Authors: Vikas Swarup
Dolly knew the foreman, a man called Babban who had a
permanent frown on his face. He took one look at Eketi's rippling
muscles and employed him instantly. The tribal was given a shovel
and told to join a batch of workers digging a trench.
It was tough going. The shovel kept slipping from Eketi's grip
due to perspiration, and yellow dust kept getting in his eyes. The
pit was like a furnace and even the soft lumps of soil felt like
embers burning his naked feet.
At two o'clock a siren sounded, announcing lunchtime, and
Eketi heaved a sigh of relief. The food was just thick rice
and watery vegetables, but the brief respite in the shade made it
palatable.
The labourers sat in a group and ate their meal quietly. 'Who
is the owner of this hotel?' Eketi asked a gaunt-looking man with
a permanent stoop squatting next to him. His name was Suraj. His
clothes were tattered and dusty and smelt of stale sweat.
'How do I know?' the man shrugged. 'Must be some big
seth
.
Why does it matter? We are not going to be living in this hotel.'
He peered at Eketi. 'You don't seem to be from here. Have you
worked on a construction site before?'
'It's my first time,' Eketi replied.
'I could see that. Don't worry. I have been doing this work for
three years and still make mistakes. But look after yourself, otherwise
your back will become hunched forever like mine. And don't
inhale the dust. It will clog the pores of your body. Sometimes it
comes out even in my shit. Look what this work has done to my
hands and feet.' Suraj held out both his palms. They were
calloused and as rough as coconuts. There were blisters on his feet
and the soles had ruptured into rivulets of dried blood.
'Then why do you do this work?' Eketi asked.
'I have five mouths to feed. I need money.'
'And how much money do they pay here?'
'Just enough to get by.'
The siren sounded again and the labourers reluctantly stood
up. All through the afternoon they worked, hauling bricks, loading
mud, breaking stones, mixing cement, digging and filling, building
the hotel with their bare hands.
When the foreman finally declared the end of the day's work
at six in the evening, the defeated men hoisted their pickaxes and
shovels to their shoulders, the drooping women picked up their
baskets and babies, and lined up before the contractor.
Eketi too collected his wage, consisting of five crisp ten-rupee
notes, and began the walk back to Dolly's house.
As he was passing in front of an upmarket shopping centre, his
eyes were drawn to a poster adorning the display window of a shop.
It showed a magnificent island, piled high with dense green trees
and ringed by a turquoise ocean. He stood there for several minutes,
and then boldly entered the shop. A young woman was sitting
behind a counter doing her nails. A big map of the world was displayed
on the wall behind her and a pile of brochures lay at her side.
She looked at his dusty clothes and grimy face with frank distaste.
'Yes, what do you want?' she demanded.
'I want to go to the island whose picture is in the window.'
'That is the Andamans,' she sneered.
'Yes, I know. How much does it cost to go there by ship?'
She blew her nails and picked up a brochure with the same
photo of the island on the cover. 'We have an organized tour for
five days. The total cost for the cheapest package will be nine
thousand rupees from Kolkata. Now go, don't waste my time.'
'Can I take one of these?' He indicated the brochure. The girl
quickly gave him one, and shooed him out.
'So how did you like the work?' Dolly asked him as soon as he
returned.
'I didn't come from my village for this,' Eketi replied, massaging
his back. He took out the fifty rupees from his pocket and gave
them to Dolly. 'Will you keep this money safely for me?'
'No problem,' said Dolly.
'And can you tell me how many days I will have to work to
earn nine thousand?'
Dolly frowned and did a quick calculation. 'One hundred and
eighty days. Say six months. Why?'
'I want to visit this island,' he said, holding aloft the tourist
brochure like a hunting trophy.
It was the tantalizing promise contained in that glossy sheet of
paper which made Eketi forget the ache in his back and the cramp
in his legs. After dinner he lay down on the floor, gazing at the
picture of the island, feeling the wind rustling through the tall
palm trees, hearing the cicadas singing in the dense green jungle,
savouring the taste of turtle meat on his tongue.
The next day he was back at the construction site, doing the same
work. Soon his hands fell into a rhythm, so that by the end of the
week he didn't need to look down at what he was digging. Even
though the work became easier, Eketi still hated it and he hated
himself for doing it.
