Six Suspects (36 page)

'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.

They went through the clogged artery of Mount Road with its
gleaming skyscrapers and neon-lit shopping plazas. Eketi became
delirious as the MTC bus entered the narrow alleys of Triplicane,
full of old houses and ancient temples, and the heavy smell of salt
entered his nostrils. He craned his neck to catch a glimpse of the
sea, and lost all interest in the impressive statues and imposing
memorials lining the promenade.

He was the first passenger to jump out of the bus the moment
it stopped at Marina Beach. Even at this time of night the beach
was quite crowded. Several families relaxed on the sand, eating
their dinner. Children rode horseback, squealing with delight,
while their mothers shopped for trinkets in lantern-lit shops. The
swirling beam of a lighthouse sent glitter across the ocean's
surface. The lights of a distant ship twinkled in the night as the
foamy waves rolled gently on to the shore. Eketi inhaled the tangy
air of the ocean, redolent of salt and fish, and from that single
smell a whole island rose in his memory. He waved at Mike, still a
good hundred metres behind him, and began wading into the
water fully clothed.

'Jiba! Jiba! Come back!' Mike shouted, but the tribal was
already well out to sea and swimming farther away.
He emerged from the ocean twenty minutes later, his skin
glistening with tiny pearls of water, seaweed clinging to his
clothes, sand dripping from the hole in his cap.

'You had me worried sick,' Mike grumbled.

'I thought I would take a bath,' he grinned.

'And what's that you are hiding?'

Eketi brought out his right hand from behind his back.
'Dinner!' he declared, holding up a large fluttering fish.

Mike bought two cans of Coke, Eketi lit a fire, and they shared
a tasty meal of roasted fish.

'So how are you liking Chennai, brother?' Mike asked.

'I am loving it!' Eketi gushed. 'I am going mad with all the
sounds, colours and lights of this wonderful world.' He took
another swig from the Coke can, poked at the dying embers with
a stick, and looked at the Nigerian intently. 'You are the nicest and
kindest man I have met.'

'We are brothers, my friend, you and I.'

'Can you also help me find a wife?'

'A wife? Of course. Once you do that little job for me, I will
have a dozen girls lined up for you to choose from.'
Mike's promise was enough to make Eketi approach the
operation to collect money from the jewellery merchant with
the pleasurable anticipation of a pig hunt. He was in unusually
high spirits as Mike took him to Guindy, in the south-western part
of the city.

Munusamy's house was deep inside a residential block and there
was a hushed stillness in the area compared to the kinetic bustle
of the main streets. A pallid streetlamp cast intriguing shadows on
a row of duplex apartments lining both sides of the road.

Mike pointed out Munusamy's house, Number Thirty-Six,
which had a carved wooden door. 'I will be waiting for you just
around the corner,' he whispered to Eketi and handed him a small
envelope. 'Give this to Munusamy. I have explained everything in
this note, so you won't have to open your mouth. Best of luck.'

The Nigerian receded into the shadows and Eketi advanced
towards Munusamy's door. A servant was expecting him. He
led Eketi up a flight of steps and showed him into a drawing
room where a balding, middle-aged man was seated on a cream
sofa. Mr Munusamy wore a white shirt over a cream-coloured
veshti
. He had a round face dominated by two features: a small
rectangular moustache which looked like hair jutting out of his
nose, and three horizontal lines of yellow clay on his forehead.

'Welcome, welcome,' he greeted Eketi.

Eketi bowed and handed over the envelope.

Munusamy quickly read Mike's note and looked at the tribal
with a crestfallen expression. 'I was looking forward to meeting
the great Michael Busari, but it turns out you are just his agent.'

'Give me money,' Eketi said.

'Here it is,' said Munusamy and pulled out a small briefcase
which he had neatly concealed behind his legs.

As Eketi bent down to pick up the briefcase, a flashbulb
popped in his face with the suddenness of lightning. Almost
simultaneously five policemen rushed into the room from various
doors and pounced on him.

'You are under arrest,' an Inspector announced.
Before he could comprehend what was happening, he was
handcuffed and bundled into a police van.

