Frozen Waves - S S Kumar

Copyright

First Print Edition published in India 2012 by Frog Books

This e-edition published on 1st September 2015 by S S Kumar P-590 Purna Das Road Kolkata 7000029 West Bengal India Web: sskumar.com Email: info@sskumar.com Copyright © S. S Kumar All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

i

Dedication

This book is dedicated to those hapless girls and women, who toil each day, every day and at all odd hours in the crocodile infested rivers of Sundarban to eke out a meagre living.

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About the Author

Srinivasan Sampath Kumar is a well-known face in industry and academic circles and has held high positions in national trade bodies.

He is a renowned photographer, poet, painter and a social worker and has earlier published two coffee table books, ‘Darjeeling the Queen of the Hills’ and ‘Silhouettes of Sundarban.’

Kumar has travelled to Sundarban several times and dreamt of portraying the tiger infested mangrove forests, weaving with it, its history and human struggle.

The result is this debut novel of Kumar.

He was knighted by the Italian Government in 2006.

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PROLOGUE

The old bookstore Prof. Amit Roy came out of the Sea Life London Aquarium, after satisfactorily answering the questions of several young students. He was speaking at a seminar on global warming, and it’s impact on low-lying coastal areas, especially the Sundarban, the fragile ecosystem bordering India and Bangladesh, an expanse of thousands of square kilometres of marshy wetlands, home to the largest number of Royal Bengal Tigers in the wild. The mangrove forests, where he had spent much of his research career in his college days, were vividly clear in his memory. Amit longed to be back in Sundarban again, tracking the last few remaining Royal Bengal Tigers in the wild, which had always fascinated him.

With a background in Zoology from Kolkata and as a professor of environmental science, Amit had a successful career in the University College of London and was often called in to address seminars, to dispel myths that our planet could bear man’s onslaught forever. Though his earlier brief stint as a private consultant working on biophysical inventories and species at risk management was satisfactory, he opted for teaching which was more exciting, where he could further his research on threat to wildlife related environmental issues. He was one of the few who excelled in the related sciences and therefore was highly respected in the academic circles.

He walked into Belvedere Road and glanced at the Southbank book market and stepped in. Booksellers specializing in antique or rare books always aroused his curiosity and the bookseller in Lambeth was no different. The owner, an octogenarian, whom he had befriended, waved with a cheerful smile and Amit waved back. iv

The old man was bending down to retrieve something and gestured to him to wait and he complied.

“See if this is of interest to you,” the owner thrust an old book with an oiled, antique brown leather cover into Amit’s hand. He looked out for a silent corner, which was not difficult to locate, as there were very few persons in the shop during that time of day.

The book had an intriguing title - Lost Treasures of the Colonies. He flipped the pages. There were several smudged handwritten notes in the margins. The book provided an alphabetical list of countries under colonial rule, of which there were several, when it was first published in 1905.

He hurriedly looked at the pages on India. The sub-continent was indeed featured with a few entries on lost or hidden treasures. He glanced under ‘Bengal- Netidhopani,’ which read as follows: ‘Raja Ragunath Ray the Bengal King, while fleeing the army of Emperor Akbar, took refuge in Netidhopani in the Sundarban area of the Bay of Bengal around 1581 A.D. It is believed that he hid the royal treasures in a fort that he had built on the island, which was eventually overrun by the pirates. The treasure could never be located.

The other entry that caught his eye was: ‘The ship, Morning Star, carrying bullion to fund the Company’s purchases from India was rumoured to have been captured by the Portuguese pirates who attacked it somewhere in the Sundarban region of the Bay of Bengal. However, this attack was never publicly mentioned by Her Majesty’s Government.’

He did remember his last trip to Netidhopani, several years ago. The locals were somehow sceptical about his boat being moored at the island in the night and insisted on him leaving before sun down. The faces of the superstitious village folk of the region hazily crossed his mind.

He paid for the book, tucked it into his coat pocket and proceeded to the nearby Waterloo station. The cool wind hit his face as he came out of the Regent Street tube to walk towards his apartment. v

“Indeed, I remember reading about the ship Morning Star vanishing without a trace in the turbulent waters of the Bay of Bengal,� he thought as he walked.

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CHAPTER 1

Fleeing the Moghuls Circa 1580 “Allah hu Akbar” The chanting Moghul army was colossal — a cavalry in the lead, followed by an infantry of Muslim soldiers backed by artillery and cannons. At the rear end was the monstrous elephant brigade specially trained to trample anything and anyone at the command of their mahouts.

Commander Sujjad Khan was leading the battle against Raja Raghunath Ray of Bengal, one of many rulers spread across Hindustan who had the audacity to defy the Moghul Empire. He refused to pay obeisance or agree to be dominated by the Emperor. "Such defiance had to be crushed, lest it spread to other regions and encouraged other rebellious elements,” the Moghul Emperor surmised and sent out a huge army as a show of strength and a warning to all other kings in the region.

The battle ended even before it had begun, with Raja Raghunath Ray’s army meekly surrendering and the king — with his family and confidantes - escaping in the growing darkness, slipping into boats hidden near the canal. It was a rainy night and there was little shelter till the fleeing royal family reached the river and began sailing towards the sea. They were received at some point by flag-waving loyalists, where the team discarded their boats and switched to horse-drawn carts.

The king’s caravan was moving through the Gangetic plains. Everyone in the entourage was tired as they had been travelling amidst incessant rain by a circuitous, secret route for the last five days, stopping very briefly to dodge enemy soldiers on the lookout. There were women and children from the royal family and a few loyal7

ists from the king’s court. The convoy consisted of three carts and was surrounded by vigilant horsemen-cum- archers. The king and his seven-month pregnant queen, along with their son, the prince, were in the cart in the middle of the convoy.

While the carts at the front and back of the convoy had two horses each, the king’s cart had four owing to the added weight of a heavy chest loaded in. The guides were well acquainted with the route through the forests and the royal entourage converged somewhere on the Hooghly riverfront, about 100 kos from the point of origin. The entire group embarked on a small but sturdy vessel, obtained earlier from the ship builders of Sunapur in Ganjam, an adjoining region. The vessel moved out into the turbulent river, braving the approaching kalbaisakhi — the dreaded nor’westers that lashed the coasts during summer months with rupturing winds accompanied by thunder, lightning and relentless rain.

The vessel, which was navigated by expert majhis, sailed the whole night and reached the shores of Netidhopani, an island in the Sundarban delta. The Raja and his entourage were exhausted. With the weariness of travel was the added apprehension of Moghul boats capturing or sinking their vessel in the violent seas.

Raja Raghunath Ray had another worry; he needed to safeguard the Kali and Radha Gobindo idols, which were living deities for his family. He also had several palm leaf manuscripts left by his uncle, Narasingha Ray, with instructions that the Raja should protect and preserve them at all costs. The first day of their arrival at the forested Netidhopani was spent by the royals in rest. Their men were busy clearing the forests and erecting tents for the king and his family. Another team was busy unloading various merchandise, food and water — enough to last several weeks.

The king had not fought any wars in his lifetime and had devoted his ruling years to patronising artists and craftsmen, enjoying the blissful luxuries of peacetime.

His subjects were loyal and his rule had never been challenged until now. But here he was, faced with the reality of an invasion — uprooted from his seat of rule, struggling for survival in harsh forest terrain crowded with lurking tigers.

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He loathed the hardship that had befallen his family and his subjects. He had no choice — he had to hide long enough to tire out the invaders and then plan an offensive to recapture his lost kingdom. “First I must build a safe haven for all of us,” the king proposed. He needed tough men to work. For the next few hours, the king remained in council, with his trusted ministers behind the curtains. Finally, it was decided that they would fetch labour to build a small fortress and a temple for Goddess Kali. The idol of Radha Gobindo was to be installed inside his fort, while that of Kali was to be in a temple outside the fort, a suggestion proposed by the head priest, to which all agreed.

A ship sailed to recruit workers from the Matla riverbank. There was a large group of Lambadi — belonging to the gypsy tribe —who showed eagerness to take up the task. The officer from the king’s army beckoned the leader of the Lambadi group, a tall, well-built and athletic person in his early forties. Charcoal-black skin, betel-stained teeth, a bandana, colourful attire glistening with embedded mirrors and beads, a fox skin waistband and seashell necklaces — Chinga, as the Lambadi chief was called, was a spirited leader. He was introduced to the officer by one of the sepoys.

“Arrey, Chingi, aye,” Chinga called out loud and an equally dark lady, and with equally striking features, appeared. They were husband and wife and spoke in a foreign tongue which the officer failed to comprehend. At the end of the conversation, Chinga replied, “Fine, I will provide a hundred able-bodied men and women who will accompany me and work for a maximum period of six full moons. I will charge you thirty gold mohurs. You have to provide food and also arrack (liquor) for all the workers. You show the money, which has to be paid right now and I shall arrange for you to inspect my people”.

The officer did not hesitate. He laid thirty gold mohurs neatly stuffed in a pouch on the stone table. This was a secret operation and he couldn’t go around openly announcing recruitment, lest the king’s hideout was revealed to enemy spies on the prowl.

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He was satisfied with the overall age and gender balance, particularly thankful that there weren’t many babies, which could have been a hindrance in a dense forest infested with crocodiles and tigers.

Chinga left the money with an old man, who promptly unwound his skirt-like attire and carefully hid the leather purse with the gold. He whispered something to Chinga and faded away into the bazaars. Chinga smiled, showing his betel-stained teeth, and said to the officer, "He's my uncle and will keep the gold safe until we return”.

The officer gave three hours for the new recruits to prepare and set sail to avoid the ebb tide, during which sailing becomes riskier, with greater chances of the vessel getting stuck in the muddy river bottom. Being a nomadic tribe, they were used to packing and moving all the time. The team entered the ship with monkeys, goats and parrots on their shoulders and several mongooses. There were two small bear cubs, too. “All our pets”, the leader said. The crowd was boisterous and gluttonous — the welcome drink and meat vanished within seconds, making the officer doubt whether it was a wise decision to recruit the gypsies after all.

The Raja’s ship sailed out with the gypsy labourers to build a secret fortress at the forlorn island of Netidhopani, far away from the prying eyes of the Moghuls.

The colourful attire of the dark-skinned and dark-haired people and their strange language much amused the children in the Raja’s court. The womenfolk worked as hard as the men and all of them drank and sang at night. They consumed meat of every kind, including crows, which were normally abhorred by others. The officer took no chances and cautioned the king that the gypsy tribes were lured here only by the king’s money and food. He also advised His Majesty that valuables and alcohol be kept guarded well and away from their eyes.

Chingi was a lady extraordinaire. She co-ordinated the kitchen; kept the dozen odd gypsy children under observation and care; brewed the daily potion from local fruits and melodiously sang in the evenings to the drum beats of her husband and others. Chingi also became friendly with the royal ladies, particularly with the queen, for whom she became a masseuse, and later, a midwife to supervise the delivery of her second baby.

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The boats were busy ferrying bricks and stones from different areas and the construction of the fort was progressing at a fast pace. The rooms for the royal family were built in the safety of basement, and soon the halls and other utility rooms were completed. A shallow piece of land was earmarked and embankments built to serve as a fresh water pond. Round-the-year monsoons soon filled the pond, and the ground wet with surrounding river water, helped retain it.

Work was simultaneously being completed for the temple in the nearby vicinity.

On an auspicious day, the head priest, who had accompanied the king, installed the idol of Goddess Kali with much ritual and gaiety, which ended with the womenfolk blowing conch shells and applying vermillion on their foreheads. However, not all went well for the royal family.

The queen had always led a serene life, and the flight, first to the river and then to the forest, was unbearable. Moreover, the strains of childbirth had made her anaemic and weak. When she did give birth, the child barely survived the second week and died of high fever. The queen soon followed the child to her heavenly abode.

Bereavement made the king feel lonely and isolated.

Messengers periodically sneaked out in small boats to bring back information regarding the Moghuls, who were establishing their authority more strongly than ever.

Meanwhile, on the riverbank, a Muslim sepoy was closely following the small boat with four sailors. A runner, he furtively followed the boat for over 10 kos along the shore. The boat, with the Raja’s soldiers, had been sailing for well over three hours. They had to fetch some medicines for their king as well as several others who were running a high fever spread by mosquitoes.

They reached somewhere near Gosaba and landed in an unmarked jetty to meet the Kabiraj, the village medicine man, well versed in the traditional science of herbal medication. They whispered something in his ear—perhaps they were describing the symptoms of the ailment from which the king suffered. That must have been the case because it led to frenzied activity from him and his two assistants. They hurried outside to fetch some herbs, heated a few of them in some obnoxious oil, while they ground up some others. The herb-infused oil was added to 11

the ground paste which they rolled into marble-sized pills. “Give this globule thrice a day with plenty of water. Only liquid diet is to be administered for two days”, the Kabiraj instructed.

The Muslim sepoy was keenly observing the entire episode. He thought the time had come to inform his superiors. He sent them information by pigeon post--the trained pigeon on his shoulder carried a letter, which was read two kos away at the nearest Moghul army outpost. Soon, a small group of horsemen were galloping towards the Kabiraj’s hut. The Raja’s men had collected the medicines and were cautiously proceeding towards their hidden boat, unaware that they would be followed for the next few hours. They climbed into their vessel and began rowing towards their distant destination, pursued by the Moghul boat at a discreet distance.

Someone was knocking insistently on the door of the Kabiraj’s hut late at night.

One of the Kabiraj’s assistants called out, “Shhhh, quiet, the Kabiraj is resting.”

They were not unused to visitors at this hour, but tried not to disturb the octogenarian unless there was an emergency, offering their own services instead. However, the leader of the group brushed the bewildered assistants aside and went past them, followed by a dozen soldiers. “Hey, get up”. The old Kabiraj had acquired wisdom with age and was not at all intimidated by the bearded men, who had disrupted his rest at this late hour. He had seen several wars and had finally decided to settle in this village to serve the poor. So, a bit of Moghul intrusion was the last thing he would worry about.

“Who were they?” the gruff voice of the leader demanded. Two of the soldiers unceremoniously lifted the frail man and made him stand before their chief. “They had come to collect some medicines for high fever”, the Kabiraj answered calmly.

“I cured your faujdar, your commander, of his dreaded ailment last year. I hope you do not want me to inform him of your exemplary behaviour when he comes next time to collect his course of medicine? My dear assistant, could you check if it is three days from now?” He had hit the nail on the head. The intruders left quietly, mumbling apologies.

But the Moghul vessel was still following the small rowboat. The king’s men moored the boat at the hidden creek, unaware of their trackers, who patiently 12

waited for a couple of hours. Before long, they saw a nomad coming towards the riverbank.

They used a log to hit his head, when he turned his back. The muted noise of the log hitting his head from behind did not travel farther than a few feet. But Chinga was harder to fell. He turned back and leapt at one of the soldiers, drawing a dagger from his waist. The sharp edge tore through the guts of one of the attackers.

Unfazed at the loss of one of their men, the Moghul soldiers kept assaulting Chinga till, at last, the nomad fell down unconscious. The soldiers waved and two other Moghuls appeared from amongst the bushes. There was an argument as to the fate of the slain soldier. They realised the futility and the danger of being seen if the body was carried back. The instructions were very clear. “Watch and capture at least one person without being noticed”. They hid the slain soldier’s body in the mangrove bushes and carried Chinga to their boat.

The cool water splashing on Chinga's face woke him up. He could still feel the sting where the log had hit him and realised that he was being carried in a boat.

He tried to wriggle free but in vain. His feet and hands were tied. His eyes were blindfolded and mouth gagged. Mid-river, one of the sepoys pulled the cloth out of his mouth. There was not even a whisper.

“Well! Well! Chinga, the nomad!” The Moghul commander in the area was surprised as was everyone else in the tent. He gestured for the ropes to be untied and the blindfold removed. “Pray tell me, Chinga. What in the world sent you to the forlorn tiger-infested islands of the Sundarban?” the commander queried. “And that too, with the Raja’s soldiers?”

The nomad was notoriously stubborn and the soldiers were already heating the iron bars without waiting for the sundry lenient methods of interrogation. His unconscious body was bundled out, half carried and half dragged by the Moghul soldiers for incarceration after laborious hours of torture and repeated assaults. For all they could get out of the unconscious Chinga were two words — Raja and Netidhopani.

The messengers galloped on their swiftest horses with an urgent message to the commander, who was camping about thirty kos away.

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***** “Who’s it?” The Raja hated being disturbed from his siesta unless it was something important. But the minister was already in his room, brushing aside the usual protocol. The minister whispered in the Raja’s ears that a Moghul soldier’s body had been discovered on the riverbank and that Chinga was missing. There were signs of an attack; a pool of blood and Chinga’s dagger was found near the scene. “Call Chingi,” the Raja demanded. She was already outside the tent, tears in her eyes.

“Chingi, I have no strength to run anymore. I presume the Moghuls will be here in a few hours. We cannot leave now in low tide. I am going to entrust you with two of my most precious possessions. One is my son and the other, some palm leaf manuscripts which my uncle had handed over to me. Will you be able to take the responsibility of Yuvaraj, the prince, and the sacred manuscripts? Remember, the scripts should never get into Moghul hands.” The head priest quickly scribbled some more words on the palm leaves and handed them over to Chingi.

“Raja, we are nomads with no land of our own. Many of our family have moved through the northern mountains into the lands of Turkistan and beyond, or so I hear. But do not worry. Nothing will harm you and, in the unlikely event of an enemy attack, all my men will fight back, too. I will take care of the child, oh Raja.”

Chingi’s eyes were moist — more than the feared abduction of her husband, she was worried about the plight of the king of Bengal, who was on the run.

The hidden fort, camouflaged with bushes, became a scene of frenzied activity.

The secret tunnels were sealed. Valuables were buried and the nomads started applying a poison of their own concoction on their arrows. The Raja’s soldiers, who had sworn to protect the king and his family, were on alert and took vantage positions. But enemy eyes were sharper as their positions were relayed several times over to the three Moghul boats approaching the islands.

One of the elderly soldiers was dressed up as the Raja himself to act as a decoy and was left behind, a standard war procedure, particularly where the enemy was usually mightier and there was a fear of losing the battle and being captured. The

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Raja was whisked away into the dense forests by his four most trusted men, while the rest braced for a fight to the finish or till death Chingi held the boy of seven years close to herself. Ever since the queen’s untimely death a few months ago, she had been taking care of the prince and both were well acquainted with each other. Therefore, the child was more curious than afraid as they sailed together in the small boat. The currents were strong and they were moving through a labyrinth of canals to reach the mouth of the river and travel further towards safe lands.

The Moghuls with their muskets were much superior to the bow-and-arrow equipped nomads and sword-wielding soldiers. The battle was over in a few minutes, with most of the Raja’s soldiers dead. The decoy in the Raja’s clothes who surrendered as part of the plan was captured and hauled away. The soldiers hastily retreated to beat the ebb tide, leaving the deities unscathed.

The Raja could barely cover a few kos after walking for almost seven to eight hours. It was getting dark. He had to rest. At best he could travel on horseback in the absence of his palanquin. But he was not accustomed to walking in the swampy mangrove forests for hours together. The team decided to rest near a few bushes. They had some food that they had carried with them and quenched their thirst with water brought in mashaq, a goat- skin water bag by a bishti, the professional water carrier for the king.

The tigress with three of her cubs had just finished dining on a whole spotted deer and was taking a post-dinner stroll when it came upon the group of two-legged creatures sleeping under a tree. It had its plans, too!

As for Chingi, she could only travel by the smaller canals, avoiding the river and being caught and it was a gruelling two- day journey until she located a safe place to make landfall. From there, she was off to the Matla pier where she met Chinga’s uncle in the middle of the night, carrying the sleeping prince with her.

She learnt from him that her husband had been badly tortured and then incarcerated in some secret prison. Undeterred, she collected from the old man the gold mohurs given by Chinga for safekeeping and set out with the prince on a long journey stretching over several thousand kos towards a country called Romania. She 15

bought a cart with a portion of the money. The palm leaf scriptures were carefully hidden within a hollow of the wooden carriage, specially carved for the purpose.

She travelled over the next three years to the north and northwest, sometimes only with the prince and often with other members of their wandering clan, but with a definite destination in mind — somewhere beyond the treacherous terrain of the Hindu Kush mountains. She crossed Afghanistan, moving on to Persia, Armenia and Turkistan as well as several Central Asian kingdoms, eventually settling down in Romania. The fact that the young lad accompanying the nomad was a prince from India was kept a closely guarded secret, known only to a few elders in their tribe.

The Raja and his trusted soldiers were never heard of again. There were rumours that they were either imprisoned by the Moghuls or devoured by tigers or had succumbed to some dreaded disease. Some loyalists maintained that the king had forsaken all earthly pleasures and had become a hermit. Chinga was charged for killing a Moghul soldier and was tortured to such a degree that he became a physical and mental wreck and died a lonely and traumatic death in an isolated prison.

The attack on the nomadic gypsies continued unabated and more and more nomads moved out of India and spread over Central Asia and Europe, from Turkistan and Persia, to Bulgaria, Poland, and Romania.

Chingi was now old, but a powerful leader in her clan. Before breathing her last, she called the prince and whispered — “You are the son of a king from Bengal and I had to save your life from Moghul soldiers who were sworn enemies of your father. He entrusted me with two things: you and these palm leaves with some important message on the condition that these should not land in Moghul hands. I have safely guarded them for all these years. Now this is your property and you have to protect it.”

Chingi passed away peacefully in her sleep.

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CHAPTER 2

The Voyage Begins The engine spluttered to life with one deft pull of the cord and the laden launch began to pull away from the riverbank. Amit had to catch this boat somehow. It would be the last one to leave Canning before ebb tide. The oarsman did some clever maneuvering to get past the mud banks and he was lucky enough to be on board, that too, with a seat in the cabin, right next to the pilot.

The port of Canning had been conceived as an alternative to the busier port on the Hooghly in Calcutta, as the British felt that silt would gradually choke the city harbour. But history has had a few laughs since then. The big ships still weigh anchor at the city port, while at Canning, one has to wade through knee-deep slush across the Matla. All that remains is a mere charade of a long-forgotten port — a few dozen ramshackle motor launches and oar boats that ferry hordes of people across the river as the tide rises every six hours. The ceaseless sport of the heaving and ebbing waters makes man a hapless puppet and his pursuits forever subject to tidal whims.

Amit silently sat there musing at the scores of passengers packed like sardines in a tin, wondering what would happen if the boat capsized. It might find a place at the bottom of the eighth column in one of the obscure inside pages of the newspapers, if it finds any mention at all. With a billion plus people crowding the country, a few boats capsizing in a year is hardly a newsworthy story.