His world now revolved between the eunuch's house and the
construction site. He had neither the time to explore the rest of
the city nor the inclination to get acquainted with the other
residents of Dolly's colony. He even put the project of finding a
wife on hold. Sunday and Monday, Diwali and New Year meant
the same to him – five ten-rupee notes, which he diligently gave
Dolly for safekeeping.
Two and a half months passed. As the hotel began rising from the
ground, Eketi's hopes also started rising. 'How much money has
accumulated by now, do you think, Dolly?' he asked the eunuch
one evening.
'A full three thousand,' she replied.
'That means I need just six thousand more for my trip,' he
said, surprising her both with the longing in his voice and his
newly acquired knowledge of maths.
Dolly gave him a strange look, but didn't say anything. That
night, however, she quietly added a thousand rupees from her
own purse to the kitty she was keeping on his behalf.
*
Two days later, Eketi was feeding stones into a crusher when all of
a sudden there was a loud explosion and a huge cloud of dust rose
from a corner of the pit. He rushed towards the scene of the
mishap and saw that some bamboo scaffolding had crashed from
a considerable height. A worker lay face-down on the ground,
covered with dust, his limbs contorted into awkward shapes.
Another worker turned him over, and Eketi cried out in anguish.
It was Suraj.
Suraj's death led to stoppage of work for two days. So Dolly
asked Eketi to accompany her on a mission on behalf of the 'bank
people'. Together with four other eunuchs, they proceeded to a
crowded market in Bhelupura. Dolly pointed out a shop on the
ground floor selling electrical equipment. 'Our target is the owner
of this store, Rajneesh Gupta,' she told Eketi. 'I need you to draw
him out of the shop, then we will do the rest.'
So Eketi went in and told the mousy-looking owner that there
was someone outside waiting to meet him. As soon as a slightly
mystified Rajneesh Gupta stepped out of his shop, the
hinjras
pounced on him. Dolly's associates surrounded him and began
taunting him, singing and dancing while clapping their hands in
unison. Inside that human circle, Dolly stroked Gupta's cheek,
tickled him under the armpits, and rained curses on him: 'May
your children fail, may your business fail, may your body be
infested with insects, may you die a dog's death.' All the other
shopkeepers came out to enjoy the fun. They laughed and jeered,
and Eketi was surprised to see that it was not the eunuchs they
were deriding, but the hapless Gupta.
'Now repay the loan within ten days or we will make another
visit.' Dolly jabbed a finger at the owner, before imperiously flicking
her plait and calling off her troops.
Eketi couldn't help feel a tinge of pity for Mr Gupta, who
remained standing in the middle of the market, red-faced and
alone, trying to stifle his sobs.
The next day work resumed inside the pit, but it was no longer the
same. The ghost of Suraj haunted the construction site, making
the day seem longer, the food blander, the shovel heavier to Eketi.
His heart had never been in this work; now even his hands were
beginning to revolt.
When he returned home that evening he found the house in
complete disarray. The cupboard had been ransacked, there was
blood on the floor, and there was no sign of Dolly. It was a tearful
Rekha who filled him in. Apparently Rajneesh Gupta had come to
the colony that afternoon with three hired goons armed with
hockey sticks. They had barged into Dolly's house and beaten her
senseless. The eunuch had bled profusely and had required thirty
stitches. 'She is now in the district hospital in Kabir Chaura, hanging
on to life by a thread.'
'No! No!' the Onge cried and ran out blindly. He had just
reached the gates of the hospital when a group of eunuchs
trooped out. Four of them held aloft a bamboo stretcher on which
lay a body wrapped in a white shroud. They were followed by
three other eunuchs, chanting '
Ram Nam Satya Hai
. He didn't
need to look at the dead body to know it was Dolly, being taken
on her final journey. The death chant rang in his ears with the
pealing clarity of hammer hitting metal. The breath went out of
his lungs as though someone had punched him in the stomach. He
slumped down on the ground like a broken puppet.
He returned from the hospital in a daze and walked with
heavy steps to Dolly's house. Entering it, he went straight to the
pillaged cupboard and made a desperate search for his savings,
only to find every rupee gone. He stood for a while in the room,
staring at the dried bloodstains on the floor, imagining the
savagery of the afternoon. Then abruptly he picked up his canvas
bag and walked out of the colony.