At the police station, a decrepit-looking building with a
shingle roof, he was thrown inside a large cell. He protested his
innocence in broken English, and tried to plead with the
constables, but they threatened him with sticks. So he curled up
on the cement floor and waited for Mike to show up. He was
confident his friend would explain everything and have him
released from the lock-up before long.

The police station remained a hive of activity all through the
night. First to be brought in was a tough-looking hoodlum dressed
in a brown leather jacket. Then came a drunk. He swayed into the
lock-up and crashed down senseless on the floor. Finally two
young boys, no more than sixteen, were dragged inside and
mercilessly beaten up by the constables. With each passing hour a
sinking dread spread in Eketi's stomach.

Mike didn't turn up even by noon the next day, but a certain
Inspector Satya Prakash Pandey from Bihar Police did. He was
pot-bellied and constantly chewed betel nut. He had a stern face,
with a curled-up moustache, and he gave an impression of fretful
impatience, like a wild animal on a leash. The only silver lining was
that he spoke Hindi.

'I have come to take you with me to Patna,' he informed Eketi.
'That is where Michael Busari is wanted for murder.'

'Murder?'

'Yes. He swindled a businessman, who committed suicide.
Now you, motherfucker, will be our star witness in the court case
against Busari.'

'But Mike is a good man.'

'Good man?' the Inspector guffawed. 'Your boss Mr Michael
Busari, also known as the Hawk, is wanted in connection with
fourteen cases of cheating in seven States. He has defrauded
several businessmen with his black dollar and bogus oilinvestment
swindles. So we laid a trap for him in Chennai. Mr
Munusamy was the decoy, and Busari was supposed to be our
prize. But instead, we've got you. Are you Nigerian too?'

'No. I am Jiba Korwa from Jharkhand.'

'From Jharkhand? Where in Jharkhand?'

'I . . . I don't remember.'

'You don't remember, eh? Don't worry, this hand of mine has
cleared the minds of many hardened gangsters. You are just a
greenhorn,' the Inspector smirked.

With his wrists handcuffed, Eketi was driven to the railway station
the next afternoon and put on a train to Patna. The only other
person in the first-class cabin with him was Inspector Pandey.

The train began its three-day journey to Patna at three
twenty-five p.m. and an hour later the Inspector commenced his
interrogation. 'OK, sisterfucker, I want to know everything about
you,' he said and spat out a stream of blood-red betel-nut juice
through the metal bars on the window.

'I told you, I am Jiba Korwa from Jharkhand,' said the tribal.

'And what were you doing in Chennai?'

'I just came to visit.'

Without any warning, the Inspector slapped him with his open
palm. Eketi reeled back in pain. 'I told you to tell me the truth, sisterfucker.
Once again, where are you from?' the Inspector barked.

'Jharkhand.'

'Which village in Jharkhand?'

'I don't know,' said Eketi and was rewarded with another
stinging blow on his cheek.

'I am asking for the last time. Tell me the truth or you will die
on this train.'

The grilling continued all through the evening and all through
the night. By the middle of the next day, Eketi caved in, unable to
withstand the punishment any longer. Sobbing and sniffling, he
revealed everything about his journey from Little Andaman,
about Ashok, and about his meeting with Busari.

The police officer heard out Eketi patiently. Inserting yet
another fresh
paan
into his mouth, he gave a satisfied grunt.
'Finally you have told the truth, motherfucker. They say my hand
is like an iron claw; it always manages to extract the facts from the
suspect.'

Eketi nursed his cheek. 'Do you like hitting people?'

Pandey shrugged. 'If you don't hit, you don't convict. We are
forced to work this way. And then it becomes a bad habit, just like
eating betel nut.'

'So you hit people to show your strength?'

'Actually, it is not to prove our strength, but to mask our weakness,'
the Inspector said with surprising candour. 'We pick only on
the poor and the powerless, because they cannot hit back.'

They did not exchange another word for several hours. As the
train thundered through the night, the Inspector reclined in his
berth, deep in thought. Eketi sat by the open window, feeling the
cold draught on his swollen cheeks like a soothing balm. Suddenly
the Inspector tapped him on the shoulder. 'I have decided to do
something silly,' he exhaled, and reached for his leather holster.