A splash of the Matla on his face and his neck stung like the winter morning chill, but was strangely refreshing despite the heavy pollution it carried from thousands of industries upstream. How mankind had taken nature for granted! The challenge to the environment had even changed the flow of rivers, particularly in the 17

last five decades, with the human populace doubling and choking every available natural resource.

He looked for the piece of folded paper tucked in his jacket. This was to be his guide throughout the trip. The satellite map of the Sundarban delta was a highresolution reconnaissance image of the Sundarban Tiger Reserve. He simply couldn’t resist the temptation of seeing a tiger face to face in the mangrove swamps of the Sundarban.

A few hundred odd tigers spread over a territory of 1,000 sq. km are not easy to spot. It required special skills to track the majestic beast — one needed to follow the chirping of birds and the shrill calls of monkeys for warning signs that the big cat was lurking somewhere close. The tiger could watch effortlessly without being spotted from amongst the hental bushes.

It was not easy to obtain a permit to visit the areas reserved for tigers. Amit was allowed to visit the reserve as he had friends at the Forest Department and had obtained the recommendation of a minister, although with an armed escort provided by the government. Tiger attacks, boat capsizes or threats by pirates from across the border were frequent enough in the dreaded rivers to discourage any visitor from venturing into these dense forests unarmed and on his own.

The boat moved on with the steady banter among locals, who were debating on the deft moves by ace sportsmen from their favourite soccer team, Mohun Bagan, which had won by a solitary goal over archrival East Bengal the day before. Many of them carried the green and maroon flag of their favourite club, which fluttered with the swaying breeze. The feverish excitement about soccer equalled the chatter at any Italian cafe after a European League match.

“Perhaps there weren’t many refugees from East Pakistan in this area,” Amit thought, noting the absence of East Bengal supporters.

The rival club's bright red and yellow flags still monopolised many areas of suburban Kolkata, especially in those colonies set up to rehabilitate refugees from across the border during the partition of India, and later, during Bangladesh’s liberation war. They stopped at Sonakhali and he let most of the soccer fans, and a marriage troupe which was in a hurry, disembark ahead of him.

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*****

“Hello Uncle!” Amit saw his nephew Raju frantically waving at him from the riverbank. He stepped out of the boat, balancing his umbrella which doubled as a walking stick. This, he had learnt during his earlier trips, was necessary to negotiate the treacherous muddy riverbanks in the Sundarban and also worked as a weapon to ward off snakes.

“Hi”, he waved back. “He sure has grown a few inches taller and got leaner, too,” Amit thought.

When he looked closely at his nephew, he found the traces of a moustache and a hint of a beard proclaiming his transformation from a boy to a man. He clambered out of the boat with his backpack and suitcase. Surely he was the odd man out, for the others were all cast in the same die — most men wearing faded lungis or dhotis, the ladies in traditional mill cotton saris and most of the kids in school uniforms, which also served as their best clothes for any other occasion.

Raju sprang at him and gave a bear hug, momentarily dislodging him. Amit reciprocated with equal warmth. “You sure have grown tall”, he exclaimed at his nephew.

“We will sail for Sajnekhali where there will be enough time to talk. We need to start immediately to beat the ebb tide. I have hired a boat which will take us right away”, Raju said, brimming with excitement. “We have to register at the check post in Sajnekhali and can rest at Pakhiralay for the night.”

He grabbed the suitcase and beckoned to the lanky figure standing a few yards away, looking at us and smoking a beedi.

“Manna, this is my uncle who has arrived from London,” Raju yelled. Unlike Canning, Sonakhali and Gosaba were relatively safe for sailing even in ebb tide.

They handed over their baggage to Manna, who was to be their Man Friday for the next few days, helping with their travel and miscellaneous needs. Amit took Captain Malik’s outstretched hand, and climbed into the boat.

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Sundari, meaning ‘The beautiful’, was the enchanting name that belied the weather-beaten structure of the boat, which was nothing but a few wooden planks nailed together with a simple five horse-powered diesel engine attached to it. Such engines are used to power pumps on farms, to access underground water reserves all over India. The canopy of old recycled vinyl posters flapped in the wind and the peeled off paint revealed the ageing wood and steel at places, reminding them that the beauty was merely cosmetic.

The part of the upper deck that was towards the bow had a fifty square foot area that visitors used as a combined bedroom and living room. There was a pilot’s cabin, which was a twelve square foot dingy room and an antechamber, which served as a rest room for the captain. The store was behind this area and the toilets were closer to the stern. They had to put away their valuables before coming here, because they could see the river waters and sometimes an odd fish or two as well! It was enough to scare anybody at the wrong time.

There were two rows of benches and a bathroom on the lower deck. The space was only four feet high, and a certain ability to squeeze into small spaces was required of visitors and members of the crew. They had to be even more agile if they wished to bathe while on board. In case of rain — which was more the rule than the exception — the entire crew, except the pilot, had to huddle on the lower deck. The craft, its construction, the engine, the people as well as the land with water all around were all primitive.

They had a full three-hour sail to Pakhiralay, where they were to rest for the night and proceed the next morning towards their destination. The rest of the crew emerged from the lower deck. There was a cook, Banchharam, and his assistant Biru, to wash and clean. “Quite a crowd!” Amit thought.

The next few minutes went by explaining to Raju the nuances of the Canon EOS Mk III Camera and the few lenses that he had added to his photographic equipment, with the cook dutifully enquiring about their gourmet preferences. For the duration of the trip, Banchharam was to prove himself an excellent cook, whose repertoire of dishes included Indian and western fare.

20

“The adventure has truly begun,” Amit thought exultantly. Raju was examining the war surplus Steiner Binoculars that his uncle had procured from a Portobello shop in the London suburbs.

***** “Wake up, Uncle.” Raju’s voice was strained against the strong wind. “Where am I? Certainly not in my apartment in the UK.” Amit was trying to focus. The vibration of the engine and the splashing of water slowly brought him back to the present after his nap.

Work in the college had been stimulating. He was to be the doctoral guide of one student, Anita Guha, a young Bengali girl. She belonged to the tiger-prevalent region of West Bengal — Piyali village in South 24 Parganas, which was the mouth of the Sundarban Delta.

“Nomoshkar. Do I need to call you Sir, or will a plain Dr. Roy do?" Anita shocked him at their first meeting.

“Sorry, but you don’t look all that old as professors usually do.” He barely had a chance to begin. She was in command already. “Amiyo Bangali, Dokkhin 24 Parganar Meye (I too am a Bengali, a girl from the South 24 Parganas district of West Bengal),” she gave her geographical antecedents to impress him.

Fumbling for a reply, Amit said “Good morning”. He could not decide if she was beautiful, but there was a strange charm about her.

He readily agreed to guide her on her thesis on Biodiversity, focussed on the wetland area of Sundarban.

*****

Water splashed into the swaying boat and his eyes instinctively checked to see if his camera equipment was safe. Raju had wisely packed all of it into the water21

proof bag and was already standing at the rails. “Wake up. We are at Sajnekhali.

We have to go in and register ourselves, and then, spend the night at Pakhiralay on the opposite bank where we are booked at a lodge,” Raju announced.

The person at the bigger table in the ramshackle office was busy reading the sports page of a Bengali daily. He made no attempt to even look at the visitors. “Dasaratha! Will you have paan?” The clerk was more than loud in offering the betel leaf bundle to his peon who was taking a nap at another table. They stood for a while in front of the clerk from the Forest Department, who was also doubling up as the issuer of permits for the Sundarban biosphere at Sajnekhali. Amit’s Kolkata roots taught him to be humble and not to argue with petty government officials.

“This is my uncle, Prof. Amit Roy.” Raju was upset that neither the clerk nor his peon had offered his uncle a seat. “Uncle, please sit down,” he indicated a chair.

“Stop!” the clerk almost barked. He got up and went to spit out the red juice from the post-lunch betel leaf in his mouth. He seemed to have all the time in the world.

“Don’t you see, young man, that the chair has only three legs? The fourth is broken and is tied with a piece of wood,” the clerk reasoned. “I have already written a memo to the State Public Works Department and they will certainly change it in two or three months. Until then, you have to stand.” He was grinning wickedly, savouring their discomfiture.

“Just because you have a permit from the ministry in Kolkata does not mean that I will let you have a free run in the Sundarban.

Do you understand that?" The clerk looked at Amit like a flat-owner letting out his property to a prospective but unworthy tenant. "You will take an authorised guide from my office. That will cost you 150 rupees a day. The charges for an armed escort will be 300 rupees per day. You shall provide them with food. You shall be back on or before the fifth day before 12 noon. Are you carrying any video camera? That will cost you extra.” He was like an old record player playing the same old song.

22

Amit presented his credentials and the permits provided by senior officials to the clerk. It did not matter that the instructions came from senior officials-lower level officials treated these with contempt or unconcern.

Amit and Raju somehow managed to complete the formalities in an hour; but had to wait for two more hours for the guide and the armed escort. The burly armed escort whispered something to Malik, the boat’s pilot, who shook his head with a sheepish grin. The policeman vanished inside and came back in a few minutes.

Later, Amit learnt from Malik that he had gone out to fetch his quota of Maal, the local lingo for liquor.

“I am Jibon”. The deep voice from across the hall made them all turn around.

There was a nondescript middle-aged man with a jhola on his shoulders, the kind one finds in almost all parts of West Bengal.

Raju introduced Amit and himself to Jibon, who responded with “Good...good” the guide stopped Raju with a raised hand. “I know all the others in the room quite well. Nomoshkar doctor babu. If I fall sick during the next few days of my journey, doctor babu can take care of me. Ha!” He guffawed at his own joke.

“He is a doctor for tigers and not a doctor for people,” Raju quipped. Jibon stopped laughing.

“Saar, I will join you in the morning as you sail. Now that it is almost dark, you won’t be allowed to sail. My fee of 750 rupees may please be paid in advance, if you don’t mind.” Perhaps he thought Raju would be seeking an alternative guide and, hence, wanted to secure his temporary employment.

“No problem Dr. Roy. This is the usual practice here and he is our best guide,” the clerk’s voice sounded much friendlier.

Amit thrust his hand into his wallet and gave the required amount. Immediately, Jibon gave the clerk 100 rupees and Malik, 50 rupees.

“Earlier loan, saar.” He sheepishly grinned at us as if to justify the transaction.

“Bye and good night. See you tomorrow at 7 a.m. on the boat.”

23

Turning towards Malik, he said, “Malik da, I shall join you for breakfast. Nomoshkar.”

Jibon left, with a content smile on his face and his hand feeling the bulge of currency in his trouser pocket.

Amit and Raju went out to the pier and embarked on Sundari, which was to be their home for the next four days. The clerk had to be given a hefty tip, too.

“Some things never change in this country,” Amit thought, thinking of the endless ways gullible visitors and tourists were being milked by everybody.

***** Malik was already inside the pilot’s cabin on the upper deck and Biru, the assistant, was struggling with the diesel engine. Banchharam, the cook-cum-oarsman, was already pushing the boat away from the bank. The engine came alive with a muffled roar and they moved on towards Pakhiralay, which was about a kilometre away. The currents were strong and the boat took nearly half an hour to make it there.

Amit took off his all-weather shoes and Raju took off his sandals as they rolled their trousers to their knees and walked carefully on the scattered bricks that formed a makeshift path on the muddy bank. Man Friday Manna was there to help, agile and comfortable with the conditions. The third brick that Amit stepped on sunk slightly as he slipped and sank beyond knee length into the clayey riverbank.

Amit wondered how the tigers, weighing an average of 400 lbs, roamed in this wilderness. Manna was quick to pull him out, apologising profusely. “I should have warned you to be more careful,” he admonished himself. They plodded towards the private hotel, which was supposed to be the best in the region, nearly a furlong away.

24

The narrow, dusty road was already dark. There were a few teashops with no customers and a village co-operative shop selling cheap saris. There were also a few vegetable vendors. Lanterns were out in all the shops.

They reached the lodge, a two-storied building which was the only one in the entire locality. It stood on logs and earth and had a thatched roof. The caretakercum-manager, an old man, came out to greet them, ushering them to their rooms upstairs. The rooms being small, Raju and Amit decided to hire one each on the first floor, with Manna staying in another room on the ground floor. The rooms were surprisingly cool, compared to the hot and humid exteriors. The crew anchored in the middle of the river during the night. The burly policeman also stayed in the boat that he was assigned to guard, although grudgingly.

A diesel engine, similar to the one used in the boat, and with wires dangling around precariously in a corner of the ground floor, was the power generator. Two rather unfriendly-looking country dogs snoozed comfortably amidst the electrical wires, while Amit wondered what would happen in case of a short circuit. The manager started the generator and advised them to recharge their laptops and cameras while the generator was on.

“It can run for not more than two hours,” he announced and entered the kitchen to prepare their food. “I will switch it off when the engine gets too hot,” the caretaker added. Manna went in, too, to help the old man with his work.

Amit organised his clothes, camera equipment and maps. Raju had already bathed, changed into a fresh set of clothes and was in Amit’s room. They decided to walk along the bazaar road to get some fresh air. It was completely dark now and the sky was clear. Amit had rarely seen so many stars in the sky. They went to the nearest teashop and sat down.

“I can give you lemon tea if you like,” the teashop owner offered, much to their delight. “Babu, are you all from Kolkata?” he asked.

Although the mega city was merely six hours by boat and train, he never had an occasion to go beyond Gosaba, another nearby island. “We are poor people. What will we do in Kolkata?” he continued. "I am told that a cup of tea costs five rupees 25

in Kolkata and a plate of rice and fish curry twenty. I can live for four days with that kind of money.” Before leaving, Amit left a handsome tip.

The steaming hot food was ready to be served. It tasted delicious, or perhaps they were a little too hungry. They devoured the food and were ready to sleep soon afterwards so as to start early the next day.

“The generator became very hot and was about to burst!” the caretaker announced with alarm, and added, “Not to worry; I cooled it down with a towel soaked in cold water, which I don’t normally do.” He clearly expected a generous tip when they checked out.

The long hours of travel had exhausted both uncle and nephew. They tucked themselves into bed with a mosquito net overhead, soon falling asleep to the humming sounds of the largest mosquitoes they had ever laid eyes on.

26

CHAPTER 3

The Morning Star Circa 1851 Captain Andrew Clayton was taking a catnap in the Captain’s cabin, right below the ship’s quarterdeck. He could hear hectic activity overhead. At first, he thought he was imagining the shouting on the upper deck. But, this time, the noise was louder.

He usually rested with his door open but had to keep it latched to ensure that his pet Labrador, Bosky, did not wander around on the upper deck, particularly after the previous night’s sail through the lashing nor’westers of the Bay of Bengal. The crew did need a break after a tiring night.

The vessel, the Morning Star, had anchored in the high seas perhaps about twenty odd miles from the Indian shore. Several fine ships had sunk in these treacherous waters and Clayton had lost a good friend or two as well. He peeped out of the cabin windows with weary eyes. It was early and the mist shrouded his vision.

Tightening his belt and putting on his jacket and hat, he stepped out of the cabin, leaving Bosky behind and closing the door from outside. Like a true British naval officer, Clayton was a perfectionist. A proud wearer of the stripes, he flew the Union Jack on the mast with the due respect of a devoted servant of Her Majesty.

On the upper deck, he saw the watchman from the crow’s nest of the main mast shouting and pointing to his partner perched in the middle of the foremast. Carl Timothy, a man from Canterbury and the First Officer, was adjusting his telescope and looking in the direction of the waters to the north of their ship. Little beads of sweat laced his furrowed forehead.

27

“Cap’n?” Timothy announced, “Sorry, had to wake you! It looks like those rascals, the Portuguese pirates." Unruffled, Clayton took the telescope from his deputy’s hand and focused in the direction his first officer indicated. Having spent long years at sea, he was well aware of the dreaded pirates wreaking havoc along the Arakan seas and across the Bay of Bengal. The Arakanese pirates were more savage and desperate than the Portuguese. The latter would seize the ship if they couldn’t sink it, plunder the booty and enslave the people on board, whereas the Arakanese pirates — active closer to the coastline — usually attacked under cover of darkness with several country boats at a time, surrounding the vessel and hunting like a pack of hyenas.

The Portuguese had more finesse. They knew the tricks of sailing well, understood the sea, wind and art of warfare. They possessed good vessels, mostly captured, had sufficient gun power to engage in long-drawn sea battles and knew the kharis—the labyrinth of smaller and less-well-traversed creeks and canals that show up during ebb tide and disappear during high tide. The Portuguese were cunning too, often flying the Union Jack and addressing unsuspecting British or Dutch merchant ships in English, before mounting the attack.

Then there were the salt smugglers. Realising the indispensability of salt, the British East India Company had taken control of the salt trade and clamped down on the domestic production of salt by the natives. This resulted in illegal salt production in the salt- rich regions of the Sundarban Islands, funded clandestinely by the Dutch merchants. While illegal trade thrived in the summer months, the long monsoons kept the salt producers from their livelihood and they turned to plundering small-time merchant vessels. However, they kept away from vessels flying British, Dutch and Portuguese flags to safeguard themselves from counter offensives which would jeopardise their illegal trade in salt and timber.

There were local pirates, too, belonging to the reckless warrior tribes of the Chittagong Hill tracts on the eastern coast. Mostly baghis, they were army deserters who hunted and killed more for practice and pleasure, but did not fail to loot where and when they could. Of course, the most dreaded were the pirates of the Malacca Straits — cold-blooded butchers, who were considered worse than their counterparts in the Caribbean. The Malacca pirates ventured into the Bay of Ben28

gal only when they knew that merchant ships carrying sizeable wealth would be found there.

Despite the dangers posed by the sea and the pirates, sea trade between the Empire and Asia was at its peak. Most of Asia was flying the Union Jack save China.

Opium was being bought in India and sold to China, which, in turn, sold its tea, silk, spices, cereals and indigo to the United Kingdom and Europe. Often, the Indians were paid in gold or silver for the much needed opium, indigo and cotton.

The Second Officer from the ship, Mike Bill, did a quick trapeze act like the langurs of Asia and reached the crow’s nest in seconds. Mike was truly agile and was one of the Captain’s trusted lieutenants. Serving in Her Majesty’s Navy, he had proved his mettle in a Caribbean battle. But an accidental slip from the forepeak into the sea and a fierce fight with a shark, which he killed eventually, had cost him the left side of his face and ear. And, ever since, the title ‘one-eared Mike’ had stuck to him. Deftly clinging at that height, he leaned to draw his telescope and focus at the enemy.

"Bastards" he swore. They were flying the Union Jack, but the hull was a giveaway.

He immediately recognised the unfailing Dutch “be’landre” with a two mast design, the main mast lateen rigged, but the foremast carried the conventional square course and square topsail. “It’s them, the Portos” Mike yelled.

Clayton was already focussing at the distant vessel and at once recognised the fake flag it was sporting. "I must check my eyes and get a pair of glasses in Calcutta as soon as I arrive there,” the Captain thought to himself. For the last few years, he had been using reading glasses and now found it difficult to view objects that were distant from him. He took a closer look through the telescope, lowering the bright brass tube, turning it with confidence and concentrating on the distant deck.

There it was — the rings of the gun ports already raised and the shining black metal barrels of the gun protruding from the distant ship.

Gun officer Samuel Pint was already at the gun port giving orders. “All ports rise!

Move guns to position. Enemy within sight! Await orders for fire." Samuel was an experienced officer who had faced three battles and two piracy attacks before.

29

The gunpowder was moved from the lower deck to the gun ports. Buckets of sand and water were hurriedly positioned to extinguish any flame from the raids. The armoury assistants were busy cleaning each barrel. In close encounters between ships, which struck first really mattered as, in most cases, the ship which got hit first went into disarray. He could not allow his unblemished record of service to be tainted by some rowdy pirate ship. “Not at any cost,” he said loudly, then looked around to see if anyone had heard. But the others were too busy to even notice.

“Raise the anchors,” Captain Clayton thundered. The sails were already being opened and the strong north-westerly wind started moving the ship towards the coastline as it gathered speed. The ghost ship a few miles away made no urgent move and it puzzled Clayton. The gun ports were open and the sixteen guns mounted in the starboard were ready to fire at command.

“Land, Ahoy!” The watch on the crow’s nest shouted. They were fast approaching Panchamukhani, the entry point into the Matla River towards the port city of Calcutta. “If the weather permits, we can reach Calcutta by tomorrow morning,” the captain surmised.

“It was a close call, but why didn’t they move even a bit?” Clayton was now a bit puzzled but showed no signs of his dilemma to his subordinates. The treasure in gold he was carrying for disbursement through the East India Company in Calcutta increased his responsibility and liability. The dolphins were jumping in the water — a sure sign that they were moving away from the sea and towards the river. The confluence of the rivers—the Ganges, the Brahmaputra and the Meghna with several tributaries - was five kilometres wide. The captain heaved a sigh of relief. He had only sixty crew-members with sixteen gunners. It was not unusual for ships to carry guns to thwart piracy. The pirates were often tacitly and secretly supported by kingdoms and empires that financed their expensive armaments, which had to be countered by responsible governments.

“A few more minutes, and we shall be in safe territory,” Clayton said to his deputy, without moving his eyes away from the perceived threat. The distant ship kept pace, following the Morning Star while maintaining a distance from it. They sailed for two hours from the river delta to the land of mangroves. “We must hurry and 30

reach the coastline.” The captain shunned risk and adventure, particularly when he carried the company’s bullion.

The Sundarban were an array of islands formed by the deposition of silt from various Indian rivers like the Ganges, the Brahmaputra and the Meghna. The water rose almost about twenty feet every six hours. Every sailor had to learn and note the tidal mood swings in order to navigate and, more importantly, to avoid getting stuck in the muddy river beds and be devoured by the thousands of tigers that roamed in the riverine forests. The crocodiles abounding in the region added to the hazard.

While the sea brought in salt-laden water, the rivers brought with them fresh water, a combination ideal for the mangrove forests to thrive. A well-read man, Clayton recalled that there were nearly 4,000 tigers in the area and that Her Majesty’s Government had just begun surveying the region, where his wife’s cousin was engaged as an assistant to the surveyor. He prayed for their well-being.

The distant vessel was still keeping the same pace as theirs and maintaining the same distance. “Bloody bandits,” he swore, trying to reassure himself that they would never dare attack any British ship close to the coastline. But he was puzzled, too. They were sending no signals of distress, which was customary in case of any trouble in the high seas. “What kind of tricks are they up to?” he wondered. “Perhaps our gun ports have disillusioned them.”

He stepped in to check on Bosky. “Perhaps it’s safe to bring him up now.” Bosky was the darling of all the sailors, especially ‘one eared’ Mike. He went down to his cabin and opened the door. Bosky was already jumping at him and licking him all over his face. “These animals give their love with no thought of an agenda or a demand. Just like my dear Maria,” he thought.

