worker. Why don't you show him the servants' quarters at the back?' Ashok said and bounded towards the veranda.

The boy looked suspiciously at Eketi. 'Are you an adamkhor? A cannibal?'

'What is a cannibal?' Eketi asked.

'Men who eat other men. Uncle says the Andaman Islands are full of cannibal tribes.'

'Only Jarawas are like that. But I've never met one.'

'If you had you wouldn't be standing here today,' the boy laughed. 'My name is Rahul. Come with me.'

He led Eketi through the main door into a side lane which ran parallel to the house. A teenage boy in vest and shorts stood on the pathway with a large Alsatian, which began growling. 'Hey, Rahul, who is this kalu with you?' the teenager shouted, tightening the leash on the dog.

'He is our new servant,' Rahul replied.

'Where did you get him from? Africa?'

Rahul did not respond.

'Jungli! Habshi!' the boy heckled Eketi as he passed him. The dog strained to break the leash.

'Don't mind Bittu, he is always making fun of people,' Rahul said half apologetically.

The servants' quarters were at the back of the house, two dark, dingy windowless rooms with string beds and coarse blankets, separated by a common toilet. The haveli was perched close to the edge of one of the fort's ninety-nine bastions, and immediately behind the servants' quarters was a sandstone parapet where a cow was tethered. It basked in the sun, chewing and flicking its tail occasionally to keep off the flies. Eketi leaned over the parapet and saw the fort wall and below it a steep rocky slope. In the distance the city of Jaisalmer spread like a brownand- grey tapestry. Square houses with flat roofs lay in haphazard profusion, looking like matchboxes from this height. Close to the horizon he could even make out the sand dunes of the Thar desert, resembling frozen waves. He sniffed the air and was surprised to discover no hint of water near that sea of sand.

Suddenly there was a sharp yelp at his back and he turned around to see the Alsatian lunging at him, its mouth drawn in a tight snarl. 'Bittu! What have you done?' Rahul screamed, but the tribal showed no trace of fear as he gently placed his hand on the mastiff 's back. It quietened completely and began licking his hand, emitting low whines of pleasure.

'How did you do that?' Rahul asked in wonder.

'Animals are our friends,' said Eketi. 'It is the inene we need to worry about.'

'Who are these inene?'

'People like your friend.' He jerked his head at Bittu.

A deep roar pierced the atmosphere just then, making the ground tremble. Eketi looked up and caught two jets streaking across the sky. They banked left and disappeared into the clouds.

'Aeroplane!' the tribal shouted excitedly.

'Not aeroplanes, fighter jets,' Rahul rebuked him gently. 'We have a big air-force base in Jaisalmer. Every day you can see MiG-21s go roaring past. These jets even have bombs.'

'I saw a bomb in Allahabad. It killed thirty people,' said Eketi.

'Only thirty?' Rahul scoffed. 'These jets have bombs which can instantly kill more than a thousand people.'

Another jet went screaming past. 'Is it going to drop a bomb on us?' Eketi asked in alarm.

'No,' Rahul laughed. 'Come now, Mother must be waiting to meet you.'

The drawing room of the haveli was a small, rectangular chamber cluttered with antique Shekhawati furniture – carved and decorated settees, padded chairs and low stools. The dhurries on the floor gave off a musty smell of disuse. The mantelpiece was dominated by an old tiger-skin trophy, complete with the preserved head with glass eyes, an artificial cast tongue and teeth bared in an open jaw. The walls were plastered with photographs of a tall, broad-shouldered man with a jutting chin and an impressive, thick moustache that curved upwards at both ends. The room was a shrine to him. He appeared in various poses, mostly with a long rifle in his hands.

'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.