A bolt of fear shot through Eketi's body. 'Are you . . . are you
going to kill me?' he asked, feeling a constriction in his throat.

'That would be too easy.' The Inspector smiled for the first
time as he took out a key from the holster.

'Then what?'

'I am going to set you free.'

Eketi looked him in the eye. 'Are you playing a game with me?'

'No, Eketi. This is not a game.' Pandey shook his head slowly.
'This is your life. And it is not very different from mine. Like
you, I also feel suffocated at times, working in a job where I
meet the scum of society day in and day out. But occasionally I
do manage to wipe the tears off a widow's face or put a missing
child back into his mother's lap. These are the moments I
live for.'

Eketi gazed out of the window. In the near distance his eyes
encountered only a whizzing, velvety darkness. But close to the
horizon he could see the bright lights of some distant city.

'I have two young sons,' the Inspector continued. 'They think
their father is a hero, fighting criminals and killers. But I am just
an ordinary man battling the system, mostly losing. I know you are
innocent. So releasing you will be a small victory.' He looked at his
watch.'We should now be on the outskirts of Varanasi. I want you
to pull this—' he pointed at the emergency chain above his head.
'This will stop the train. Then I want you to get down from the
compartment and disappear into the night. I will tell everyone
that you escaped while I was sleeping.'

'Why are you doing this?'

'To keep alive your dream. To keep alive my children's dream.
If you arrive with me in Patna, you are going to rot in jail for at
least five years, pending trial. So run away when you still have the
chance.'

'But where will I run to?'

'You cannot do better than Varanasi. People come here to die.
I am sending you there to live.' He inserted the key in Eketi's
handcuffs and opened them. 'But remember,' he raised a finger,
'ours is a strange and sublime land. You can meet the best people
in the world here and the worst. You can experience unparalleled
kindness and witness extraordinary cruelty. To survive here, you
must change your way of thinking. Don't trust anyone. Don't
count on anyone. Here you are entirely on your own.'

'Then maybe I should return to my island,' Eketi mumbled as
he massaged his wrists where the handcuffs had cut into the skin.

'That is for you to decide. Life can be ugly. Or it can be
beautiful. It all depends on what you make of it. But whatever you
do, stay clear of the police. Not all inspectors are like me.'

'Will you get into trouble for letting me go?'

'The department will probably file yet another case of incompetence
and negligence against me. I don't care any longer. I
am out of the rat race. But you may just be joining it. Good luck,
and don't forget to take your bag.'

As Eketi draped the fake Adidas across his shoulder, Pandey
took out some notes from his shirt pocket. 'Take this. It will help
you get by for a few days.'

'I will not forget you,' said Eketi, as he accepted the money, his
eyes filling with tears.

The Inspector gave him a wan smile and briefly squeezed his
hand. 'Now don't just stand there weeping like a donkey, sisterfucker.
Yank that damn chain,' he said gruffly, and pulled up a
fawn blanket over his head.

Eketi's legs ached. For over two hours he had run non-stop,
cutting through dense sugarcane fields and sleepy villages in
pursuit of the gleaming lights of the city. Now he was in Chowk,
the congested heart of Varanasi, but the twinkling lights had
been snuffed out and the bustling streets were empty. An
uncanny silence reigned in the area, interrupted only by a stray
dog or a car. Beggars slept on pavements underneath shuttered
shops. A posse of policemen stood guard in front of an ancient
temple.

The only spark of life in the city at this hour was a brightly lit
all-night pharmacy. Eketi crept behind a parked jeep and observed
the manager drowsing behind a wooden counter, surrounded by
glass shelves loaded with boxes and bottles.

A woman arrived and nudged the manager into wakefulness.
A couple of minutes later she stepped out of the pharmacy,
clutching a brown paper packet, and Eketi had his first glimpse of
her face. She was the strangest-looking woman he had ever seen.
Almost as tall as Ashok, her eyes were lined with dark kohl, her
cheeks were caked in cheap rouge and her lips were painted
deep red, but her flat jaw and square chin gave her a manly
countenance. She wore a red-and-green sari with an ill-fitting
yellow blouse. Her hands were large and hairy. In fact, Eketi could
even see a thin line of hair which began from her navel and disappeared
into her blouse.