He glanced at his dear wife’s photo adorning the desk. She was voluptuous as any happy woman of her times. Clayton never forgot to take home souvenirs from the several ports he landed on, which included ivory idols, gold and silver trinkets and especially silk cloth, which made her very happy.

“My son should be ready to join me next summer,” he thought. He could retire three summers later and enjoy a lifelong pension from Her Majesty’s Government.

31

“I must repair my yacht then and repaint it milk white,” he decided. Many things had to be done after retirement. Indeed, he was going to enjoy life only after retirement, travelling in his white yacht with Maria.

The sound of cannon firing shattered Clayton's ears. The smell of gunpowder was overwhelming. Smoke and wood flew everywhere. The sound of shattering glasses filled the atmosphere. Someone from the upper deck cried out, “Fire!” and someone else yelled, “Look out! There they are!” A wood splinter had pierced the back of Clayton’s neck. He turned around in disbelief. Through the smoke, from the not-too- distant khari, there emerged a junko, a Portuguese junk with fully laden cannons and swivel guns. His analytical brain did not stop functioning.

‘Must be Lantakas, close to 60 or 70 inches’, he thought. The back of his neck was wet, warm and sticky. He realized he was bleeding profusely. Two things flashed in his mind's eye - the Queen’s money he was carrying and his beautiful wife in faraway England. He had an urgent desire to check on Bosky. “Bosky, Bosky........

Why is it getting so dark early in the morning?” He was passing out.

“Atacar o Inglês, os bastardos!” the voice from El Dorado boomed. Captain Marques d’Costa was stocky. Marques had bought the twenty Lantakas from the Filipinos two months ago for thousands of dollars’ worth of pirated treasures. He was a man of reason.

"It was a worthy investment after all," he said, satisfied with the fire power and his cunning in outwitting a well armed British Navy ship.

The ship at a distance that was flying a British flag was closing in. There was hectic activity in that vessel, too. The Union Jack was being replaced by the trademark black flag with skull and bones. More sails were now being hoisted. It was gathering speed and was moving towards the Morning Star with a clear intent.

There was smoke and confusion everywhere as the cannons fired. The gunners, who were aiming at the distant ship, were caught unawares by the sudden fire from the vessel behind their ship. One-eared Mike climbed down and ran to the stairs. He saw his beloved captain lying in a pool of blood and started pulling him down to his cabin.

32

“No, take care of the ship,” Clayton’s voice was barely a whisper. Mike laid the captain in his bed and ran upstairs to fetch the doctor.

Dr. Glen Morris, who was in fact on a trip from the United Kingdom to India, was to be posted in Calcutta at Government House. Mike was relieved to see the doctor hurrying down the stairs, without realising that the physician was actually fleeing to seek refuge in the lower deck. “Dr. Morris, please take care of the Cap’n. I have jobs to attend to at the top.” Mike ran. Bosky followed him, not knowing that he would have to swim many miles for safety in a short while.

“All starboard guns to load, enemy vessel on the attack!” Gun Officer Samuel Pint's coarse voice boomed. "Rex and Borgia, aim at the lantakas on the fo’c’sle and Remy and Randers, on the quarterdeck. Moon racers aim at the gun port.

Deep divers aim at hull. Fire!” Samuel was calm. Years at sea had taught him several tricks with which he could outwit the enemy. And he had always won.

“Bring the load of nails from the lower deck” Samuel shouted.

A group of sailors were already carrying sacks of nails and shrapnel to dump into the cannons. It was a battle move to stun the enemy. All eyes were glued to El Dorado, which drew menacingly close, with its Lantakas spewing fire and smoke.

Mike checked his ammunition, which he carried in plenty, and his two .70 bore Double barrelled C & B Howdah Pistols tucked in his waist. He had a cross band with a nearly 10 lb .75 calibre Brown Bess Musket hanging across his back. He swung over the rigging to reach the nest in the foremast. Mike was a lone fighter and loved to aim for the prize catch — in this case, the captain of the pirate ship.

He carefully spread his arsenal near his leg, eying it with satisfaction. He searched for the packet of tobacco, an item which he never forgot to carry on his person.

Quickly stripping a generous portion of the tobacco powder, he deftly filled it between his lower lips and gum, an art he had picked up earlier on a voyage to India. The fire went to his head as he drew the juice.

“Fit only for real men,” Mike proudly thought. But now, the priority was different, he had to prove his mettle. He lifted the heavy musket, carefully gauged the distance and aimed. The noise was deafening. Everything went dark for Mike. He 33

groped for his steel tobacco box and tightly clutched it. The cannon ball from the lantaka had hit the foremast where Mike was perched up, tilting it precariously.

The sails were distorted and were making strange whistling and wheezing noises, as they flapped uselessly in the wind.

There was water leaking from somewhere, drenching the armoury in the lower deck. But Samuel was unperturbed. “Load the flowers," he said. His gunners promptly filled the cannons with shrapnel. In the unlikely event of the enemy coming any closer, the 'flowers' were a better way to greet them than solitary cannon balls.

The smoke-filled sea served as a perfect veil for the eight small boats, each filled with twelve seasoned Arakanese pirates who were sneaking towards the Morning Star. With axes, cutlasses and daggers, they were far more deadly than the soldiers with pistols were.

The distant ship was well within a quarter of a mile. As the sailors were suitably distracted by the decoy ship, they clearly ignored the vengeful junk hiding to give the Morning Star a body blow. There was a thud. Bosky detested the smell of gunpowder and the smoke and barked loudly. He tried in vain to wake the captain, who had by now bled profusely and had stopped feeling any pain. Neither did he hear his beloved Bosky barking.

The Arakanese were silently climbing onto the ship, with daggers clenched between their teeth. The lantakas in the junk caused severe damage to the English ship, leaving gaping holes in the hull and below the quarterdeck. The team of small boats divided into two, headed for the nearest entry point into the ship. The junk by now was menacingly close and so was the distant vessel. "A few yards more," gun officer Samuel decided.

“Few moments for the glory,” he shouted. “Ready and aim, do not shoot until I order. Watch out.” A few seconds or minutes in a battle had the potential to change the scenario completely and the gun officer wanted to inflict the utmost damage to the enemies.

“What in the…” his words were cut short by one clean slit. Blood gushed out of his throat as the deadly Arakanese went about the smoke-filled gun deck and other 34

parts of the ship, butchering more sailors. The gunners were still waiting for firing orders. It was too late for their officer's command. But they were all obedient servants of her Majesty’s navy, not wayward sailors who would take decisions on their own. They waited nervously. Meanwhile, the Arakanese intruders, who had swarmed all over the vessel, went about silently annihilating the unsuspecting gunners.

The loud thud of the three vessels colliding was deafening. The two enemy vessels had sandwiched the Morning Star between them. Several pirates with cutlasses and muskets were flying in through the riggings from both sides.

“Matar todo mundo (Kill everybody); Olhar para o capitão (Look for the Captain); Olhar para Ouro (Look for gold); Olhar para as mulheres (Look for the women)!” The pirate captain’s voice thundered, evoking a frenzied rush by his men towards the victim vessel. Captain Marques d’Costa of El Dorado hated anything English, such as their might, their superiority and their strength. Little wonder then that he wanted everyone killed. Besides that, he had focussed targets: gold and women.

He ushered in three of his confidants and ran down with a pistol in his hand. The strongest one kicked open the captain’s cabin and instantly took a step back. Poor Bosky was no ferocious rottweiler. He was merely a good-natured labrador. The Arakanese immediately lifted his dagger to kill Bosky. D’Costa surprisingly stopped him. “A dog wagging its tail does not bite,” he reasoned. Bosky had to go out into the open for fresh air. He sneaked past the Arakanese and shot upstairs.

"The captain is dead," announced the first pirate. D'Costa searched for the keys to the armoury and safe and was glad to find them dangling from the captain's neck.

He cleared the debris to look for the safe. Clayton involuntarily made a small movement in his comatose stage. Marques eyed him and noted with satisfaction that the loss of blood could not revive him anymore. But, in his trade, no one took chances and he, after all, was a reasonable man. He drew his revolver, aimed point blank at Clayton’s temple and pulled the trigger. The loud bang echoed in the captain’s cabin and blood spilled everywhere. Maria Clayton’s photograph was now crimson with dripping blood.

35

Marques could now open and gain entry into the anteroom which was used for storing the valuables. He stepped out, shook his head as if in rage, pulled his weapon yet again and shot the three Arakanese bandits blocking his path — their eyes were still puzzled as they fell. Given the size of the booty, it should not be shared, Marques reasoned. He hurried on, firmly locking the Captain’s cabin as he went up.

“Tow the vessel into the kharis”, Marques ordered. Many things needed to be sorted out. He had nearly a hundred Arakanese pirates in his group. There were around thirty of his Portuguese men and twenty or so of mixed nationalities — mostly jail birds and criminals — whom he had recruited as his crew, before the last voyage.

Bosky did not for once like the situation. He could not see Mike, who used to feed him every morning. The faces he saw were new and unfriendly. The broken foremast was now oscillating dangerously. “Wait, what’s dangling from the foremast?”

He ran up. Nobody took any notice of Bosky. It was virtually a lateral walk for the Labrador and he reached with ease the nest of the foremast, which was steadily giving way. He started licking the salt-stained face of his beloved ‘one-eared’ Mike.

Mike could hear yelling. His eyes were hazy and his head was heavy. He tried to concentrate. Then, in a sudden rush, he recalled everything till the point when he had fainted. He could guess the rest. His hand involuntarily searched for his tobacco case and the musket. He started moving like a serpent towards the mast’s farthest end, which was now perilously dangling towards the sea. Bosky dutifully followed.

Many ropes were thrown from different points of the attacking pirate ships, which securely tied the Morning Star. The El Dorado and the ghost ship started pulling the vessel to a secret hiding place. The Arakanese jumped into their boats, having captured the British ship without much bloodshed. Only a handful of their group had either been injured or killed. Little did they know that three of their own men had been killed by their chief, Captain Marques d’Costa.

All the vessels, big and small, were moving towards the coast and into an opening through the bay. In the meantime, Marques was busy convincing his Portuguese 36

sailors that they should eliminate the Arakanese in order to avoid an impending mutiny by them. “I offer each one of you, my brothers, two gold sovereigns,” he coaxed. The mere mention of gold brought a look of joy to the faces of the Portuguese, who began dreaming about boisterous partying once they reached the shores.

The Arakanese, sailing in their small boats — no larger than catamarans — were sitting ducks for the lantaka-wielding sailors in the two ships. “Fire!” the gunner ordered from El Dorado and the guns started spewing fire at the unsuspecting rowboats. The Arakanese had no time to react and did not possess any weapons other than axes and cutlasses, which in any case were useless now. They sank into the treacherous depths of the Bay of Bengal. The Gangetic alligators swiftly moved and the river turned into spots of crimson accompanied by yells and cries. The eight rowboats were now reduced to logs with no survivors. Soon all was quiet.

The desolate Morning Star continued to be towed by the two invaders. Pirate Captain Marques d’Costa was already calculating the size of the treasure.

On the stern of the ship, at the farthest end of the foremast which was by now stretching beyond the rails, was Mike. Bosky was perilously close to the waters.

The sight behind him was equally perilous. There was smoke, gunpowder, shattered wood and maimed bodies everywhere.

The foremast finally gave in and slid into the waters suddenly. It took Mike by surprise. He clung tightly to the nearly forty foot- long log and sank along with it into the river.

“My tobacco pack?” Mike wondered. Suddenly all went dark for him. It was a long trip for Bosky on a precarious piece of log. Notwithstanding the fact that he had been sailing with Captain Andrew Clayton for nearly five years now, his distaste for the sea was just as much as that of any other dog. He longingly searched for the Morning Star, where his master lay in blood. He longed to be back in the captain’s cabin wrapped in the warmth of his master. But that was never to be.

The ghost ship was now moving away and changing its flag, having done its duty of trapping the prey. El Dorado was busy rolling up its sails, ready for anchoring.

The six boats from the junk were dropped into the water and they surrounded the 37

quarterdeck of the Morning Star into which Marques entered with a few of his trusted lieutenants. Soon there was brisk activity. Cases containing the gold were moved up. Weapons were sorted and bundled. Thirty thousand gold coins and many maunds of silver bars worth millions of pounds sterling were a princely sum at any time!

“I cannot take any chances and have to be reasonable!” d’Costa murmured to himself. A revised scrutiny of the entire room left him satisfied that he had left behind nothing of importance.

He moved up and was the first one to climb into a boat. Cases containing the gold were loaded into his boat. The rest of the boats carried the weapons and every other treasure that the pirates considered useful.

The Morning Star, the glory of the Royal Navy was stripped naked and left forlorn.

“Faster!” Marques thundered. He had to be away from sight to avoid being located. The Morning Star would soon be consigned to the flames and eventually to the seas. Along with it would go the bodies of all the crew and its Captain, Andrew Clayton too.

The explosion was muffled as the pirates had packed enough gunpowder into the hold of the ship and covered it with wood and steel, but it was severe. The sight was pathetic, as the glorious Morning Star broke into two. The figurehead side was rising at one end and so was the quarterdeck. Slowly the hull, the keel, the forepeak and the bowsprit were consumed by the great depths of the river, and so was the rudder, which by now was full on top. The captain’s cabin and the quarterdeck vanished into the muddy waters, too. The experienced saboteurs swam to safety and jumped into the nearest boat to be rowed to their secret destination.

The Morning Star became history. The floating logs and pieces would soon be swept ashore in the innumerable ravines that abound the region and decay beyond recognition.

“Aha!” Marques took a long swig of kokotsushu, the tiger bone wine which he had picked up during his last voyage to the Chinese ports. Later, at the first port of his landing, he would drink sambenshu, the tiger penis wine which would help him 38

prove his prowess with several of his mistresses! He was a rich man now with millions worth in gold.

“I shall buy a few more Lantakas, the best rifles, revolvers and a few telescopes.”

He was a wise pirate to invest in armaments to boost his chosen trade. “I must also buy some more crates of sambenshu,” he thought. No matter how many battles you win and how many ships you plunder, a man’s virtue was eventually evident only when he proved his strength in bed, he mused.

The boats were nearing the island of Netidhopani in the Sundarban Delta.

Marques had carefully identified the place for stashing the booty. It had the relics of a fort in disuse, built long ago by some ruler in the region. He started taking his boots off and made preparations to disembark.

“Bloody hell”, he swore. The receding tides exposed the underlying clayey riverbank. Now, the entire crew had to slog in knee-deep slush with the heavy crates.

The air breathing pneumatophores protruding from the soil were no help either.

They had to walk nearly a furlong where a structure made of rocks and burnt clay stood on high ground. He did not see any living soul in and around the desolate island, which assured him that there wouldn’t be any intrusion. Reaching the highest point, he took out his telescope and surveyed the area. It was miles of forests with no trace of humanity. Satisfied, he turned around and gestured to his men to bring the crates in.

‘One, two, three.... the twenty odd crates with gold, silver and other valuables belonging to the Empire were safely tucked into the underground room, which Marques had discovered by chance during an earlier voyage to the island. The guns and other small arms were retained on board ship for later use. He was not so stupid as to leave the treasure and the guns together. He could never trust his own men. After all, he was a man of reason!

The ship had to be hidden for at least some time now and the crew deserved a good feast and some rest. The hunting party was soon back with three spotted deer and a wild boar. The fire was lit and the party began. Marques brought a purse of gold coins and benevolently distributed two of them to each of his men.

“I am a reasonable man,” he said to himself.

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The party started with alcohol and fresh barbecued meat. Antonio, with a guitarra Portuguesa, and Carlos on a tambourine started singing loud and bawdy songs with the entire group breaking into rapturous laughter. Truly, everyone was happy.

“Maior Vinho,” d’Costa had to keep his troupe happy, and so the wine flowed endlessly until the laughter waned and weariness took over everyone. Frederico was made the night watch and the entire crowd went into a huddle for a good night’s sleep.

The full moon was shining brilliantly in the clear sky. Frederico was as happy as the others. He was just twenty years old and was born and brought up in Algarve, at the southern coast of Portugal. The sea was his natural companion but he longed for adventure. This was his first journey outside his country. He thought about his poor family and his girlfriend Bianca. She was a true rustic beauty. The mosquitoes in the Sundarban were tiresome. He longed to go back to Bianca.

***** “Haiya, Haiya.”

The weird rhythm in the middle of the night was to keep the paddling synchronised. Six canoes were emerging from the dark waters, approaching the shoreline.

Sharp and seasoned eyes noticed the pirates’ rowboats tied to the shore. The leader pressed his index finger to his lips and motioned with his open left palm, urging the others to follow him. Everyone became quiet. When it was close enough to the banks, they quietly slid from their small but sturdy vessels, handcarved from whole tree trunks, and fanned out to search for those who had intruded upon their sacred and well-preserved territory.

They were all short and dark, dressed in loincloths or skin flaps that barely covered their private parts. Many had blunt clubs that looked fearsome and wine containers made of dry bottle gourd shells hung from their waist.

The Kutias were much feared and dreaded. They could eat their enemies when needed to instil fear and force their adversaries into submission. They did not hesitate to pulverise any kind of rival in the forests regardless of its size or power.

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They knew no fear. Losing a limb while fighting a beast made even the elders eligible grooms amongst their teen lasses. Most men had many wives, just as most women had many husbands. They led a secluded life and shunned any marital connection with outsiders. Any breach normally resulted in the death of both offenders, usually carried out by the parents or siblings of the offender.

The Kutia leader was just four feet tall with matted hair. He had a small human skull hanging as a pendant from his neck and carried a strange looking axe. He wore a crocodile headgear, adding to the ferocity of his appearance. “Sacrilege!” he said, gritting his teeth. "Some infidels have desecrated our most revered deity.”

For them, ‘Ma’ was not just a Goddess but their protector from all evils — from small pox to snake bites, in birth and death, from winning battles to having a good monsoon. They depended on her blessings and attributed any loss or harm to the displeasure of their deity. Sacrifices rigorously followed, sometimes of humans.

The leader’s face was grim, lips tightened into a grimace, eyes a narrow slit, protruding through the misty night. He was extremely annoyed. “Death, nothing but death,” he swore.

There were no shouting orders like the pirates or the well- trained, orderly English gun officer. Every man in all the boats instantly knew what they had to do. They did not have an elaborate agenda or war plan. All they knew was that there were intruders who had to be killed. Otherwise ‘Ma’ would be furious and would cast on them the fearsome small pox. They had to please her. Calm her down. Quench her thirst. Only blood, fresh blood flowing from the heart of the intruders will pacify her.

The leader looked around, making sure that all his men were close by. There was an excited murmuring. Every tribal loved to fight and kill just to please their Goddess. Once again, the leader subdued the crowd. A few of the tribesmen, silent as crocodiles, disembarked into waist-deep water and started towing the boats towards the shore. The others followed suit. After securing their canoes away from sight and into the mangrove canopies, the team proceeded in their pursuit.

A young one in their team moved like an agile monkey to the highest point around and pointed at the direction from where smoke was billowing out - the camp fire 41

started by Captain Marques d’Costa and his crew to ward off any attack by intruding tigers was a dead giveaway!

Frederico, the night watchman, was restless. The night seemed to stretch on forever. The vinho did not help either. He picked up a flaming branch of firewood and started strolling near the mangrove ridges at the riverbank. He belonged to the Monchique area of Algarve in Portugal, but had spent his life at the southern edge of the sea. However, his girlfriend, Bianca was from Alcoutim, which was about a hundred milha from his home. He had fallen for her vibrant beauty despite her poverty. She had a lot of spirit and her echoing laughter could enliven any place at any time.

When Frederico moved out to enlist for Marques d’Costa, he did not reveal to his girl that it was a pirate ship. He just longed for adventure and also wanted to lay his hands on a huge fortune so he could build a castle for his beloved! Little did he know that he was building castles in the air!

With one hand, he swung the flaming firewood, and with the other, a cutlass over his head, letting the sparks fly. "Good Lord!" he could not believe the size of the mosquito battalions above his head. It was also a test to check his alertness in case of an enemy attack or a tiger waiting to pounce on him from the dark bushes. "I can take at least four to five persons at any time, and maybe a tiger or two," he judged for himself, satisfied. Frederico turned his head around and wondered how his colleagues could ever sleep under such dreadful circumstances.

“Algarve was not adventurous but was a lot cleaner and friendlier,” he thought. “I shall have to call it a day and sail by any other boat back to Portugal as soon as I earn some more gold,” he decided, caressing the two gold coins that he had received from Captain d’Costa. He longed to be with Bianca. He threw the firewood, the embers of which were dimming now, back into the bonfire. Surrounded by a thick blanket of darkness and the humming sound of mosquitoes, he sighed, “Oh Bianca! How I miss you.”

The powerful smack of the blunt club burst the skull and the jelly-like substance from the whites of the brain splashed out. Blood splattered all over and Frederico was dead before he hit the ground, without even realising what had hit him. The 42

tribesman knew precisely where and how to peel the skull to inflict the least pain and cause instant death. The castle he had dreamt of building for his beloved Bianca could not even begin. Algarve lost an eligible bachelor and Bianca never knew what had become of him and why he never returned. Tales of death and destruction rarely ever went out of the dreaded seas of Bengal.

Club in one hand, the short and stocky tribesman looked at the fallen body with satisfaction and raised his left hand to usher his other companions who encircled Captain Marquis d’Costa’s remaining men. The tribal leader moved fearlessly around the sleeping sailors. Excessive consumption of alcohol and fatigue had knocked out all of them. They were sleeping like logs, blissfully unaware of the fact that the night was their last too, like Frederico’s. It did not take long to identify Marquis as the chief, with his richer clothes and an expensive gun holster. The leader looked at the bottle of kokotsushu lying by the captain and picked it up.

Never having seen a liquor bottle before, he instinctively opened the cap to smell a different wine that was soaked in tiger bones. He took a large swig and looked around with a feeling of accomplishment. He signalled two of his men to come over and quietly whispered in their ears, telling them to kill the intruders. The leader went on to empty the bottle and flung it far away without bothering that the noise might wake the pirates. The Kutias knew no fear.

Mayhem followed. In the eerie, moist night, the sound of muffled thuds caused by clubs hitting the skull of every sleeping pirate and the smashing by axes hardly travelled beyond a few metres. There were a few stray groans and moans from bewildered drunkards who hastened to beat each other on their voyage to the land of the dead. There were several broken skulls and white brains glistening in the light of the bonfire, soon to be covered with lakes of crimson blood. This battle, too, ended even before it had begun.