As he crossed Chowk, the air began to resonate with the sound
of chanting and the jangling of bells. He looked up at the darkening
sky. The sun had set and the
Ganga Aarti
, the evening prayer
ceremony, had begun on Dasashwamedh Ghat. But today he felt
no temptation to walk down to the river. Dolly had gone to some
special heaven for eunuchs. This city was done with her. And he
was done with this city.
*
On the outskirts of Varanasi, close to the highway, he came across
a stalled truck. It was laden with pilgrims who were going to a
place called Magh Mela. The driver, a turbaned Sikh with a long
black beard, was trying to repair a puncture. Eketi begged him for
a lift and the Sikh relented.
Just before sunrise on 22 January the truck offloaded its
human cargo on a concrete bridge overlooking the Ganges, and
Eketi found himself in yet another new city.
Dawn was breaking lazily over the holy city of Prayag. The air was
cold and bracing. Waves lapped gently at the sandy riverbank. The
crimson rays of the embryonic sun tinged the water with rainbow
hues. Wooden boats swayed lazily at the river's edge. A smoky
haze hung in the atmosphere, clothing the landscape in shades of
grey. Flocks of birds rose in the air, smudging the ruddy sky with
dark little spots. A sea of coloured banners and saffron pennants
fluttered in the wind. In the distance, Naini Bridge rumbled into
life as an express train clattered over its metal frame. Akbar's Red
Fort dominated the skyline, dwarfing the makeshift buildings and
tents which had sprouted all across the temporary township.
This, Eketi learnt, was the Magh Mela, an annual bathing
festival. As he stood on the sandy riverbank, a procession of
dancers and musicians arrived, preceded by a messenger who carried
a turban aloft on a pole. The musicians created a cacophony
of gong and drum beats, conch shells and trumpets, heralding the
arrival of the Naga
sadhus
. A mighty roar went up as a group of
ash-smeared monks ran into the water wearing nothing but
marigold garlands, brandishing steel swords and iron tridents and
screaming, 'Glory to Mahadev!' Devotees moved away in fright or
bowed in reverence the moment the naked Nagas appeared. Eketi
stood transfixed as the
sadhus
splashed themselves with water and
cartwheeled on the sand. He was fascinated by their long matted
hair and fearful red eyes, but most of all he was fascinated by their
utter disdain for clothes.
The Nagas were followed by the heads of the various spiritual
sects. These saffron-wrapped saints arrived by various means of
transport. One came on a spluttering tractor, while another sat on
a silver throne in the back of a trailer. Some were borne aloft
on leopard-skin rugs in jewelled palanquins, while others came in
golden chariots with silk umbrellas, trailed by hundreds of
followers singing their praises and chanting
bhajans
.
The converging point for all these groups was
sangam
, that
sliver of water which demarcated the meeting point of north and
west, where the yellowish-brown currents of the Ganga merged
with the bluish-black waters of the Yamuna. The shallow water
was crawling with shivering devotees. Men in various stages of
undress, displaying all makes of underwear, ladies struggling to
protect their modesty while offering prayers with both hands,
little boys splashing in the muddy water. Orange marigold flowers
bobbed on the water's surface alongside empty Tetra Pak containers
and transparent plastic trash. Chants hailing Lord Shiva
and Mother Ganges rent the air.
Eketi also took a quick dip in the cold water and then hung
around the riverbank, enjoying the free
puris
and
jalebis
being
doled out by well-heeled devotees, and generally lazing in the sun.
When it became too hot he decided to explore the Mela grounds
and walked straight into a makeshift bazaar, reeking of incense and
spice. Here women tried on a million coloured glass bangles and
purchased copious quantities of vermilion
sindoor
, while little
children lay siege to toyshops, begging their fathers to buy them
plastic guns and miniature glass animals. Roadside astrologers
enticed customers with good-luck charms for everything under
the sun. Book stalls did brisk trade with their cheaply printed
devotional booklets and lurid posters spread out on the ground,
where the old gods and goddesses – Krishna, Lakshmi, Shiva and
Durga – jostled for space with new ones – Sachin Tendulkar, Salim
Ilyasi, Shabnam Saxena and Shilpa Shetty. A flute vendor kept
repeating the same monotonous tune, an indefatigable salesman
tried to persuade housewives to try their hand at his seven-in-one
aluminium grater, and a glib-talking hawker sold snake oil as a
cure for impotence.