The dreaded tribal began their appeasement ritual to their Goddess.

Marquis opened his eyes with a jolt. He could not move his hands and legs. His mind raced hard. “It is surely the Arakanese. I should have ensured that all of them had actually died,” he thought, presuming that some of the Arakanese pirates whom he had butchered could have escaped and were taking their revenge.

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All his efforts to shout were in vain as his mouth was stuffed with a cloth which had a nauseating stench.

He was being carried on a log tied like a hunted animal.

“Haiya, Haiya.”

It was Arabic for Marquis. He was now sure that it was not Arakanese, nor Dutch or any other local language he had ever heard. They were climbing to some point.

Marquis had an uneasy churning in his stomach. He was afraid for the first time in his life. “Where in the world were his trusted lieutenants? Why was there no one to counter attack? Where was that young lad from Algarve? Thirty thousand hardearned gold sovereigns! Many maunds of silver and bags of precious stones! Why? Who? He had always been so reasonable in life! Of course, the Arakanese were a different matter. They were barbaric and undisciplined and could have never managed to spend their share of the booty wisely. Besides, the lantakas that he was to buy was in the interest of all. All right! Only the ‘sambenshu’ was a sly matter. After all a strong leader, strong not only in the battle field but also in bed was what a true leader was to be,” he was reasoning to himself, now that he was fully awake and sober.

The captain jolted from the shock of being laid on a hard, rocky floor. He tried to wriggle, but the bonds were too tight. So, he decided it would be wise to lie quietly and find out who his tormentors were. Soon, there were murmurs in an alien language. There could be more than two dozen of them, he gathered, and suddenly became still. “Were they the dreaded Kutias?” He had heard from a fellow pirate about the fearsome cannibalistic tribe which also indulged in human sacrifice.

Captain Marquis d’Costa — commander of the great El Dorado and a decoy ghost ship, owner of an umpteen number of lantakas and now possessing plundered goods worth millions, with several concubines in every port and many crates of ‘sambenshu’ to satisfy all of them - was mortally afraid for the first time in his life.

His eyes were still blindfolded with a rag and his mouth was gagged. He could feel himself being freed but only to be positioned flat on a hard mound of some sort, his hands and legs bound; outstretched. The cloth tied to his eyes was re44

moved. It took a while for him to focus; slowly he regained his vision and let his eyes roll around.

He could see a host of short and tough figures. Most had matted hair and barely covered their bodies. They all had their gourd bottles from which they were drinking. A few metres away there was a flicker of light emanating from a small conical shaped structure - a bonfire, he gathered. There were drumbeats and the tribal men started dancing. There was no rhythm, no steps; it was more a drunken frenzy which slowly rose to a crescendo.

The leader, garlanded and perched on a high rock, rose. “Ma!” he raised his voice almost to a shout. “I bring to you today the blood to calm. We offer our humblest apologies to you. No outsider has ever sullied your soil. These infidels have. I offer their leader to you as ‘Mariah’, our token of repentance and sacrifice." The leader's voice choked.

The drumbeats grew louder and the frenzied dance quickened. There were shouts of “Mariah, Mariah!” The crowd drew closer and closer to the tied Marquis d’Costa, who still thought that some miracle would happen and his men would retaliate. Little did he know that his entire team had long moved on to the world of the dead!

Two elderly tribals came close and took out some kind of a sharp instrument. One started tearing the clothes of the captain to undress him completely and the other started applying some kind of stinking paste all over his body. They left no part uncovered, including his genitals. The cloth stuffed in his mouth was taken out. Marquis was thanking himself for consuming only the ‘kokotsushu’ and not the ‘sambenshu’, the tiger penis wine to strengthen his libido! He suddenly giggled at the weird thought despite being in grave danger, much to the confusion and dismay of the tribals attending him. He drew together all his strength and cunningly whispered to them, “Ouro, Gold! I have a lot. Lantakas, I can give a few. I give you also boat.”

The frenzy did not ebb and no one seemed to understand, nor were they bothered as to what he had just promised. Another short and stocky tribal came close and slapped him hard on the face. Marquis was momentarily paralysed. The tribal 45

shoved a bamboo pipe into his mouth and emptied a whole flask of their liquor into it. “Shit. It tastes like horse piss,” the captain could not complete his analysis.

He passed out.

The leader came close with his strange-looking axe. He adjusted his crocodile headgear, parted his matted hair and walked around Marquis examining his body.

“Ma, Mariah!” He shouted. The crowd echoed with excitement. “Ma,” he looked at the direction of their temple and deity and lifted his axe. Before the blink of an eyelid, the head of Captain Marquis d'Costa flew a few yards away and blood spurt out like a fountain from the torso. The blood was deftly collected mid-air in a wooden vessel by the tribals to offer to their Goddess. An elderly Kutia sunk a sharp weapon into Marquis’s chest and twisted with force as one would dig a spoon into a cup of peanut butter. The still beating heart was taken out and gently left in the wooden bowl containing litres of the dead captain’s blood.

“The goddess will be pleased and shall bless us all. The season shall see a good monsoon. The women shall bear worthy sons.

The tigers shall not tread upon our path. No more infidels shall pollute our territory,” the leader announced. There was no twitching in the beheaded body, no pain. The tribal brew was indeed a good anaesthetic. Soon, a few men came forward and the axe got to work again. The body was cut into pieces and distributed to all the tribals who ate it as part of the ritual. The intruders had defiled their holiest soil and this was the 'just’ punishment.

Their next task was searching for all the boats, breaking and then sinking them.

The hidden El Dorado in the khari was set on fire. The glow would have been visible for several miles, but no one ventured into the forests during scary nights and low tide. And even if anyone did, by the time they arrived, the vessel would have been burnt beyond recognition, with tons of gun powder stacked in the ship. They didn’t forget to carry the dead captain’s offal to be offered to the Sea God when they sailed back to their island, many miles away. The slain pirates were also thrown into the sea - their floating bodies were torn to smithereens by hungry predators of the deep.

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“Haiya, Haiya”...... The six odd hand-carved wooden canoes soon merged into the misty wilderness. Captain Marquis d’Costa’s reason cost him his life, the lives of his entire crew, and the booty worth millions that he had plundered lay hidden in the desolate basement of the forlorn fortress at Netidhopani.

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CHAPTER 4

The Valsons Mathias Valson had seen abject poverty in his life. He had a post graduate diploma in Mechanical Engineering. A refugee from Romania, he had secretly got a job at a supermarket in a London suburb. He had also been engaged in manual labour on appalling terms. But Mathias, with his mechanical engineering background, later managed to obtain a temporary job in Her Majesty’s Railways. A few years later, he travelled back to his country with an English passport.

Back in his homeland, the poverty had not changed much. Only, this time, the rich men were the politicians who still controlled everything. From college admissions to the allotment of an apartment, one had to seek favours from the mighty party bosses. Many villages were bulldozed to build grey and grotesque apartments. His small village, a few miles from Azuga, was nestled at the foot of the Bucegi Mountains. Only browns and greys greeted him.

There she was! His mother had come, her face worn out with time’s worries, yet ever smiling, to receive him. She had not flinched a bit when the soldiers came and took his father away after Mathias had fled his country. He felt a burden of guilt in his heart. “Who is the other one?” There was a strikingly beautiful woman with a wheatish complexion, dark hair and dark eyes standing with his mother.

Mathias walked up to his mother, who fondly hugged him.

“You have grown so much”, she exclaimed. Prodded by his family and his desire to taste freedom, he had escaped the then oppressive regime, which was bent upon drafting every available young man for either military or community service. He was then a mere twenty years old. Now he was thirty one. “Meet Elisaveta. We all call her Lizi,” his mother’s hidden agenda was all too apparent.

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Lizi shyly lifted her head to greet him. It indeed was one of surprise and pleasure.

“Hi,” Mathias said and extended his arm. Used to shaking rough hands and doing hard labour, Mathias was delighted to feel Lizi’s soft palm. “Lizi is Dr. and Mrs. Daniil Marin’s only child. Both were killed in an accident when Lizi was nine. She has been living with us ever since and is studying Medicine,” his mother said. Despite the grip of poverty all across Romania, the educational institutions and universities were on a par with those in most affluent countries. So, one could easily obtain a post-graduation degree or a doctoral qualification. The actual problem was to get a suitable job after that, for awarding suitable employment fell within the government’s domain.

The lone horse-drawn carriage, a multi-utility vehicle for their family, was ready to carry them. “Sit in the rear”, she commanded. He jumped in at once at the opportunity to be with the lady who had won his heart in a moment. They had nearly ten miles to cover and the journey through the hilly terrain would take almost an hour and a half.

“Little has changed since the time I left,” Mathias thought. He saw Lizi’s white feet nestled among the folds of her skirt and mischievously caressed them.

Alarmed, Lizi quickly withdrew. Her rustic charm and modesty floored Mathias, who had by now made up his mind about choosing his life partner.

Mathias Valson and Elisaveta Marin were married in the village at a simple ceremony solemnised secretly by the head of the village orthodox church a month after his arrival. The villagers were invited to a modest feast — potatoes, cereals and the meat, which he had thoughtfully brought from England. The rachiu and tzuika were served to all and the women sang to the accompaniment of the tambal and cobza. Everyone danced. Mathias did not fail to notice an old Romani couple who attended the wedding. They spoke to Mathias’ mother: “Mrs. Valson, you are perhaps the only one to know that Lizi’s maternal grandmother belonged to our tribe. Lizi also doesn’t know that she has a Romani ancestor,” they whispered. Looking at her intently, the elderly Romani man unfolded a bunch of old palm leaves that contained writing in a strange script, carefully wrapped in a piece of cloth. “These are very valuable and belong to Lizi. Please 49

give it to her at the appropriate time.” The couple warmly hugged Mathias’s mother and departed.

“One could be really poor and still enjoy life and be happy,” Mathias thought.

Having stayed for eleven years in England, he was in a better position to compare the qualities of the rich and the poor, both as the citizen of an affluent country and as the native of an impoverished village. In his village they did not understand affluence, yet their happiness was sublime. Mathias returned to England and to his work. Lizi completed her studies in Medicine and became an intern in the Grigore Alexandrescu Emergency Clinical Hospital for Children. She also began to study English.

It was not easy for Romanians to travel outside the country without the government’s permission, which was very rarely given. Lizi was intelligent, a good doctor and a very good-looking woman. It was this last quality that got noticed in the party’s higher echelons. Her request to travel to Belgrade in Yugoslavia was not turned down, because of a recommendation certificate from the director of her hospital. Her ID card was retained by the local police station and she was issued a passport for a single trip outside Romania within the next six months. She booked a round trip ticket to Belgrade and packed a modest-sized suitcase with the bare necessities. After all, she was officially going for a technical visit to the Belgrade Medical University, and would return in about a fortnight. The train was to leave the Bucharest Station at 8.00 P.M. Someone knocked on the door of her cabin. Lizi froze. It was the examiner with two plainclothes Securitate to see her passport. She ushered them in, trying to keep calm. “May we see your suitcase?” the burly one demanded. She obeyed, but made sure that their prying eyes didn’t miss the photo album. The sleuths methodically rummaged through her belongings till, finally, one of the men opened the album. There she was, smiling with George Homoştean, the Minister of Internal Affairs.

Little did the junior-level policemen realise that she was merely an intern and had been chosen to receive him during his visit to the hospital where she was serving.

The policemen were momentarily paralysed and looked again intently at Lizi’s 50

face to confirm whether it matched with the girl in the photograph. “Gentlemen,” Lizi said in a casual tone, “I compliment your commitment to our fatherland. I will not report on this. You can rest assured!”

“Scuzaţi! Îmi pare rău!” The senior policeman’s mumbling of apologies sounded with relief but as if it was coming from inside a well. “Plin de regrete.” Clearly, he did not wish to spend his remaining years of service in solitary confinement for insulting someone who could be close to the boss in the Interior Ministry. “La revedere!” They bid good-bye and hurriedly disembarked from the train. Lizi waved at them. The junior policeman was madly waving to the train driver to start up. The engine emitted a long whistle and puffed out of Bucharest Station. She would have to travel for nearly sixteen hours before she arrived at Belgrade. Lizi looked at the photo album. “Datorită ministru!” She smiled at the minister’s photo.

The visit to Belgrade was kept under wraps. Mathias’s friends had arranged for her stay and also for her further travel from Belgrade to Austria. Lizi cut off all contact with the hospital. She boarded the train in the evening and had to endure another twelve-hour-long journey with noisy and colourful gypsies, who routinely travelled along the route for their border trade.

The train jerked to a halt and there it was. She could hear the voice coming closer.

“Passport check.” A burly Yugoslav border policeman came in, checked each one’s passport and stamped the date of exit. Soon the train started moving and reached Austria. The rituals were repeated. “Ihren pass bitte,” the officer asked for the passport. Her heart was beating like a speeding Dacia Sport Brasovia car, which sometimes whizzed past, driven by powerful state functionaries, raising dust storms back in the country roads of Azuga. Without bothering to compare her face with the photo in her passport, he stamped on a blank page — confirming her arrival into the free world. “Willcommen”, the immigration official at the Austrian border post smiled.

Lizi made it finally. She stayed in a cheap hotel for the day, and later, went to the designated post office to collect the packet containing her marriage certificate, which Mathias had secretly carried to London to obtain her visa. It would have been suicidal in Romania to reveal her marriage to a man living in London, which 51

would have prevented her from obtaining a passport ever or be able to leave Romania. The villagers and her in-laws kept it a closely guarded secret. This was possible only in very remote villages and close-knit communities. The Securitate were present everywhere in her country, watching their citizens and reporting any misdemeanour to the government. Thankfully, their poor village was not considered to be of any concern, and hence, her marriage to Mathias was missed out by the Internal Ministry.

She verified her ticket to London, where she would unite with her husband. The currency that her friends had provided in Yugoslavia was just enough for her to eat a simple meal and travel by bus to the Flugafen, the airport. The next evening, she was on a flight to London. Mathias was waiting to receive the most beautiful woman in his life. At last, his dear wife Elisaveta was arriving to live with him. Neither uttered a word as tears welled up in their eyes while they were locked in a lingering embrace.

Time flew between Lizi qualifying to become a practicing physician in England and their moving into an apartment of their own. Mathias’s mother passed away after a brief illness. The third year after Lizi’s arrival, a daughter was born, whom they christened Elena. Despite being born and brought up in England, she inherited the rustic nature of her ancestors. Her love for wildlife and spirituality was almost mystical. Elena delved deep into nature even during her high school years.

Lizi was certainly disappointed that she could not convince her daughter to pursue medicine; instead she graduated in Environmental science from the University College of London.

The Valsons were vacationing en famille after many years—Lizi had a busy schedule, as she was completing a research project in her hospital. They had always planned a trip to Germany as a family. Moreover, Dr. Valson’s German colleague, Dr. Hoffmann, had retired the previous year to return to Germany--a trip there would also renew bonds of friendship. They arrived in the Munich Airport, hired a car and drove south. The seventy odd kilometres was a scenic drive. They took an exit towards Tolz and started driving towards Bad Tolz, a small town overlooking the Alps.

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The small town, primarily housing retired pensioners and the elderly who came for convalescence, was quiet. The ducks in the nearby River Isar were busy catching fish from the clear, flowing waters. The Valsons checked in at the moderately priced hotel that Dr. Hoffmann had strongly recommended. Located amongst the pine forests on a river bank at the foothills of the Alps, it was a great place for a holiday. The check-in formalities were simple. Mathias peeped into the breakfast room to pick up a green apple and a bottle of water. The two adjacent rooms on the first floor were comfortable, one being occupied by Mathias and Elisaveta, and the other by their daughter. Elena promptly went out, hired a bicycle from the hotel and rode out to explore the scenic surroundings.

The weather was cold and Lizi, as Mathias called Elisaveta, was tucked into a comfortable quilt. It was a little before noon and they had a sumptuous breakfast at a drive-in restaurant on their way from Munich to the resort town.

The telephone in the room rang, awakening both Mathias and Lizi Valson.

“Hello,” Mathias was still half asleep. “Dad, are you on a honeymoon? In that case, I can make myself scarce. But, for now, can we all meet for lunch?” Elena teased. Mathias and Lizi joined Elena in the hotel’s lobby. The wind outside was chilly. Instead of taking the car, the Valsons decided to walk and explore the town.

The German restaurant was almost full—its patrons had ordered large mugs of freshly brewed beer for which it was famous. Many proudly sported the traditional Bavarian dress made from exquisitely embroidered, hand-dyed suede leather. The few waitresses who were present were moving like ballet dancers, deftly balancing several mugs of beer in one hand, while carrying gourmet delights in the other to serve their customers.

Mathias and Lizi chose the German lager and Elena, a diet coke. The parents ordered green pepper soup and the chateaubriand, while Elena opted for grilled fish with lime. The German bread was fresh and delicious, although hard, very unlike its British counterpart. The generous dessert 'banana flambe' was marinated in Malibu rum and sugar syrup. This was followed by espresso coffee. The discussion at lunch revolved around their tour programme over the next few days, with Elena

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strongly suggesting a trek in the Alps and pine forests and Elisaveta opting for a more relaxed and lazy holiday.

The Valsons came out of the warm interiors of the restaurant and faced once again the chill from the Alps. While the parents walked, Elena slowly cycled and followed them. It was indeed one happy family. Mathias went into the bookstore followed by Lizi. Elena decided to cycle her way to the bank of the River Isar. She didn’t forget to take a few pieces of bread from the lunch table in her backpack.

The icy water was crystal clear. The ducks and gulls were diving into the river, often coming up with a fish in their beaks. Elena settled down and tore the bread into small pieces. She tossed one to the nearest bird. Soon, the place was a melee, with the birds jostling for crumbs rather than their usual fare of fish. There was much noise and disorder. Elena simply loved the birds and thoroughly enjoyed the feeding session.

She did not see an elderly woman with unkempt hair watching her from not too far away, who slowly came closer and sat behind her. Elena still didn’t notice.

“Hacheres man? (Do you understand me?)” The elderly woman asked Elena mildly from behind. Elena continued to feed the duck and gulls, and replied without looking at the old woman. “Chi pachave tut (I don’t understand you).” The old lady was insistent and asked, “So si tjiro nav? (What’s your name?)” “Me buchhov man e Elena. (My name is Elena).” It seemed to her that the strange words emerged automatically from her mouth, without her knowing.

Suddenly, as if struck by lightning, Elena looked up — confused at her own responses and frightened, as if something strange was happening to her. She realised that she had temporarily lost control of herself and was speaking a language that she had never heard before in her life. The elderly woman drew closer and held Elena’s head in both her hands. Looking intently into Elena’s eyes, the lady whispered, “Romani Princess, go, go to the land of tigers to retrieve all that you have lost.” She kissed Elena’s forehead and started walking towards the tall pine trees.

Soon, she was lost among the thickets.

Elena did not even notice the gulls pulling at her backpack for more bread. She was dazed. “Me buchhov man e Elena,” she softly repeated the words to herself 54

disbelievingly. Picking up the backpack and the bicycle, she started walking up towards the town. She paused at the bookstore and a hard cover book caught her eye, ‘Ame sam e rromane džene (We are the Romani People). She walked in and bought the book.

The Valsons were to meet Elisaveta’s former colleague in the evening. Elena decided to stay back at the hotel while her parents drove to meet Dr. Hoffmann. The small village of Penzberg was a mere twenty-minute drive from Bad Tolz. The Hoffmans were very courteous and were a little disappointed at Elena’s absence.

Their beautiful house directly overlooked the Alps. The discussion between Lizi and Dr. Hoffmann focused on her present project and Mathias devoted himself to Mrs. Hoffmann, who was a retired environmental scientist. The Hoffmans would not let them leave without having dinner and Mrs Hoffman went into the kitchen to prepare the meal.

The old woman’s words echoed in Elena’s ear, “Romani Princess, go to the land of tigers.” She understood the woman’s reference to tigers, but was not as comfortable with the Romani Princess bit. Elena could not understand that. She switched on her laptop and typed in the Google search box, ‘me buchhov man e Elena’. Six results flashed. “My name is Elena-for feminine in Romani language,” the Google result displayed. She reread it and began trembling. She tried recalling her conversation with the old woman whom she had met on the banks of the River Isar, but couldn’t recollect anything — for she did not know the Romani language at all!

“How in the world could the lady recognise me and talk to me?” She wondered if the exposed parts of her body bore a mark of identification—she was unable to discover any after an exploration. “There must be a sign that the lady might have noticed, or was she simply mad? How did I converse with her in a language I had never learnt? Maybe I should talk to my mom, or will this unnecessarily frighten her? Or am I merely imagining things?”

It was getting too complicated and she hated complications. She logged off the computer and shut the book and decided to take a walk. The roads were deserted.

The pensioners and the sick had retired into their respective hotels and rest houses. The light was blinking in the window of a travel agency. She walked past 55

it. The big poster read ‘Wilcommen in Indien! Das land der tiger!’ The tiger was staring right at her face!

The icy wind failed to cheer her up and she retraced her steps to her hotel room.

The book on the Romani was intriguing. As she flipped through the pages, Elena felt as if she had read it before or already knew the information it contained. She was hungry, but did not want to leave the room. She looked around, picked up the complementary fruit basket given by the hotel and settled back with the book.

It was nearly 11 pm when the Valsons arrived. Parking their car and tiptoeing to their room, they noticed the light still shining under the door of Elena’s room. She didn’t miss the sound of their footsteps as they walked past her door.

She sprang up from the bed and opened her door to see her parents fumbling with their keys. “Mom, can you come in for a minute?” Elena pulled a puzzled Lizi into her room and showed her the book on the Romani people.

Lizi’s was confused too. “What does this book contain? Is there anything of interest?” Lizi asked curiously.

“Mother, you need to explain a lot of things to me,” Elena said, “me buchhov man e Elena”. Looking at her mother expectantly, her eyes were moist as she looked for answers.

Lizi had never heard this language before and could not quite comprehend. What has become of her daughter? She sat down to concentrate, gaining nothing in the process.

“My dear child,” Lizi was now composed, “You are fine, my dear. Let me talk to your dad to ascertain if he could throw some light on this. It is late enough tonight, my child, sleep peacefully.”

Lizi kissed Elena’s forehead and returned to Mathias, who was wondering what prompted their daughter to call Lizi to her room.

“Tell me, if you know anything hidden about my ancestry. I never believed that I was really the child of Marins. If I were to believe, their death was not accidental too,” Lizi was looking intently at Mathias.

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“The time has finally arrived to disclose what I had learnt and have been keeping buried in my heart for several years,” Mathias had his eyes closed. “Just that I did not expect this to be so abrupt.”

“How will you react if you learn that I am not a Christian?” he asked.

“Honey, after twenty years of our marriage, your religion does not matter to me. I love you for what you are and as you are,” Lizi was truthful. The rustic charm and loyalty of their love had not eroded even a bit. “Just think back to the year when we got married. Do you remember the two Romani who attended our wedding?”

Mathias asked. Lizi had difficulty in recalling but could vaguely recollect the odd couple in a different kind of attire sitting aloof in a corner.

“They were of Romani origin and had left some palm leaf manuscripts with my mother. They also revealed that, at the behest of a dying king being attacked by enemies, their ancestors had guided to safety a prince from India. They said the prince had been adopted by a gypsy woman in India, who had after years of travel and hardship, managed to reach her tribe in Romania and settled there.”

Lizi was wide awake, somehow apprehensive that the thread might wobble her very own identity. "Your Royal Highness is a descendant of that prince, and your daughter carries the blue blood too, my dear.” Lizi sprang up in surprise, poured herself a glass of water and sipped it slowly, letting the gravity of the revelation sink in. She did not utter a word for a few minutes. A somewhat relieved Mathias, rid of the heavy burden of the secret he had been carrying with him for all these years, took a deep breath and sighed.

“I do vaguely recall some incidents from my childhood, Mathias,” she said calmly.

“I secretly overheard that my real parents were purged by the army, before my being adopted by the Marins. I was too frightened to reveal what I knew and also did not want to hurt the Marins. They were the kindest people I ever knew and brought me up with great care until they died in the car crash.”

Mathias saw tears in Lizi’s eyes for the second time — the first time had been when she had landed at Heathrow after fleeing from Romania. “No dear, do not cry. This will in no way make any difference to our relationship. I love you as much as ever,” Mathias’ eyes were also moist. To lighten the mood, he said, “This 57

means that I should henceforth address young Elena as Your Royal Highness as well.”

Lizi stared at him for a few seconds. “Indeed, she is Her Royal Highness. She will be riding on the tiger one day.” She spoke as if in a trance and from a distance. To Mathias it felt as if the words were being uttered not by his wife Lizi but by the voice of providence. They both hugged and slept the rest few hours peacefully.

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CHAPTER 5

Amit in Sundarban Amit was sound asleep.

The unlatched door creaked open and the moon shone directly into the room.

The silhouette of a man darkened the doorway as he tiptoed into the room. He switched on a small torch and quietly went about his business, rummaging into Amit’s suitcase. But he didn’t find what he was looking for there, and so, started sieving through the items in his backpack.

The man examined Amit’s pouch where he had stored his passport and wallet, but discarded them without any interest. He kept glancing at Amit’s sleeping figure and was satisfied to see him in deep sleep. The man then picked Amit’s backpack and opened the inner flap, selecting a folded paper. He focussed the light on the paper, quietly stuffed it inside his shirt and moved towards the door.

A strong gust of wind blew, banging the door and waking Amit suddenly. He saw the door of his room ajar and glimpsed a shadowy figure rushing out from his room.

“What the hell...who is it?” Amit jumped out of his bed to chase the figure. The sound of someone running down the stairs ended to be engulfed by the eerie silence. Amit tiptoed down the stairs carefully. The menacing growl of the dogs abruptly stopped him from further pursuit.

Back in the room he tried to check the items in his baggage. The wallet was intact and so were the other things that he thought of as valuable. He lay awake and motionless for some time, until he was overtaken by tiredness and dropped off to sleep.

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Amit was awakened by the cawing of crows and the barking of dogs. The weather had changed from sultry and humid to pleasantly cool. The caretaker was still asleep as Amit tiptoed towards the gate leading to the road. The dogs bared their fangs rather menacingly. Although they were in chains, they continued barking until he was well out of sight. The shops were all closed. The eastern sky was awash with streaks of pink and shades of crimson. For a few moments Amit stood still, savouring the beauty, almost forgetting the previous night’s episode and the intrusion into his room by an unknown visitor.

“Babu, Cha”. The tea shop owner was right behind him with a kettle of hot tea and a few biscuits, ever grateful for his generosity the day before.

“Please sit and enjoy the tea. It may not be as good as in Kolkata, for we have to depend on milk powder. We have only one cow in the island and the milk cannot be stored as there’s no refrigerator or electricity.” He was very apologetic. The tea was surprisingly better and fresher than the concoction that had been provided last time.

“Do you need hot water to take a bath?” The caretaker shouted from the other end of the street. Amit shook his head. He briefly vanished into the kitchen only to reappear and ask, “Babu, what would you prefer to eat? Can I make some omelette and toast? We call it English breakfast!” He smiled, proudly displaying his knowledge of the Queen’s language. “No matter what harm the British caused India as a colonial master, they surely scored positively on this — imparting English knowledge to its multi-ethnic, multi-caste and multi-linguistic populace,” Amit mused, nodding in concurrence.

“These dogs... What breed are they?” he asked the caretaker. He said, “I don’t like them either. They are some local breed, very short-tempered. They tolerate only their master, who is the boss of this hotel.” He was busy preparing tea for all of them. Milk from the only cow in the island had somehow reached him before it reached Amit’s favourite tea shop. “I heard that both the dogs were barking while you went for your morning walk,” he added.

Amit looked at him. “Did you hear them barking last night, too?” His hands began to tremble all of a sudden and he spilled quite a bit of the hot water which he 60

was supposed to pour into the glasses for the tea. “No, Babu. I did not hear or see anything.” He tried to hide his face as he spoke.

“Oh! It is time for all of us to get ready. Let me wake Raju up,” Amit turned back to leave. “By the way, I did not see Manna anywhere. Where could he be?” he asked.

“He must have gone to the boat. I shall tell him to meet you as soon as he is back.”

The caretaker’s voice still croaked, but he had regained his composure.

There was only one route to the river bank — the one Amit had walked along a few minutes ago. So, no one could have escaped his notice on the way. The only soul that he had encountered was the tea shop owner.

“Why did the caretaker have to lie about Manna? And where the hell is he?” Amit peeped into Raju’s room and found him asleep. He let Raju be and entered his room.

The daylight was brighter now and Amit could see clearly. He looked at his suitcase, backpack and pouch. “Whoever had come was not an amateur. He had put the bags back in exactly the same manner in which they had been placed before.”

His curiosity mounted--he squatted on the floor and opened the suitcase and the camera bag. After a quick scrutiny and finding nothing amiss, he opened his pouch and checked his passport and wallet. The money was intact, and so were his driving licence and other contents.

He checked his backpack. The door opened with a screech and there stood Manna with a neem-stick between his teeth. He was wearing only a gamcha.

“Babu, Good Morning.” He was brushing his teeth and talking simultaneously. He sat at the door step and, turning his neck sideways, stretched and spat from the balcony. Amit looked at him with disapproval.

“Neem juice is good for the plants, keeps pests away,” Manna justified with a smile. Watching Amit rummage through his backpack, he asked, “Babu, have you lost something?”

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“No, nothing at all. I am just trying to take out my cap and sunglasses which I will need later in the day.” Amit could not reveal anything about the intruder until he knew who the real culprit was. “Okay. Get ready and we will all be in the boat exactly in an hour’s time,” he told Manna and got up.

Manna sauntered out, peeping into Raju’s room while leaving. “Raju Babu, get up. We should be leaving,” Manna shouted loud enough to jerk Raju out of slumber. The boy sprang up only to get entangled in the mosquito net. “You frightened me!”

Amit opened the zip on the inside flap of the backpack. The high resolution maps depicting tiger concentration areas in the Sundarban Delta were gone!

The breakfast was sumptuous. Manna went to the boat to have his breakfast with the other crew members. The caretaker spoke very little and seemed to have suddenly become taciturn. The missing maps disturbed Amit as he had lost valuable information.

They cleared out of their rooms, checked if they had missed anything while packing and were ready to go. Manna and Biru, the boat’s cook’s assistant, carried their luggage. The vessel was to be their home for the next few days. Nice bedding was spread on the upper deck with round pillows. Sheets were tied like an awning overhead to provide some shade. Amit took out his sun cream, applied it on his face and forearms and offered it to Raju, too. He spread out his camera equipment, taking care that it didn’t slip into the river. The engine came to life and they started moving away from the bank.

The two-storey thatched roof of the hotel stood out amongst the tiled and thatched lower structures. Amit could see his room from the boat deck. For a moment, the silhouette of last night’s intruder flashed in his mind. He looked around.

Malik, the pilot, was busy manoeuvring the vessel to the opposite bank. Cook Banchharam had already begun peeling the vegetables and making sundry other preparations for lunch. Biru was cleaning the glasses and plates. Amit glanced at Malik, who quickly lowered his eyes when their eyes locked. The captain was watching him equally intently!

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Biru deftly moved the long bamboo so that the boat avoided the mud and moved towards the pier at Sajnekhali. Amit wondered why he did this when he heard a loud and rapturous “Good morning, saar”. There he was with his jhola, waiting at the pier: Jibon the guide! He was followed by the burly armed guard, whose name Amit later learnt was Dipak da.

Having picked up all the passengers and the crew, the boat started moving with the current. The river was a breath-taking sight in the morning. The dawn mist was yet to clear and the sunrays were peeking through the veil, painting rainbow ripples on the waves. There was activity on the banks. The womenfolk were already at work in the crocodile-infested river, collecting tiny shrimps, which they would sell for a pittance to greedy merchants on the banks. Amit always wondered why the menfolk didn’t toil as hard as the women and girls in these areas. There were old, middle-aged and young girls at work. Perhaps the men couldn’t see beyond their pots of Bangla, the local brew.

There were horrid tales of ghettos for the widowed in many villages, reserved for those women who had lost their husbands to the tigers in the region. There were also areas designated for those who were lucky and had lost only their limbs to the dreadful crocodiles. Many went missing, either while collecting honey in the deep forests, where tigers devoured them, or while fishing in the rivers infested with crocodiles. Some died of malaria, while others succumbed to various water-borne diseases. There were NGOs who came occasionally to offer help and many others who came for photo sessions. But the misery continued.

“Malik, can you go closer to the bank? I can see a little girl who is alone and is in the river at this time of the morning. Can I talk to her?” Amit queried, readying his camera.

“Sure,” Malik steered the boat towards the bewildered child. “Don’t be afraid.

Babu is friendly and wishes to take a photograph and talk to you,” Malik shouted from his cabin.

The girl could not hear and Manna relayed the same message more loudly.

“What is your name?” Amit asked. “Bami,” the girl replied meekly.

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“What are you doing here?” Amit knew what she was doing but wished to hear her version.

“Collecting meen,” she replied, the Bengali colloquial for the tiny shrimps.

“How much do you make each day?” His interest grew.

“Ten rupees,” she replied shyly, but with a sense of accomplishment. It was just about 20 US cents, but higher than the earnings of most others her age in the region.

“Do you go to school?”

The girl shook her head, replying, “My brother does.”

Here was another wonderful human resource, Amit thought — forced to miss her school, her childhood, her enjoyment and left to toil all alone in the muddy banks of the dreaded river, with not a soul around at least in the nearest half a kilometre on either side. If she was ever attacked by a crocodile, there would be no one to save her. And all this for just ten rupees a day! So much for the loud adverts of ‘India Shining’!

Amit took a few photographs for which she did not pose. The boat moved back into the river and towards their next destination — tiger territory.

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CHAPTER 6

1851–Mike in Sundarban Bosky was tired. He hated mosquitoes. He was worried too, worried about his only surviving friend and master, Mike Bill, who lay unconscious by his side for the last few hours. The faithful Labrador started licking his face. ‘One eared Mike’ tried to move, but couldn’t haul himself out of the low-tide slush in which he lay. Gauging his master’s fatigue, Bosky dragged him towards the shore.

The water was once again rising. Mike would have been terrified if he saw his own clay-covered image. He was looking like a ghost. Bosky waited patiently for him to recover. Fortunately, both escaped with minor injuries. Mike barely managed to get up and held on to a stilt root for support. Bosky was already running into the forest.

With the first break of dawn at the eastern horizon, the Morning Star’s second officer began walking away from the banks of the river slowly and unsteadily. But after walking for a few odd minutes, Mike couldn’t take it anymore. He slipped and once again faded into sleepy oblivion. Bosky was back once again, looking a lot cleaner. The clay and filth coating his fur had nearly gone. He rubbed his furry body on Mike’s face like a wet towel and woke him up.

Pink, orange and crimson hues spread across the grey sky and daylight peeped through the morning mist. Bosky became impatient. He pulled Mike by his sleeves, by his collar. He wanted to show him what he had found. After quite a bit of prodding, Mike managed to get up and followed his canine friend. Amidst the hental and other mangrove trees there lay hidden a natural water hole the size of two ships. Nothing could have been a more welcome sight than fresh water now, especially after battling for life in the salty sea.

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Mike scrutinised the area and was surprised at the manmade steps with crudely cut rocks that led to the water. Bosky was a darling. He undressed and stepped in.

There were no dreaded crocodiles. He found only a few mud skippers and crabs in the cold and refreshing water. He cleaned himself thoroughly and washed his only set of clothes as well. Feeling fresh, clean and suddenly hungry, Mike wore the wet clothes and ventured further into the island to look for food and shelter.

The monkeys were busy helping themselves to the fruits of a bushy plant. He figured the fruit would be safe for him, too. It was bitter-sweet to taste with thick layers of fibrous mass inside. He ate some and felt better than before. “But I can’t survive on this jelly fruit alone and will have to look for other food,” he thought.

Bosky was merrily swimming in the pond. He swam back to the bank with a large fish, devoured it, and, with a satisfied bark, tried to cuddle up to his new master.

When it’s a matter of survival, even dogs can happily eat cat food, Mike thought.

He climbed a low mound to get a better view of his surroundings. He had a gut feeling that the place had people; the stone steps leading to the pond were tell-tale signs of human habitation. Now at a height, he could also see a small brick structure with a conical roof and, in the farther end, smoke emanating from what looked like burning wood. He started walking in the direction of the smoke first, expecting to find some people living in the vicinity. The walk revealed a battle between fire and water on what were the remnants of a ship. “Wait”, he looked closely at the figurehead on the ship’s forepeak — it was the El Dorado, no doubt.

“The pirate ship has been destroyed, but by whom? Certainly not by the Royal Navy or any other army.” There weren’t any easy answers, so he wandered along the river bank to look for floating debris. There were none, except for some small, burnt pieces of logs being carried away by the river tide. Sudden activity in the water close to the bank caught his attention. Two large alligators were tearing apart a dead sailor who looked as if he might have belonged to the pirate ship. The sight was revolting and he turned his face away. Mike made a mental note — venture into the river with caution. Bosky clung to Mike closer than ever.

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In the next one hour, Mike reached the brick structure. He quietened Bosky, hurled a stone in that direction and waited for any reaction. But, after a long wait and no human response, he let Bosky run forward and followed him cautiously.

It was an altar of some kind, a place of worship. He found a fearsome feminine deity with a protruding tongue and angry eyes. It had a garland of human heads and one head was dangling from her hand, too. There was a bowl at her feet and a shipload of flies swarmed over it. He carefully brought it out. Below the coagulated blood was a human heart. An uneasy fear gripped him and he came around the altar. It had enough flies to proclaim the venue of the sacrifice. There were blood clots in many spots and the area looked like a battlefield.

It did not take long for Mike to conclude the fate of the pirates. However, he failed to fathom how hundreds of them could be annihilated overnight without a fight.

Little did he realise that the treacherous and greedy Captain Marquis d’Costa himself massacred more than a hundred able-bodied Arakanese pirates on the seas even as an unconscious Mike was floating on the foremast with his sole companion, Bosky.

He saw the barbecued deer meat still warm from one of the camp fires the pirates had lit. The embers were still burning and Mike brought a few twigs and let the fire glow for a while. He also took a knife lying at the site and started slicing away the meat. It was wholesome, though not quite a gourmet delight, and also gave Bosky an alternative to his earlier fishy meal. Their food for at least two days would be taken care of, Mike thought. Well-fed now, his hands automatically searched inside his pockets and he was relieved to feel the watertight box containing his chewing tobacco. He helped himself to a generous portion, fully knowing that the pleasure was not meant to last for more than a couple of days.

His cross sling was intact but the pistols had slipped out during his ordeal. He resumed his walk around the island. Bosky barked once and stood frozen. They were near a swampy mangrove cover with thick foliage. Suddenly, the dog charged in a particular direction and several monkeys scampered out in fright, screeching and climbing every tree branch around. Bosky gave Mike what seemed like a look of triumph and beckoned him. Silent and cautious, Mike followed.

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There were a few stones that had been cut and shaped—these were scattered around amidst dense bushes. The ground was muddy. Mike cleared some of the bushes and could see rough stone steps leading down. He checked his surroundings and realised it was a fort. The construction seemed old. Armed with a stick, he slowly went down the steps. Though it was nearing midday, there was hardly any light as the foliage above blocked all the sun. Mike took every step slowly and carefully. The stairs led to a large hall. The floor had several layers of hardened clay accumulated over centuries and was littered with various animal droppings.

On the extreme end of the hall was a door, but it was half buried under the layers of mud.

With some effort, Mike managed to push it open. The room must have been the royal chamber of some chieftain or king. “But how could these ruins ever have been a kingdom with a king, army and subjects? It must have been a secret refuge,” he reasoned. They had to be mighty and must have owned ships, without which they could have never reached this place. They must have commanded a powerful army, without the help of which the fort could never have been built.

And, above all, they must have had sufficient resources to have led a royal lifestyle, despite being in a desolate place.

There was an ornamented cot, a table and a small shelf in which there was a metal idol of a pair of deities, one of them somewhat similar to the one he had seen in the temple above. He carefully picked up the idols and examined them.

The foot-long idols were heavy and could have been made of solid gold. The dirtcovered floor revealed that he was the first person to have stepped into the room in years, perhaps centuries.

Mike decided to call it a day as it was difficult to see. But he was determined to explore the other rooms later. “I have to come back, perhaps with some strong tools later to explore the place more thoroughly,” he thought. He started his climb upstairs, picking up one of the idols, which seemed to be a smaller version of the deity in the temple above.

Mike had to look for a can to store potable water as well as a shelter to pass the night. The unpredictable nor’easters and the predatory tigers had to be avoided at 68

night and during the day as well. Bosky faithfully followed him, stopping on the way to taste a mud skipper — a land-living fish found in abundance in the region — only to spit it out in disgust. Mike continued his jaunt towards the temple.

Soon, the conical dome of the temple was visible. He walked carefully to ensure that there were no enemies, whether human or animal, and proceeded towards the sanctum sanctorum. Mike placed the smaller idol at the foot of the larger one.

They both looked nearly the same, except for their sizes. Prolonged exposure to the elements had blackened both the idols, but they shone brightly when scraped with mud. He concluded that both could have been sculpted by the same hands.

The smaller idol revealed a set of rods of different shapes in a symmetrical pattern at the base. Mike didn’t quite understand why the idol maker had made those rods at the base. “What purpose could it have served?” he asked himself.

Bosky was already out, as any advance party would have been, and was excitedly barking at a small opening shrouded by bushes, a few yards away from the temple.

Mike moved closer to see a large stone slab covered with mud and bushes. He cleared out the mud, went about clearing the overgrowth with his knife and slowly moved the slab. It revealed yet another stone staircase thickly covered with ivy. After nearly an hour’s work, he cleared the passage but decided to take a break to eat and then continue with his work.

He climbed the mound yet again to check for any ships in the vicinity. There were miles and miles of forests interspersed with rivers and canals. There seemed to be no end to the mangrove forests and, suddenly, he feared that he would never leave this place in his lifetime. Mike went back to finish his deer meat, sharing it with Bosky. The hot and humid weather cajoled him into a catnap. Refreshed after an hour’s sound sleep, he went back to explore the tunnel underneath the steps behind the temple.

As usual, it was dark after a few steps and a snake hissed past, arousing Bosky’s curiosity. The dog froze for a few seconds, having never seen a reptile of the kind before. But natural instinct tells animals where not to risk a confrontation and he backed off. Mike had wrapped a few torn pieces of cloth and coated them with deer fat before lighting the makeshift torch, despite the awful odour. This lighted 69

his slow passage into the tunnel. A few bats hanging overhead charged past him, making Bosky wonder why Mike should explore underground when there was enough food above. But it was not for him to express his reluctance, but to obediently follow his master.

Mike was surprised to find a door at the end of the tunnel. This was like the door he had seen in the morning at the fort. He pushed at the door with all his might, pressing his whole body against it. There were a few creaking sounds, but the door didn’t budge. Mike’s hands instinctively groped at it and he located a round and deep hole at its top. He put his fingers inside. It was rough and he could not reach anything. The darkness inside was now threatening Bosky, who was getting restless.

Mike himself was perspiring and completely drenched in his own sweat. He decided to take a break and resume the next day.

The evening was boring. He took a walk and found a bottle of Porto wine protruding from the clayey soil closer to the river bank, left unnoticed by the tribals. He went back to the pond, had a good wash and also filled some water for later use.

The evening went by celebrating the solitude with ‘vinho’ and deer meat. He slept soundly that night despite the stinging mosquitoes as the hot, humid climate had exhausted him.

The day broke quite early with the sky once again awash with a bluish pink tinge that steadily turned to orange. The chirping birds and chattering monkeys woke him up. It took a while for Mike to realize that he was not aboard the swaying Morning Star in the ocean, but was in a new and unknown place. He got up and went looking for Bosky, who was busy in the lower heights not far away from the river bank, looking at the sea. His master for several years, Captain Andrew Clayton was nowhere to be seen and the occasional hermit crab which ventured near Bosky further irritated him. He barked wildly, sending the crabs hurriedly into their tiny holes. There were thousands which had ventured out of the soil at day break. For a few moments, Bosky and the crabs played a game of hide and seek.

Finally, the Labrador lost interest and turned back to see Mike watching the scene with amusement. He forgot all his misery and returned with his tail wagging to his present master.

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Mike bathed and had a bite of the meat which he had carefully wrapped with several large leaves and twigs to ward off scavengers. Suddenly, there was frantic chirping — the birds flew overhead, monkeys began chattering and jumping wildly, as if warning of an unknown danger.

The roar was chilling and paralysed the very breath. Crabs disappeared, monkeys scrambled up higher into the trees and the birds became hysterical. Mike ran.

“Bosky come,” he urged the dog, who by instinct took after his master and both of them went in the opposite direction from where the roar had originated. Perched on a high tree, literally carrying Bosky, Mike lay as still as a statue.

Standing less than twenty metres away was a fully grown Royal Bengal Tiger taking a leisurely jaunt. It opened its jaws and yawned. Mike froze! He had never seen the ferocious animal in such close proximity. He was spellbound by the giant cat’s majestic stride, the respect it earned, the fear it spread over every other living being around it. It walked coolly, utterly disregarding the warning cries of every smaller animal around. “Truly, it is the king,” Mike thought.

In a split second, the beast weighing almost 400 lb. leapt more than twice its height as it stood and grabbed a monkey. Mike wondered whether the monkey died of shock or from the severity of the tiger’s blow. The prey was devoured in a few quick seconds and the tiger rolled over on the ground with its belly up, remaining in that position for the next ten minutes or so.

The monkeys began screeching their loudest at the loss of one of their brethren.

The ten minutes of rest for the tiger felt like ten years for Mike, who was mortally afraid of what would happen if Bosky decided to bark. However, the Labrador did no such thing and lay quiet with its ears upright and body rigid.

As if there was a sudden power cut, all noise and bird calls stopped for a few seconds. Then, like an omelette tossed in a saucepan, the tiger got up as if it had forgotten some urgent errand. The beast sniffed at the trees and urinated on some of them leaving Mike confused at this strange act. Without looking back, it resumed its royal stride back the way it had come.

Both Mike and Bosky were perched high on the tree for another few minutes, till the other animals again went about their business — crabs started roaming 71

around freely, the birds no longer cried caution and the monkeys got busy with their jelly fruits. They both climbed down. Bosky clung closer to Mike than ever and didn’t even chase the crabs. The sight of the tiger had cast a spell on Bosky, too.

Mike decided that it might not be safe to stay out in the open at night, knowing the nocturnal hunting habits of the great cats. He decided to check for a safer accommodation immediately. The next few minutes went by in shaping a spear out of a nearly five foot-long piece of wood cut from a guava tree. The sharpened edge was as much for self-defence as it was for catching fish or other animals for food. He badly needed a dose of tobacco, but decided against it for the moment as he had to conserve the little ration he had.

Mike resumed his exploration of the tunnel and the unyielding door that challenged his wits. He cleared the shrubs and laid them on the entrance to the stairs to prevent other animals from entering the tunnel through the stairs. The light was better as the sun was shining in such a way as to reflect some light onto the stairs.

He reached the end of the tunnel and, once again, examined the door with a freshly lit torch that he had brought with him. There were no key holes, yet the door refused to give in. He once again reached for the round hole at the top and tried to read it with his fingers. He felt some strange shapes of different dimensions. His fingertips could outline the square, the round and triangle-shaped holes drilled into the door.

The answer dawned on him like a flash. “Weren’t the shapes similar to the ones he had felt at the base of the small idol?” Mike turned around and started running up to the temple, with Bosky close on his heels. His heart was beating faster and faster. He grabbed the idol, turned it upside down, and began feeling it with his fingers, eyes closed.

“Come Bosky, we ’ave a job to do,” he ran again. By the time he reached the door, he was exhausted but did not bother to rest. He carefully fitted the base of the idol over the hole of the door and it moved into the shaft perfectly, like a piston in an engine. A deft movement and the idol fit nicely into the hollow with a click. He

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tried to turn it around and, with a loud creak, the wooden frame encased with a cleverly engineered lock system eased and the door swung open.

The smell inside was pungent and loathsome, for none had ventured here in several years. He lighted his torch again and his eyes popped out. Placed near the wall was a medium-sized chest, and it was not from the Morning Star! Mike realised that the chest had to contain valuable treasure and that the occupants of the fort had some connection with this property. The chest was strongly built, it was locked and he had no key to open it. But he had all the time in the world, and decided he would be back to take another look next day. Bosky was once again relieved to see his master tracing his steps out of the dusty and smelly dungeon.

Mike closed the door and returned to the ground above.

He held the idol securely at both ends and instinctively started twisting it. A cleverly disguised joint at the waist of the idol was unscrewed and revealed a key neatly wrapped in a piece of cloth to prevent any jingling noise. “How innovative,” he thought “to have hidden the key in the idol and the idol itself working as a key to the main entrance!” It was by sheer luck and a bit of quick thinking that he had managed to unravel the mystery. Having placed the key and the idol carefully in the temple, Mike went for a refreshing dip in the pond. The spear caught a large fish which he barbecued. It didn’t taste great, but was okay. Bosky too relished it after initially backing off. The hearty meal was followed by a nearly threehour nap.

The sun went down in watercolour shades of orange and red and Mike felt all his misery ebbing away. Sitting there in a remote jungle, surrounded by a maze of islands and in constant danger of falling prey to tigers and crocodiles, Mike felt a strange rush of excitement. The hidden fort, its treasure trove and the mystery around them were enough to ignite his adventurous spirit and ease the pain of isolation.

The sight of the tiger still haunted him and he began hunting for a safe haven to spend the night. There were only two options — one, to quickly build a bed on top of any tree or two, to rest within the secure walls of the fort. He readily discarded the first choice, as he was not sure if the tigers could climb a tree, and de73

cided to move over to the fort and lie in the ‘royal bed’ for the night. The last of the deer meat and the leftover ‘vinho’ made an otherwise dull evening bearable.

The walk was easy. There was no untoward surprise en route. He advanced cautiously to the stairs and once again reached the room that he had discovered. He viewed the cot, the carved table and the shelf. “Something seems strange,” he said to himself. He checked the ceilings, the walls and the floor but found nothing. He was about to leave, when Bosky began jumping on the bed, sniffing and scratching the mattress with his paws. Mike returned to the room and felt the mattress. It was hard. He lifted the bed to see a cleverly disguised cover. As he moved it aside, there lay below him a stuffy chamber. He ran up to cut a few long aerial roots, tying them together as a rope and descended through the opening.

“Oh my God!” Mike yelled. The twenty odd crates that were haphazardly stacked were without a doubt from the Morning Star. He went to open one of them. The chamois leather purses bearing a hundred gold sovereigns each were filled to the brim. He lifted one and opened it — and the not very old gold sovereigns, minted in London with Saint George slaying a dragon on the reverse and the monarch on the front, glistened before his eyes. There were gem stones, silver bars and other miscellaneous treasures too, which the pirate ship had gathered during their raids on other vessels. Here he was with all the riches in the world, but nowhere to spend them! He began to sweat with excitement and dread, apprehending his supposed end in these treacherous lands surrounded by unknown perils.

Bosky jumped in bewilderment, unable to fathom why his master had suddenly begun roaring with laughter, but barked with him nonetheless. The entire room echoed with their respective outbursts. In another instant, Mike realized that the pirates could not have found the bedroom, or they would have definitely found the golden idol. He looked around and, sure enough, came across a door which was apparently locked from the outside. He decided to investigate it later. He climbed up with difficulty, landing on the bed without the mattress. He set the bed in order and stretched out, with Bosky cuddling up at his feet.

It was almost dark when he woke up and he couldn’t figure out if it was already daybreak. He got up and adjusted his sight to the near-dark interior and opened 74

the door. The sharp rays of the morning sun were peeping through some obscure crevice above, reflecting light into the hall and the room. He climbed up the stairs and heard the familiar screeching of monkeys and chirping of birds. He walked up to the river front, stepping carefully on the clayey banks. It was high tide and the water had moved up a clear twenty feet or so, more than what he had seen the previous evening. Wary of crocodiles, he somehow finished his morning rituals and prepared for the day.

While climbing the mound that was hiding the fort from prying eyes, Mike came down a steep twenty odd feet to reach the other side facing the river. Here was a small cave-like entrance and the duo started negotiating the muddy tunnel, which bore the marks of boots and other footprints, presumably of the pirate gang.

With some effort, the lock on the door was broken by using a piece of rock and he entered the chamber without difficulty. The door led to the treasure trove, where the crates from the Morning Star were hidden, from a different direction. He marvelled at the calibre of the builders, who had ingeniously devised not one but several inlets and outlets, apparently to enable ease of access as well as allow quick escape in case of any unforeseen attack.

Mike returned to the temple. He had to check the chest lying in the room, unexplored by the pirates. It also appeared to Mike that no one lived in the island, but had been merely visiting to worship the deity in the temple. He took his spear and went to work at the river, catching three fishes, each of a different kind. A quick barbeque later, breakfast was ready. Bosky, after tasting small portions of each fish, seemed to prefer an eel-like fish with fewer bones.

Mike took out the key that he had hidden securely and resumed his unfinished task of examining the chest lying below the temple in the hidden room. He picked up the smaller idol — the key to the main door leading to the room below — and once again spent a few minutes examining the intricate and novel work of an ingenious hand.

The idol fitted as expected, allowing access through the door below the temple.

Mike examined the chest and opened it with the key. It had a leather pouch cushioned in richly brocaded cloth, within which, neatly wrapped in another piece of 75

oiled leather, was a glittering stone, the size of a gooseberry. There were also various ornaments embedded with precious stones. Even with the little light percolating into the room, the piece of stone glittered with radiance — something he had never seen before.

Mike’s hands were trembling. He put it back very carefully, unable to take away his dazzled eyes from it. He knew instantly that he had just handled one of the most precious and valuable diamonds in the world. Mike also examined the ornaments — crowns, waist bands, necklaces, armlets and so on and neatly laid them all back in the chest. There was one more bundle, wrapped in a yellow cloth. It revealed a bundle of palm leaf manuscripts in some unknown language, carefully wrapped in a piece of ornamented cloth. He guessed that the manuscripts contained important information, given the way they had been stored. He had to pinch himself to make sure he was not dreaming. Mike retraced his steps and came to the top, squatting on the mound with Bosky. He walked up to the temple and replaced the idol with the encased hidden key, exactly as it were, so that he could retrieve it at will. The last few hours had been a little too eventful and he needed a few quiet moments to see things in perspective. The stubble on his chin had grown and was becoming a bother.

The next few days yielded no further treasures and no new surprises. An occasional burst of frightened birds in flight and a few tell-tale roars in the not-toodistant jungles kept Mike on his toes. He had built a hammock high enough on the trees for both Bosky and himself to be safe from the prowling tigers during their siestas.

The nights were only too dangerous and open to the elements. Sudden rain and mosquitoes proved a constant nuisance. Mike had no choice but to sleep on the cot with a smelly mattress in the fort. At least he could close the door and shut out the predators. He counted days by marking on the temple wall with a piece of stone for each day spent in the dangerous and desolate forest. Dense cover and unfriendly soil with protruding roots facing the sky everywhere prevented him from exploring the forests. Bosky clearly disliked the region and was reluctant to take a single step more in the slush and the clayey soil.

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Mike spent days watching the river — sending smoke signals to draw attention — hoping for some merchant ship or fishing boat to come by and rescue them. But dense forest cover and a string of meandering canals complicated the route for maritime vessels and, hence, were shunned by ships sailing in the vicinity.

The missing Morning Star did evoke sharp action on the part of the Empire’s naval fleet stationed at the Calcutta and Chittagong harbours. But all their search operations proved futile. Meanwhile, the burnt hull and forepeak of the ship sunk further into the depths, taking along with it the body of Captain Andrew Clayton, which was devoured by the fish right in front of the well-lacquered photo of his dear wife Maria!

Mike managed to build a catamaran and tried sailing out. It was a pleasant morning and he decided that this should be the day. He piled up some recently-hunted animals for food during the journey and enough fresh water to last a few days. It was time for the tides to rise. He waited patiently with an impatient Bosky. The river waters were swirling and the base of the catamaran was already being invitingly caressed by the waters. Mike decided to try his luck and get in.

Suddenly, a fourteen to fifteen feet alligator moved into the catamaran, followed by another four, all of varying sizes. Soon, the five of them were fighting over the dead animals packed as food for Mike’s unknown journey. In a few seconds, the meat disappeared.

The twigs with which he had joined the logs for the catamaran were giving away and soon, the logs started drifting apart in the water. Only as the logs drifted apart did Mike realize how strong the river current was. Dejected, he patted Bosky and said, “We need to spend a longer time here than I thought mate.”

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CHAPTER 7

Elena returns from Holiday The south of Germany was windy and wet and Bad Tolz was no different. Elena was still asleep when her mother Lizi came to wake her up at 9.30 A.M. Breakfast was only available till 10.30 A.M. at the hotel. The lone waitress, a student doing a part-time job in the morning, was ready to prepare poached eggs without the yolk for Elena, despite several tables still being occupied mostly by tourists and pensioners. The senior Valsons went through the traditional fare.

Mathias decided to take the bicycle and do some sight-seeing, while Lizi opted to stay with Elena and walk in the neighbourhood.

The ladies walked down the main street and entered the sprawling park. Lizi was the first to spot a bench and strolled towards it. She sat down, followed by Elena.

“Mom, tell me, what is this all about?” Elena queried, looking intently into her mother’s eyes.

“It is a long story spread over several centuries,” Lizi sighed. “The spirit of your forefather still guides you, my dear.” Elena was staring at Lizi, waiting for more.

“Many decades ago, a king from India who was facing an attack from his enemies sent his son, the crown prince, away. He was carried to safety by a gypsy lady who spent several years travelling, ultimately arriving in Romania with him. The lady had chronicled her travels and travails, which are cherished and revered by the clan elders till this day. The prince married a Romani girl and became a famous Romani leader in the country,” Lizi paused to take a deep breath, checked her watch and took a pill out of her purse, gulping it down with the water she was carrying.

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She continued, “Thus, I am their direct descendant and carry the Indo-Romani genes in me, while you carry a part of those genes through me.” Lizi lovingly caressed her daughter’s hair, as Elena laid her head on her mother’s shoulder. Elena was in a kind of trance with her eyes closed, and Lizi chose to ignore the curious glances passers-by shot at them.

“The people of our community always treated us with special respect, and kept us under their care and watch, even though you or I did not realise it. I learnt from Mathias that it was during my marriage that a Romani couple, who were present, handed over the special cloth in which I was baptised and a precious packet of palm leaf manuscripts written in a strange hand.”

“Where are those palm leaf manuscripts Mom?” Elena’s voice was a whisper. “I am planning to go to India,” Elena added decisively, without waiting for an answer from her mom.

Lizi smiled and said, “They belong to you and you shall have them at the appropriate time, my dear. I am now going to the corner store to fetch some things I need and shall rest in my room for some time. I have to key in what I learned last night from Dr. Hoffmann for my project work.”

Elena walked listlessly in the streets and eventually reached the riverfront. The otherwise tranquil place now echoed with the noise of the gulls and the ducks, fighting over the fishes that occasionally jumped from the river to the land. Looking at the birds, she was deeply engrossed in thinking about the last, eventful day of her life and failed to notice a shadowy figure leaving a small packet behind her. Only when Elena stepped back to sit did she feel the bulge on the ground near her and curiously opened the paper-wrapped packet. It was a small cross wrapped in a green and blue flag with a red wheel in the centre. Elena picked up the small silver cross and kissed it. She removed the thin chain adorning her neck, carefully inserted the cross and wore it. She also wore the flag loosely around her neck.

Elena turned back to look at the trees and could just see a shadowy figure melt into the woods. But, this time, she was not afraid. On her way back to the hotel, Elena stepped into the music store and picked up a CD by Ivo Papasov, a Romani virtuoso clarinettist. The music seemed only too familiar and, now back in her 79

room, she sank once again into the book she had bought the previous day at the bookstore.

The next morning, the Valsons spent time walking around the streets, on the river banks of the Isar and in the pine forests. Dr. Hoffman came with his wife and took the Valsons to a German restaurant in the nearby village of Geretsried. The food was sumptuous and the Hoffmans were truly hospitable. Farewell gifts were exchanged between Mrs. Hoffman and Lizi after the Hoffmans dropped the Valsons at their hotel.

“I am flying back mom,” Elena looked at her mother for her reaction. “I shall get ready for my long journey ahead.”

“I know, nothing can stop you now, my child,” Lizi responded understandingly.

“There are certain matters that you have to sort out, especially the palm leaf manuscripts. I want you to carry them with you when you travel to India. It may be a good idea to talk to your friends to check out on your travel plans,” the anxious mother suggested.

The afternoon saw Elena getting ready for her journey back to England and her parents proceeding on in the hired car, further into the south of Germany. They had planned to spend the night in Strasbourg before proceeding to Austria, the country where Elisaveta Valson had first breathed the air of freedom, escaping from the clutches of Communism. They would then visit Switzerland briefly before returning to England, so they planned.

Elena readied her backpack, hired a taxi to the nearest S Bahn, the Wolfratshausen rail station back to Munich Hbf, the main station for a change over to the Flugafen, the airport. The check-in through the E kiosk was fast and efficient. As she prepared to proceed through immigration, she turned back absentmindedly.

There she was, a bulky woman with a long skirt and braided hair. The red and green flag with the red wheel worn as a scarf round her neck was not missed either. Elena’s hand unknowingly lifted as she waved to her. The lady with the scarf waved back. However, her eyes were filled with concern, which Elena didn’t notice. She was soon in the boarding queue and in the aircraft thereafter.

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Elena took a metro and reached home. It was dark. She had a lot to do the next day. She switched the fridge on and went down to eat something at the Garfunkel’s nearby. The cold food failed to lift her mood. Back in her room, she switched on her computer, checked her mail and Googled ‘Romani’ to understand more on the hidden part of her ancestry. It was almost 3 A.M., when she dozed off in the chair in front of the computer.

She scrambled looking hurriedly at the clock. It was 9 A.M. She had to go to the locker at Barclays Bank to check out the most important asset of her life. The bank was a walk away from her house and it took less than ten minutes for her to reach it. The friendly officer helped her open her vault and left the room for her to do the needful in privacy. With trembling hands, Elena opened the vault. It contained a few envelopes, mostly pertaining to the registration deed for their home and papers relating to their family investments. There was an old, discoloured envelope, with some markings on it in Romanian. Within the envelope was an equally old cloth. She immediately realised that the cloth could have been used in her mother's baptism ceremony. The other packet was larger and wrapped in old chamois leather. She could not wait and peeped into the packet. There was a bundle of palm leaves, about two inches wide and twelve inches long. She took a long breath, resisting her temptation to look into the manuscripts right there, wrapped them neatly again, stuffed the packet into her tote bag and closed her locker.

The winter air outside was cold as it hit her face. She went home. The two shadowy figures kept a respectable distance and followed her until she reached her apartment safely. Elena made some hot coffee for herself and unwrapped the large packet inside her bag. She looked at the palm leaves intently. There were eighteen of them, all stacked and bound on the top expertly with leather lace, or was it some kind of catgut? She couldn’t figure that out. It was written in a language she could not recognize and also contained several symbols and drawings similar to the Mayan glyphs.

“Funny,” Elena thought, “These palm leaf manuscripts are several centuries old and yet they are intact and without any damage from mites and aging!”

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She proceeded to photograph each of the leaves with her digital camera and loaded the photographs onto her computer. It was time to check the flights to India. A sudden thought flashed in her mind. Was there not an Indian Professor back at her college, in the environmental sciences department? She did not know him close enough. Yet he seemed to be helpful and honest, from the little interaction that she had had with him in the college. She leafed through her telephone index with hope. There it was. She dialled the number of the college and asked for Dr. Amit Roy. It was his secretary who responded. “Dr. Roy is in Kolkata, India at the moment and is expected back only after five weeks. Yes. You may take down his India contact details.” The secretary was polite and gave her Dr. Amit Roy’s Indian contact number and address.

Elena then checked with an online travel portal and booked a ticket from London to Kolkata for a flight leaving the next morning. She hurried as she had a lot of stray things to fix before her departure. Her visa for travel to India, which she had obtained to visit as a tourist, and which was still valid, came in handy, saving her precious time. Her luggage was light — the bare essentials; the book on Romani, the flag, the palm leaf manuscripts and the cross given to her by the mysterious woman on the banks of River Isar. It was dangling on her neck.

Elena phoned her parents, who were driving from Salzburg to Vienna. Elisaveta wanted to visit the hotel where she had stayed overnight at the time of her escape from Romania in a train full of gypsies. For her, it was then a momentous event to step into a free country. Elena broke the news of her travel plans to her mother as her father Mathias screeched the car to a halt.

Lizi was not surprised. She muttered, “I knew I had to reckon for this day. Just that everything happened too fast, I suppose.” She quickly composed herself and comforted her daughter. “Don’t lose the manuscripts. Find this professor and seek his help for no one else in Kolkata is known to you. Please keep the UK High Commission informed of your visit and do not hesitate to call back for any help. Is that understood?” As a mother born and brought up in Eastern Europe, family values were cherished.

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The Air India counter at Heathrow was in total disarray. Many people were crowding the counter. The staff tried to make an orderly queue in vain. The earlier flight was suddenly diverted to carry some Indian ministers and thus stood cancelled for the rest of the passengers, who were offloaded without notice, creating a pandemonium. The security staff watched with their usual unconcern. Elena examined her boarding pass with satisfaction. Her flight would terminate at Mumbai, where she had to change to a domestic flight for Kolkata. Her arrival at Mumbai was at 2300 Hours and she would catch a flight from there the next day early morning to touch down in Kolkata at 0900 Hours.

She had a pleasant surprise waiting at the boarding gate. The short and burly ground personnel queried where she would be travelling; to Mumbai or Kolkata?

On checking her boarding card, he gestured to her to wait and disappeared behind the counter. A few minutes and he reappeared smilingly and whispered, “The flight is full madam, and we cannot accommodate you in Economy Class.”

Before Elena could react, he reassured,” I have upgraded you to the Business Class. Have a nice flight.”

“Wow,” thought Elena. Mismanagement often has a lucky fallout too. She felt elated.

The flight was full and the stewardesses in Business Class were courteous. She opened her bag and sank back into the Romani book and, soon, drifted into deep slumber. The couple shadowing Elena from her home to the airport watched Elena board the flight. They waited until all boarding formalities were completed and the gates shut. The older one placed a call from the public booth to Mumbai and spoke in a strange language, nodding vigorously.

The man seated next to her was apparently an Asian. He tried in vain to get Elena talking. But she restricted herself to the barest of courtesies and was submerged in her book. She had her meals with a healthy appetite and then relaxed, trying to put in place the events over the last few days. She remembered the palm leaf scrolls and toyed with the idea of fetching them from the overhead locker and immediately abandoned it. She would not have understood a word of it. The scripts were unfamiliar. There were pictorial descriptions too. How in the world was she 83

going to get them deciphered? If it did contain some information of high value, would the person who deciphered it confide in her? What if there was a breach of confidentiality? Would Indian law courts be of any use? Could she claim proprietary rights? Could the British High Commission in India help? She had no answer to any of these questions at this point.

Could she depend on Prof. Amit Roy to help her out? She did not know him properly yet. She had to take the risk. She dozed off again, the book resting on her lap.

The gentle tap on Elena’s shoulder woke her up. “Chair upright ma’am and please fasten your seatbelt. We will be landing in a few minutes.” Elena had almost forgotten that she was in a flight from London to Mumbai. She still thought she was on the banks of the River Isar, with swans and gulls, and with the old Romani lady watching her from amongst the tall pine trees.

The landing was bumpy and the taxiing to the terminal seemed to take longer than the flight time from London. Elena carried only a single item as cabin baggage and, hence, speedily finished her immigration formalities. The chaos in luggage handling was just as bad as at Heathrow. She had a few hours in hand to catch the early morning flight to Kolkata. It was just past 1 am and she decided to sit in the arrival hall itself until it was daybreak, to reach the domestic terminal.

There were free transfer coaches available every few minutes from the International Arrival hall to the domestic airport. The coffee was refreshing.

The next three or four hours were spent half-dozing and half watching the passengers. It was sheer fun to watch the various people who walked by — some stiff, some funny, some obese, some zero-sized. There were VIPs, students, IT professionals, parents returning after meeting their children living abroad and several others scurrying towards their destination. There were many foreigners in every flight that arrived. “The airports, like the rail stations, truly reflect the character and economy of the nation,” Elena thought.

While she waited, Elena went to the currency exchange counter to get 200 GBP changed into Indian rupees. The airports all around the world paid much less and it was prudent to go to a bank during normal working hours to get the best rates.

“I should do that later in the day or maybe after a day or two when further need 84

for cash arises,” she decided. It was 4 am. Elena washed up and prepared to leave, although it was a little early. She was directed to the transfer bus and occupied a seat. The bus waited for well over thirty minutes to fill up and then moved from within the airport, without taking the public thoroughfare. She was thankful she had started off early.

There was a buzz of activity in the domestic lounge and the passengers were already arriving to catch the early morning flights. Security in the airport was more stringent than she had seen in Heathrow.

“Any check-in baggage madam?” The counter clerk approvingly saw her backpack and a bag of a size which could be permitted as a cabin baggage. With check-in luggage, they always had to do extra work — lift them from trolleys, x-ray the bags, strap them, tag the luggage, load them again. It was sometimes hell. The clerk provided Elena a front window seat out of sheer gratitude.

The long queues in front of the security clearance counters were ample proof of how the airports were ill-equipped to handle a large number of passengers. The greater security concerns added to their problems and caused even more delay.

Everything was taken in their stride by security personnel, who assured passengers that the flight would take off only when all the passengers with boarding passes had come on board. The plane took off a good thirty minutes later than the scheduled time; with the last passenger walking in coolly followed by a host of others, presumably his subordinates, and also a man in uniform. Elena’s co-passenger told her the latecomer was an important political leader from Kolkata. The crowd deplaned in a leisurely manner after the leader took his seat, but not before he gave some urgent instructions from his mobile phone. The drama delayed the flight by another six to seven minutes. Finally, the captain announced to all ground personnel to deplane. The flight took off grudgingly. The two-and-a-half-hour flight was smooth, with breakfast and beverages served. She felt a lot fresher when she landed at the Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose Airport in Kolkata. The arrival lounge was jam-packed. There seemed to be some scuffle between the loaders and some police officers. Passengers crowded in to see, check and opine on the fight.

The airport was more like a railway station, with a long serpentine queue near the pre-paid taxi counter.

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Elena moved to the hotel booking counter. The clerk asked her whether she had any one accompanying her. He offered the names of a few rundown hotels and guest houses near the airport, which she politely declined and insisted on being in the city, preferably at the city centre. The clerk looked up at his directory and finally booked her at a hotel in the southern part of the city, a busy area with a lot of transport facilities.

“No madam, there are no city transfers available frequently and it would be better to take a taxi from the pre-paid taxi counter. Please give me Rs. 250; I will get you a taxi from the counter. Otherwise you may have to stand in the queue for well over half an hour. You will, of course, get an official receipt for the money.”

The helpful hotel counter clerk squeezed into the pre-paid cabin and whispered to the clerk, pointing at Elena and gesturing. The clerk nodded and, in a few minutes, the hotel counter clerk came out triumphantly with the receipts for the money paid and duly returned the balance. He politely declined to accept any tips either. “Have a great day and enjoy your stay in Kolkata,” the man was truly hospitable and left a good feeling about the city.

As she stepped out of the exit gate, several touts surrounded her. “Madam, good morning. Tourist? Student? Best hotel at best price. Taxi? Auto? Where you are going? May I help you with your bag? Do you want private taxi? Have you got dollars? Best rates in the city!” A beggar or two joined the crowd around her, carrying a toddler in their arms and asking for alms.

She brushed passed the crowd and reached the taxis, which were parked in the most haphazard manner ever seen in any airport. It took her a few minutes to locate her vehicle as the driver was still waiting at the airport counter and had to be fetched.

The taxi was a Hindustan Ambassador, more like the Morris Oxford III, but much older and ill-maintained. More fumes came from beneath the front leg space than perhaps from the exhaust pipes at the rear. Every part other than the horn made some peculiar kind of noise. The driver was deft in handling the battle tank — that was the best description for the ramshackle piece of metal threaten-

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ing to fall apart if he so much as applied the brakes — and went through lanes and by-lanes to reach the nondescript hotel called Charcoal Guest House.

The hotel staff showed her the room, which was small but clean.

“Veg or non-veg ma’am?” the clerk at the counter enquired. The fare was inclusive of breakfast. “You will get breakfast till 10 am and coffee/tea throughout the day. You may have dinner at our restaurant or anywhere else. There are many eateries in our area in less than three to four minutes walking distance from our hotel.

There is Krystal Chopstick for Chinese, Azad Hind for Kebabs and roasted chicken, Tero Parban for Bengali Cuisine, Bistro for Continental, The Restaurant for Indian food, and the Garden Cafe for South Indian snacks. All these are less than three to four minutes walking distance from our hotel. Launderer and ironing, chemist and stationary stores are just by the side. You can get taxis, buses, mini-buses and autos from Rash Behari Avenue, which is the main thoroughfare in the area. Just a few minutes’ walk and you have the Lakes, where you can take a nice refreshing walk. Although it is safe, it is advisable not to venture alone in the night or carry any valuables if you decide to go for a walk near the lakes. The emergency numbers are given in your room, which you will please note down. Kolkata is a friendly city with friendly people.” Like an antique long-playing record screeching to an end, the clerk finished his long introductory lecture with a wide grin.

It was well past noon by the time Elena had a shower and got ready. She tried to contact Dr Amit Roy at the residence number provided by his office. There was a woman speaking in the local language, which Elena did not understand. She decided to call again after a while and went out for a walk.

The hotel was in a residential area, which exuded an air of quiet domesticity. The nearby kindergarten school had just closed for the day and parents were crowding to pick up their wards. There were rickshaws, cycle vans and cars jostling for space, for once, breaking all barriers of social inequality. She saw the rickshaw for the first time in her life and waited in awe until a mother and her child boarded it, with the rickshaw puller announcing his movement by jingling a round bell on its handle. It sounded funny. She took a few pictures with her camera.

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She walked one block to the north and arrived at the main road called Rash Behari Avenue. She stood there for some time; absorbed in the antics of the auto rickshaws, which zigzagged their way through the traffic, with mini tricolours fluttering near their rear view mirrors.

Girls from the several colleges nearby were standing in groups and chatting. Elena approached one of them and enquired about the eatery named Bistro. The girls were perfect models of Bengali hospitality and one of them even took Elena to the restaurant, which was just a block away. She struck up a conversation with the girl and lauded the patriotism of the auto rickshaws. The girl stopped abruptly and broke into peals of laughter until she wept.

She shook her head, saying, “No, it’s got nothing to do with patriotism. The flags are political party flags and are flown as a mark of their allegiance to the party.

The autos are under fire from the courts for flouting pollution laws and are liable to be seized by the police. The flags are only an insurance policy against such seizures.”

She left Elena at the small restaurant after politely declining an offer to join her for lunch.

The manager-cum-chef forewarned Elena of a little delay. A man hurried outside to fetch fresh vegetables and chicken from a nearby vendor. Her lunch was delayed, but it was worth the wait. The food was fresh and delicious. She came out paying a fraction of what it would have cost her back home.

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CHAPTER 8

Who is Manna?

The next four hours were uneventful—the boat moved from the river into canals, navigating through the labyrinth of waterways known to the locals. Every place looked the same. The foliage varied in its appearance, from hental bushes to tall trees, from grasslands to stilt trees and mangroves. This gave Amit and his fellow travellers the eerie feeling that tigers were observing them whilst crouching behind a bush. It was much more thrilling to think of them prowling in the jungle than to view one face to face.

Amit spent well over half an hour with Raju, explaining how the new camera worked, the attentive student picking up the nuances without much difficulty. They took some beautiful shots of the Gangetic alligators, lesser adjutant storks and a family of Siberian cranes while Banchharam prepared a sumptuous lunch.

The clouds from the north accumulated till they were a menacing dark grey. The weather abruptly changed from sweltering hot to cool and windy. Suddenly, the current grew stronger and dragged the boat faster. Malik’s face grew ashen. A few crocodiles quickly scrambled to the bank. Raju tried hard to focus and shoot with the camera. Monkeys screeched and scrambled, but there was no sign of birds flying. There was just a sudden chill and then, silence.

Something struck Amit’s wrist. At first, he thought someone had thrown a stone at him from the bank. But soon, when he heard the pelting sounds on the cabin’s tin roof, he realised that it was raining hailstones. The lumps of ice scattered everywhere on the deck. He had never seen such large hailstones in his life. The wind was blowing in swift, ominous gusts, making the boat sway dangerously from side

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to side. The river water had already started entering through the portholes, increasing their tension.

“Sink, and you have the crocs to devour you; reach the banks and maybe there are tigers waiting to feast on you; escape both, and there are the infamous dacoits of Sundarban to finish you off,” Amit sighed. Raju, who was otherwise a brave boy, looked nervous as did the crew members. There was a big splash as a huge wave hit the ramshackle boat as high as the upper deck, drenching the bedding and the pillows. Raju quickly packed the camera and the lenses away. Malik seemed concerned. The water splashed through the wooden portholes in the lower deck.

Everyone, except Malik, rushed down and started to throw out the accumulated water with whatever vessel they could lay their hands on. By the end of it, everyone was dead tired. “We have to take refuge in a khari,” Malik finally decided.

Otherwise, there were chances that the boat might capsize. They moved on. Biru had a difficult time handling the bamboo to navigate the boat so that it avoided the mud banks. Manna had settled down calmly, smoking a beedi.

The small canal was wide enough to house Sundari. It went in nearly a hundred yards and was anchored. The wind was less punishing now as they were amongst the trees. They could hear the howl of the strong winds above their heads. The hailstorm had now given way to torrential rain. As Amit held out his hand, the sharp shower seemed to pierce through his veins, stinging his pores. The lashing rain also washed the mud off the alligators as the unperturbed lot enjoyed the downpour. Somewhere, at a distance, there was a roar to match the thunder, or was it his imagination? His efforts to peek through the sheets of water were futile.

The food was served in the damp lower deck. They had to lift their legs and squat on the benches to keep dry. The crew was well-prepared for such extreme weather conditions as Amit noticed that all items had been lifted up from the deck and hung from hooks above their heads. The food was steaming hot and tasty and everybody ate silently, for any efforts at conversation would have been muffled by the rain pelting down the tin roof.

Amit could not sleep; nor could anybody else. The water level was rising slowly but steadily. In about two hours, the rains filled the bay with so much water that 90

land was barely visible. They stayed in the khari for almost five hours until the rains subsided.

“Babu, we cannot move on until the water recedes. We cannot find our way through the canals,” Malik announced, adding, “But it will be dangerous to move after dark and more dangerous if we are stuck in this khari for the night.”

The sky was clearing and the weather calming down. But the battered earth was still dripping with water in this forgotten world. Banchharam passed around some hot tea, served without milk but with a dash of fresh lime, ginger, some pungent salt and some herbs. The concoction tasted different, but was refreshing.

It was turning dark and Amit knew they were stuck. Biru went about helping Malik navigate to the middle of the canal, deep enough to deter the tigers as well as the notorious pirates from Bangladesh, or at least forewarn them in the event of any unforeseen attack. Meanwhile, Amit was keeping a close watch on Manna’s movements after last night’s incident. He had a strong feeling that he could be yesterday’s intruder for he had thought about it and already ruled out Biru, Malik and Banchharam. They were all in the boat. Amit gave the burly policeman the benefit of the doubt as the silhouette was a lot leaner and the policeman could not have swum ashore from the boat anchored mid-stream. The guide, Jibon, had joined them all the next morning. So the only person amongst them who could have intruded into his room at Pakhiralay could be Manna!

“Why?” Amit wondered. He could have asked him for a copy of the map and he would have gladly shared it, might have even explained its various features. But now he had begun to suspect Manna’s motives.

One good thing about the shower was that it gave way to a clear sky and a million stars twinkling overhead. Amit could identify several constellations and pointed them out to a somewhat nonchalant Raju, who clearly was more fascinated by photography than astronomy.

Amit searched his bag and took out a bottle of Jack Daniels, the whisky from Tennessee, to which he had taken a special liking on a visit to the American state. In fact, on one of his earlier visits to the US, he had traded a 12-year-old Glen Fiddich scotch for this cheaper American cousin, and was quite bowled over by its 91

smoking coal smell. It had remained his favourite choice thereafter. Not that he was a connoisseur — for that matter, he didn’t even drink regularly. During the hot summer weekends, he usually relaxed with a Guinness or coke and crispy wafers — watching John Wayne and Clint Eastwood’s Western classics or listening to Richard Clayderman on the piano. But, this time, he chose to play some old ABBA numbers stored on his iPod. It was pitch-dark—they could hear toads croaking from the river banks as other nocturnal creatures woke up and began their search for food. Raju was leaning towards one of the Petromax lamps and reading Bram Stoker’s Dracula.

Banchharam was preparing for an early dinner with Biru’s help.

It was hardly seven-thirty in the evening, too early to go to bed. Amit stretched out on the upper deck, feeling the fresh, cool breeze on his tired face. He could see Malik and the burly policeman holding oversized glasses filled with the local brew.

They were sucking some mango pickle along with their drink. Strange accompaniment, he thought.

If there had been any change in the water level, it was not visible in the allengulfing darkness that became more intense by the minute. Then, all of a sudden, a bone-chilling roar echoed through the mangroves. No other carnivore existed in these desolate jungles other than the despised and feared — ruthless and cunning, agile and swift —Royal Bengal tiger of the Sundarban. Raju looked at Amit in a panic — the roar had set the mood for his leisurely read and the journey through Dracula’s Bran castle in the remote Romanian hills had become more thrilling and dreadful.

Amit glanced at Dipak, the burly policeman, who perhaps wished he had stayed back in Sajnekhali Tiger Reserve. Maybe he was cursing his greed for a few extra bucks now, for his hands were trembling. But, in a mock show of bravado, he immediately took out his outdated service Enfield rifle and tried to look useful. The rifle itself was tied with a dog chain around his waist, lest someone snatch it from him. He was miserable with the bolt and fumbled with the five-round charger clips as the bullets were not loaded in the ten-round top magazine, but were tied to his waist band. He seemed reassured after patting the bullets in the clips of which 92

there were two sets of five each. He pretended futilely to act like a brave man and looked into the sliding ramp rear sights right of his rifle, through the fixed-post front sights. The rear sight ramp was jammed with disuse; he looked at Amit, grinning sheepishly.

Amit merely said, “Do not forget to pull the safety catch forward if you do have to shoot ever”.

“Do not worry, when Policeman Dipak is around. There are no dacoits, no tigers.

Do not fear when I am near.” Dipak was anything but convincing. He could hardy hide his nervousness, which was evident from his trembling voice. There was a splash and a bump and the boat swayed, throwing him off guard. He fell like a sack of potatoes. They would have found it hilarious if they weren’t in a predicament.

Biru burst out laughing and was immediately rebuked by Malik. Two crocodiles were fighting over a common prey in the waters below their boat. Biru shone the torch in the direction of the commotion and they could see the reptiles tearing into the carcass of a buffalo floating in the water. It was a ghastly sight, but soon it all floated away from the boat, carried away by the strong currents.

Embarrassed, the policeman got up and went down to the lower deck. Manna was quiet all this while. He was gazing at the river from the bow, wearing only a lungi which reached his knees. His body was very athletic, with no fat and just the right muscles in the right places. The eight pack abs further reinforced his robust physique. He was smoking a beedi that he threw into the water.

“Babu, you can all go to sleep. Dipak and one of us shall keep guard by rotation.

We must have already caused quite a flutter at the base camp as they have not heard from us yet. We are trapped here and cannot leave until tomorrow morning, until the water level rises.” Malik was a practical man. He had weighed all the options and had decided what was in the best interest of all concerned, which included the safety of his vessel too.

Sheets were spread and pillows were put in place. Biru lighted two mosquito repellent coils around them, which had a familiar nauseating smell. Amit moved it a little farther away from his head, despite the steady buzz of mosquitoes around him.

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Raju was still leaning precariously close to the Petromax light, reading the horror book by its dimming light. But everyone soon went to sleep, including Raju, after an eventful and tiring day. Amit watched the fireflies with interest for some time but, slowly, as tiredness overtook him, he pulled a sheet over his face to ward off the mosquitoes and soon fell asleep.

The sound of a mechanical rotor suddenly woke him up. He removed the sheet over his head and peeped out. There was Malik in the small antechamber adjoining the captain’s cabin; Dipak, drunk and with his legs spread out, was snoring at his loudest; Banchharam and Biru were in the bow, half way between the upper deck and the gangway.

“Where is Manna?” Amit wondered. He quietly slid out of bed and cautiously climbed down the narrow stairs leading to the lower deck. If confronted, he could easily say he was going to the toilet. He tried to move as noiselessly as possible.

There he was, with a hurricane lamp by his side and a transmitter in front of him.

Confident that everyone was sleeping, Manna was oblivious of Amit’s presence.

He was cranking the handle of the transmitter. “An old model, perhaps military surplus,” Amit thought.

“This is Manna. Come in,” he was speaking impeccable English!

Amit couldn’t believe his ears. The other end of the transmitter crackled. “Describe location and status,” a female voice creaked.

“I am stuck in unknown territory owing to bad weather. Merchandise expected to arrive tomorrow.”

“Okay. What about the visitors?” the female voice asked.

“I have kept them in check,” Manna’s responses were whispered, but Amit’s sharp ears picked them up.

“Good. Watch the Professor,” the voice advised. “Over and out.” The line went dead.

Amit tiptoed back into bed and covered himself from head to toe. His arrival disturbed Raju.

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“Whoa!” He shrieked and jumped out of his bed.

Amit pretended to be confused and tried to shut him up. Banchharam and Biru woke up, alarmed, followed by Malik. The burly policeman was next, springing up and looking for his rifle that was still tied to his waist but without any bullets inside.

“Tiger, Tiger!” the policeman shouted, half-awake. There was commotion all around. Malik pumped the Petromax light to full glow and everyone ran helterskelter to look for the elusive and imaginary tiger.

Raju was trembling. Amit glanced at his pillow, saw the novel and instantly understood why he had awakened so abruptly. He put his hand on his nephew’s shoulder. “It’s all right, go to sleep.” Perhaps Raju had a bad dream after reading the Dracula story, he reasoned. Malik smiled and went back to sleep and everyone could see the scowl on Dipak’s face. Biru was already asleep by then.

Amit, too, lay down but wondered, “Why did Manna not come to the upper deck just now, throughout the commotion? I can only wait and investigate tomorrow.”

He looked at Raju. In deep slumber again, the boy drew closer to him. Amit could see the child in him with his mouth open, cuddling his pillow. He dimmed the Petromax and dozed off.

Manna’s conversation over the radio transmitter continued to disturb Amit and he told himself to be as vigilant as possible until he left the boat. The chirping of birds woke him up. Banchharam was already up and was lighting the stove. The boat had a stock of two domestic gas cylinders for cooking, which had been loaded when they left Sajnekhali. Biru was brushing his teeth with gudaku — a paste made from molasses and tobacco, which was a normal habit for natives of these islands.

Manna was on the upper deck near the railing, brushing his teeth with a neem branch. “Puick”, he spat in the river and rinsed his mouth. Looking at Amit, he smiled, “Babu, I am a man from the rural interiors. I am not used to the luxury of toothpaste and brushes. I am comfortable with traditional things and have distaste for anything English. In fact, my father was a revolutionary who had fought the Angrez,” meaning the British. Amit gave him a piercing look. But he looked back 95

at him, undeterred. “What a liar! He is pretending to be a rustic villager,” Amit thought. “Who could he be?” he wondered.

Biru thrust a handle into the shaft of the diesel engine, similar to the one used to generate power in the hotel back at Pakhiralay. However, the engine seemed loath to wake up and begin the journey. Biru tried again and again until he gave up, exhausted.

“Boss, problem with the engine,” he shouted.

Malik came to the lower deck where the engine was housed, looked at and opened the valve supplying oil to the engine, turned around and kicked Biru’s butt with his left foot and climbed up without a word. Biru again started with the handle. A slice out of Chaplin’s silent films, Amit chuckled to himself.

With just one attempt, the engine came to life. He pulled the accelerator chord dangling from the captain’s cabin. The piston now raced madly up and down inside the crankshaft, promising loyalty and obedience. Satisfied, Biru moved towards the stairs, hesitated for a moment and kicked the engine, a silent reprimand passed down to the lowest rung in the hierarchy. He went up and picked up a long bamboo and pierced through the sheet of still water, lying deceptively quiet between a high and ebb tide.

The weather was pleasant. The sun shone warm and bright, its golden glow enhancing the soft colours of a rosy dawn. The sullen morning mist soon evaporated, leaving them to revel in the splendour of these lands. Manna was scribbling something with a pencil. Amit tiptoed behind him and grabbed the paper he was writing on. He was astounded and speechless. “Dog, Cat, Bat, Mat, Boy, Girl”. His handwriting was like that of a child in a Montessori class. He was angry, too. To whom was he trying to prove that he was an illiterate villager? Or had he been mistaken last night when he was transmitting a message? He revealed no emotion and smiled at Manna.

“Good, good. It is important to keep learning regardless of age. I will send you some books when I am back in Kolkata,” Amit assured him.

Manna pretended to be very happy.

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“He deserves an Oscar,� Amit thought, making a mental note that he had to be very careful with an unknown enemy in unknown territory.

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CHAPTER 9

The buried treasure It was the fourth full moon night. The rains were at their worst. Mike was closeted in his room at the fort.

He thought he was dreaming when he heard the drumming. The noise of the drums was now growing closer and louder. Bosky barked and stood up, ready to charge. He was growling with fangs bared. Of late, the Labrador was getting increasingly irritable. Perhaps he was missing his cosy bed in the captain’s cabin in the Morning Star, and hated eating smelly, unknown and uncooked food, and being pestered by mosquitoes and insects. He particularly loathed the snakes.

“No Bosky. You will wait here.” Mike closed the door and slowly tiptoed upstairs, this time without a torch as he intended to stay hidden. Slowly and carefully, he headed towards the temple area from where the drumming was coming.

“Haiya, Haiya”.

There were about two dozen people clearly visible in the bright moonlight that flooded the night despite the drizzle. The men were short, stocky and had dreadlocks. They barely wore anything and looked ashen with some sort of paint all over their bodies. The clubs and strange-looking axes they were carrying added to their horrifying image.

“There he is! He must be the leader of the clan,” Mike thought. Wearing a crocodile headgear and a skull garland, he was about four feet tall. The entire crowd drained off the liquor from the bottle gourd vessels they were carrying on their waists. Mike perched on a tree, keeping a fair distance in order to escape their notice, and watched the tribal rituals, with apprehension. For one moment, 98

he thought he should walk to them, disclose his identity and seek their help to get away from this wretched island. But then, he decided to wait and watch instead.

“Ma!” the leader shouted. “Mariah!” Two of the tribal men were bringing a taller man who was wearing different clothes. “They must have imprisoned him,” Mike thought. The man, who seemed to be semiconscious, was laid on the rock in front of the temple and the men dutifully disrobed him. They then applied some paste on the naked body. The clouds were now hiding the moon and it was dark.

The crowd did not yet light any torch and was comfortable working in the darkness. An occasional banter and laughter drifted through the dark woods.

“Ma”, Mike strained his eyes to see and, fortunately, the scattered clouds let the moonlight briefly pierce through. The man who was tied and laid on the rock was still unconscious. Some fluid oozed out of his mouth. Their duty over, the two tribals moved back and squatted on the floor.

The pace of the drums quickened to frenzied dancing.

Bosky was angry with Mike. His earlier master, Captain Clayton would have never left him in a smelly room like this and gone. He kept pushing the small opening at the door and finally succeeded in moving it by a few inches. It was difficult for a full-grown Labrador to manage his way out, but Bosky had to. He had to see if Mike was safe. Bosky shot up and ran towards the source of the drum beat. He ran like mad, disregarding the slush, the clayey soil and the snakes.

Bosky came near the temple and stopped for breath. The many unfriendly looking men instantly put him on alert. His eyes shifted to the rock and he thought his master was being held captive by the men. Bosky barked and sprang towards the group, utterly ignoring the crowd around and regardless of the consequences. He raced to the rock and halted, only to find that the man lying there was not his master and didn’t smell like him either. Bosky looked around.

The flying axe hit the dog right between the eyes and the head cracked apart.

The loyal servant of Mike Bill lay dead right before his eyes, with his four legs spread out in all four directions. Mike’s mouth went dry. He was about to faint.

The tribals gave no greater significance to the dog or the collar around its neck — 99

for them, it was just another animal, perhaps among several that they had never seen before. The leader picked up his axe and wiped it with his waist cloth.

The beatings of the drums intensified. “Mariah, Mariah!” The crowd got wilder. The leader lifted his axe with a shrill shout — “Ma!” Mike turned his face away in revulsion. He had fought several wars, but never ever killed a helpless prisoner. The orgy and its brutality shocked him. One of the tribals who had applied the paste fetched the head, which was lying a few feet away. Another held a bowl to collect the spouting blood. The leader drew out a knife and punctured the chest to wrench out the still-beating heart. He placed it carefully in the bowl of blood and proceeded to the temple to offer it to their deity. “Ma” the leader shouted, and the entire crowd repeated his cry. The offering to the deity over, the crowd went on to dismember the body parts and consume them with relish. Mike passed out.

The chirping birds and sharp shards of rain woke him up. He was about to fall from the branch of the tree where he had been lying. The previous night’s horror slowly sank in and his heart felt numb with grief at the brutal killing of his beloved companion. After carefully scouting all around the vicinity, he climbed down. The high tide the night before was perhaps higher than the usual levels. It was as if the sins of the tribals were completely washed off by God. There was no sign of any visit by the tribals — the altar was clean and even the blood stains had been washed away. The flies around the bowl of blood with the scooped out human heart at the feet of the deity were the only reminder of the whole gruesome episode. Mike crossed his heart and muttered “Oh Lord”, and with tears in his eyes, prayed for his beloved Bosky.

The roar of the king of these forests once again sent Mike scampering back to the fort, hungry, afraid and vulnerable to the elements after the loss of his friend.

Mike could not sleep despite being fatigued. Bosky’s sad end troubled him. He was angry with himself for not being able to fight the cannibalistic tribals. Mike’s heart was about to explode with rage and helplessness. He dozed off in the dark, a part of his body still dangling and touching the floor in the ruins of the fort.

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The sea above was in great turbulence. Ships sounded their distress horns in the unquiet seas; sails were unfurled and anchors released into the waters in a hurry. The animals in the mangrove forests ran for secure havens. The crocodiles were seen scurrying to the safety of the banks, away from the madness of the seas.

The sky was torn apart and lightning struck mercilessly. The earth shook underneath. It resulted in a mammoth high tide which rose and rose beyond the usual twenty feet, and many times more. From snakes to big cats, the entire animal world scurried for cover as the stormy sea and the turbulent river speedily engulfed every inch of land.

Mike was irritated. His hands were wet. He thought Bosky had pissed. Then he faintly remembered the tribals hacking poor Bosky to death. “Then how in the world are my hands wet?� Mike asked himself. He could feel something slimy moving around his hand. He sprang up, awake and alert. There was water all around and the level was rising by the minute. It touched the mattress and soon the bed sank and vanished under water. Mike stood up on the bed with his feet under water and could not see his knees after a few minutes. The snakes trying to twine around his body were a nuisance but, in their agony caused no harm to Mike.

The tides continued their relentless rise. The waves lashed the lands. The sturdy mangroves were completely submerged under water. In no time, the vast stretch of forest land turned into a sheet of water with unending ripples. The cloudburst added to the ferocity of the seas.

Mike half swam and half waded through the water to reach the door and locked it from inside, hoping it would stop the water from gushing in. The water level continued to rise through the crevices and showed no sign of abating. Now, Mike was afraid. He felt his end was near. He thought of his years as a sailor, the shark bite and the loss of an ear. If he could have survived those, he could certainly tide over this crisis too.

He suddenly remembered his tobacco box and took it out. He raised the box to the height of his head and opened it. Fortunately it was dry and he had the last dose of the tobacco. The water level just touched his nose and was rising. The salty waters of the Bay of Bengal diluted the sting of the tobacco tucked between 101

Mike’s gum and lower lip. He knew that it was the end. With Mike, the millions that Captain Marques d’Costa had plundered, the large glittering diamond, the gold ornaments and gemstones were buried in a watery grave in minutes and were lost within the hidden fortress of Netidhopani.

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C H A P T E R 10

Arthur Benson Arthur Benson, one of the Vice Presidents of Eagle Eye Inc. was staring at the bulky brown envelop on his table. He did not have to open it to know its contents.

The notice for divorce from Amanda Benson, his wife for the last fourteen years, was awaited after all! The list of incompatibility had been steadily growing, leading to a point of no return. He had a long life before him, though he was of late troubled with increased frequency of asthma. He visited the best doctors but had now become dependent on a nebuliser, whenever under attack. The vaporised drug in the canister was a ‘must carry’ and standard accompaniment for him.

The survey job that he was entrusted with was routine. He was to track the 0.41 meter resolution of earth images relayed by the latest Geo Eye satellite hovering nearly 650 km above the earth. The satellite provided data covering 350,000 sq km of pan sharpened multi spectral imagery every day. Ever since President Bush had relaxed the rules in the country — allowing a greater role for private satellite imagery companies in 2003 — federal agencies had begun relying more and more on routine jobs from private vendors, thereby increasing work for his company several fold. The policy, decreed to cut costs and save money for the government, had made the private companies fatter and richer.

Eagle Eye was no exception. They were expanding their activities, branching out in several fields like mineral mapping, structural geology, tectonics, geological hazards, mine waste, hydrogeology as well as environmental and wildlife monitoring.

Three new satellites had been added in the last two years, one put into orbit and positioned from the Arianne rocket in the remote Pacific islands, one from Vandenberg Air Force Base, California with a Delta II Launch Vehicle and one through 103

ISRO, the Indian space agency, from Sriharikota. There had been no failures and all the satellites had been consistently relaying excellent data. With clients spread out all over the world, business seemed to be steady and growing.

Their new Chinese clients were indeed different. They required a 1.65 m / 5.41 ft. multispectral imagery as well as a 0.41 m / 1.34 ft. panchromatic imagery of a land mass of nearly 10,000 sq. miles between India and Bangladesh called Sundarban. His boss called him and explained that he should store clear images and that their client was undertaking an environmental activity in the region. He did not pursue the matter further. He was aware that commercial clients were not entitled to a below 0.5-metre resolution according to Eagle Eye’s current operating license with NOAA, the regulatory body of the government overseeing the imagery companies across the United States. But Arthur had confidence in his boss, Steve Becker, who was a strict manager but a kind man otherwise. After all, any relaxation of rules must have been done with due authorisation. Anyway, Arthur had no personal liability and the imagery download that he was assigned to now was duly authorised by Steve.

The orbiting satellite was to pass over the target area of 21 degrees 31 minutes north and 22 degrees 30 minutes north latitude, and 88 degrees 10 minutes east and 89 degrees 51 minutes east longitude in about 10 minutes. Arthur still had a few minutes to go. The screen before him beeped. The satellite had approached the target area and had started sending images from the target zone, which were being stored onto a mainframe computer for later retrieval. He zoomed in on the image merely as a routine exercise. The weather was clear. Arthur was no great student of geography nor had any special inclination towards any form of flora or fauna. He was a computer guy who specialised in satellite imaging.

The satellite was dishing out several high-resolution images. Here, in the panchromatic imagery, he saw the large creature on the banks of the water body. He switched to the multispectral mode to get a 3D image. The yellow and black stripes amidst the grey waters and muddy banks were unmistakable. It was a fairly large tiger. Suddenly, he had a feeling that he was being watched. He turned his head.

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“What in the world?” The perfume that Linda Liao was wearing was overpowering. Her gaze was fixed on the monitor, her face awestruck. “They are tigers,” Linda gasped in her melodious voice. You must be watching the Sundarban,” she said. “Good lord! Jesus!” The striped image moved, and within the fraction of a second, held its prey, probably a male deer and dragged to high ground. “See, another one”, Linda prompted.

The fragrance of the Chanel 5 was unmistakable. It was Amanda’s choice too.

She bent forward with the excitement of a child, closer to the screen. Her bosom brushed against his shoulder. Arthur felt uncomfortable. Linda turned her head towards him and smiled. The lips, covered with crimson lake lipstick, were perfect.

The pink line of the upper gum was mildly visible with an exquisite line of white teeth. “She could have been a model for P&G toothpaste,” he thought.

She smiled at Arthur and whispered, “We must celebrate our sighting of the tiger.” Her tongue teasingly touched Arthur’s ear. He was aroused.

‘Sure, we should celebrate,’ Arthur thought. ********** His mobile rang. It was Linda. “Where in the world are you, Arthur? Won’t you join me for lunch?” She was cooing.

He drove back with a new resolve. The mobile made a beep. Arthur glanced at the message from Linda which read “Meet you at Charlie Chang’s restaurant. 11832 Sunrise Valley Dr., 1 pm.” From President’s St. through Reston Pkwy, it did not take much time to reach Sunrise Valley. He stopped the car in the parking bay and waited. He didn’t notice the Red Mitsubishi Eclipse 2007 that quietly came and parked by his side. There was a tap on the door and there she was. Linda was all smiles and said, “Thank you for accepting my invitation, Arthur”.

They were a few minutes too early and looked at each other wondering what to do. They had quite a few choices — to walk into the restaurant and hope to get a table promptly, sit in the waiting lounge sipping some aperitifs, or stay back in the car for the next ten minutes or so. Linda invited Arthur into her car and she giggled as he got in.

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The music from her surround sound DVD player set the mood. Linda’s Chanel 5 perfume was as usual overpowering. Arthur closed his eyes, wanting to forget Amanda and everything to do with his past. A small, soft palm caressed the back of his neck. Arthur opened his eyes to see Linda looking at him intensely from just a few millimetres away. His eyes revealed the pain, and her eyes, the comfort. She came closer. Arthur could see Linda’s quivering lips. She whispered, “I wish I had come closer to you much earlier.” Arthur’s eyes were moist. He could feel the soft lips, like petals pressed over his eyes. Behind the petite frame was perhaps a woman of power and immense love. Both looked at each other for a few seconds.

Linda took out her cell phone and dialled Charlie Chan’s restaurant.

“Hi. I have a table reservation for two in the name of Linda Liao at 1 pm. Will it be all right if we are late by about twenty minutes?” The voice at the other end said that it would be alright. Looking at Arthur, Linda smiled and teasingly said, “I extend your agony by another twenty minutes.” Her hands were trembling as she cupped Arthur’s palm. The corner of the parking bay was almost empty and she took his hand and placed it on her cheek.

Arthur had never felt a more tender and satin smooth skin. Linda’s exploring hands at the back of his neck fuelled the burning desires waiting to explode in him. He had never felt better. Both kissed. What began as short curious pecks ended with a long passionate kiss; time appeared to stand still and his mind went into a trance. He had had this experience only once earlier — during his high school days with his first girlfriend at a picnic.

The reverie was broken by the ring on Linda’s mobile phone. It was a reminder from the restaurant. Instinctively, Linda took out her lipstick and applied it with care and patience. Both of them emerged from the car, inspected each other; with Linda caringly adjusting his shirt. Holding hands, they walked towards the restaurant and realized that they were suddenly hungry. Arthur secretly wished that the lunch would last longer.

“Was it really the food or Linda who made the afternoon memorable?” Arthur already knew the answer. Despite his protests, Linda insisted on paying and left a hefty tip for the grateful waiter. Arthur and Linda both promised to meet the next 106

day for dinner at Il Cigno Restaurant, an upscale Italian joint lying midway to their respective apartments.

The casual flirting grew as days went by, with Arthur cruising on a dream world and Linda on a planned course. ********** Arthur started off for work in excited anticipation. Whistling softly, he dressed himself in his best Arrow suit and Armani tie and generously applied the Trussardi Uomo perfume. He looked at himself for the umpteenth time as he ate some porridge and poured himself some coffee. “Did I do this when I was dating Amanda?” The thought brought a smile to his face. “No, I didn’t have to make any special preparation then, clad only in Levis and a leather jacket over cheese cotton shirts and not-too-expensive shoes from Wal-Mart.” Times have changed and now he had to present himself properly, and Linda deserved an elegant companion.....boyfriend maybe! Arthur got a kick out of this feeling. He took his car out and proceeded towards his office, Eagle Eyes Inc., which was a twentyminute drive.

Arthur passed through the main gate, swiping his ID, and went through the OPS tunnel clearing a fingerprint scanner and thereafter to the Earth Station, as it was named, after passing a biometrics-based eye scanner, which approved his entry. He moved on to his next home, a sprawling 2,000 sq. ft. office where millions of bytes provided by the satellites were recorded every minute. The IBM Super computer, a nearly fifty trillion flop machine, stored the myriad data and was used to segregate them according to clients’ needs in order to spin enough profits for his employer. Arthur loved his job and loved his computer.

He keyed in the password, which was known to few other privileged officials in the company apart from him. The security concerns as well as stipulations from NOAA were stiff. They had to enter logs of satellite voyages, images recorded and the clients to whom the images were passed on. The authorities periodically checked the entire security system to ensure that there was no threat to the US’ national interests or to the interests of any country friendly to the US. While the list of unfriendly countries included a few from the Arab peninsula, the administra107

tion was also wary of a few banana republics from Latin America and Africa, ruled by autocratic military regimes. However, Iran and North Korea topped the hostile list with the latter being supported and encouraged by China.

The computer took time to boot. Arthur glanced at the newspaper. The headlines were tearing apart the senator caught red-handed in a sex scandal. Vox populi vented their anger and some pessimists screamed that, with falling human values, American dominance over the world was nearing an end. Arthur scrolled the pages with disdain. The article on the inner pages caught his eye.

US Makes 4 Arrests in Chinese Espionage Cases The U.S. Justice Department has announced arrests in two cases involving Chinese espionage, one of which involved secrets related to America’s space shuttle program. From Washington, VOA’s Michael Bowman reports.

Stating that foreign spying remains a serious threat to the United States in the postCold War era, the Justice Department detailed charges against four suspects in two separate cases.

The first case involves an attempt to pass U.S. military secrets to China, focusing on America’s military dealings with Taiwan. Three individuals have been arrested and charged — a Washington area US Defense Department official (Gregg William Bergersen), a naturalized US citizen from Taiwan (Tai Shen Kuo), and a Chinese national (Yu Xin Kang). US prosecutors describe the case as a classic espionage operation featuring foreign handlers, payoffs, couriers and a compromised government employee.

The second case involves a naturalized US citizen from China (Dongfan Chung) who once worked for a subsidiary of the Boeing aerospace company, and later as a Boeing contractor. The suspect is accused of stealing trade secrets relating to the US space shuttle program, US military transport planes and rockets, as well as acting as an unregistered foreign agent of China. None of the suspects have been convicted of any crime and remain innocent until proven guilty.

In a Washington news conference, Assistant Attorney General for National Security Kenneth Wainstein said the United States remains a prime target for international technological and military espionage.

“We have interests and alliances around the globe, and we have an open society and an open economy,” said Wainstein. “While these factors are the ingredients of our economic and military success, they are also what make us vulnerable to foreign intelligence services that want to steal our secrets and piggyback on [make use of] our technological innovation.”

He added that China has long been an aggressive seeker of America’s secrets.

“While there are entities from over a 100 different countries trying to get access to our secrets, there are a number of countries that have proven themselves particularly adept and particularly determined and methodical in their espionage efforts,” he said. “The People’s Republic of China is one of those countries.”

Sentences for espionage range from years in prison to life sentences, as well as fines.

There were no immediate reports of reaction from Chinese officials.

Courtesy VOA

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“Linda too is Chinese. Could she too be...?” Arthur suddenly felt guilty for even thinking along such lines. He had learnt from Linda that her parents had migrated to the US before she was born. She had no connection with China except some distant cousins and nephews back in the Chinese Mainland. She had shared this information with him just the day before.

“Where is Linda?” Arthur was looking through his ceiling-high glass-walled scanning studio and seemed a little restless. He went back to work on the geographical parameters set forth by their client and went on to study the images from the Sundarban region, which were clear owing to an unusually cloudless sky.

“Hello,” the melodious sound he was waiting for rang in his ears like a flute.

“Sorry, I am late. I had to meet my cousin who was sick. How are you today?

Hope you have not changed your mind for the dinner,” she cooed. Arthur just couldn’t take his eyes off her. The red suit fitted her perfectly. “She is sooo... pretty.

Just like a Barbie doll.” The thought of dinner and a likely post-dinner treat flashed through his mind. “How in the world could I ever suspect her loyalty to the US?” he felt ashamed.

Arthur could hardly concentrate on the day’s job. He had a meeting with a representative of the United States Geological Survey, who had come to deliver the usual sermons on behalf of the Department of Interior. Much to the surprise of the visitor, Arthur finished the meeting in a few minutes, which otherwise would have been prolonged for at least a few hours until lunch, inevitably ending in the visitor being invited for lunch in a nearby upscale restaurant. But today was different and special for Arthur. He could not let any unnecessary intrusion mess up his date.

Arthur also had a post-lunch progress evaluation meeting on one other project that he had been handling. He kept even this meeting short and crisp, to everyone’s relief, and his client didn’t seem to mind either as he was also in a hurry. The clock struck three and he had a full hour to go.

He went back to work and resumed the scrutiny of the images sent in by satellite.

The images of the region were clearer than the earlier recordings and he segregated the ones that matched with the client’s needs into the mainframe computer.

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A small area in the region devoid of any vegetation caught his attention. Arthur found that there was neither any forest cover nor any visible evidence of life in the parched patch of land. He had nearly thirty thousand selected images in the target region which he would sit and assess during the next few days, collate them and sit with analysts from the geology, forestry and wild life departments to make their Primary Assessment Presentation.

The clock was inching close to four. Arthur — wedded to his office, and who usually stayed late, sometime until the wee hours, — had already logged off and was locking his cupboard and securing his drawers. His eyes were searching for Linda who had again gone to the upper floor for some work. He left a Post-it on his table which said ‘Meet you at the Car Park’. He left, again registering his exit through several layers of security, and reached his car. He did not want to be seen as being overtly cosy with Linda in the office, lest it drew the attention of any of his colleagues.

Time kept ticking — it was fifteen past four, thirty past four and five. Arthur pondered if he should walk into the office once again. He looked at his mobile. He had already made five calls but she hadn’t replied. Obviously, she had not been able to call and must be in the midst of some important work, he thought. There was a flicker of red at the gate. His heart pounded like a teenager on his first date.

There she was, almost on a run towards the car park.

“Oh, Arthur, I am sorry,” Linda was truly apologetic. Arthur could see her genuine feelings even through her narrow eyes. She opened Arthur’s car and sat next to him. “Come, let us take a walk”, Linda proposed. With a few minutes’ drive through Sunrise Valley Drive to Hunter Mill Road with a left turn to Lake Fairfax Park, Arthur parked his car in the wooded area surrounded by pine trees. He switched off the engine and got out of the car. Linda followed. The weather was just fine and both walked among the trees. The chameleon that hissed past with a raised tail frightened Linda, who by instinct hugged Arthur. Arthur mentally thanked the creature and held Linda in a bear hug.

“Don’t worry. It’s harmless,” he assured her. Linda was already gasping and didn’t want to let go of him. She raised her head and looked at Arthur. “Please don’t 110

leave me,” her lips quivered and eyes expressed fear. For a moment, Arthur stood there puzzled — was it Linda’s plea, or just a momentary request triggered by her fright? Nevertheless, he hugged her and waited. Linda took the lead and drew his face near hers, kissing him and whispered, “I fell for you the day I saw you first.

You never noticed me and were busy with your job and I got all the more attracted towards you. Please don’t leave me.” Arthur responded with all his emotions and his self-confidence saw a new high. He shall not lose Linda. “Can this be real?” Arthur asked. “Yes and real and forever” Linda replied.

The next few minutes — or so it seemed — actually stretched to two hours as they walked hand in hand, cosy and committed to each other, with Linda narrating how her parents landed in America as refugees, fleeing from the oppressive communist regime of China. The talk also touched upon their personal life as well as work. Each time their conversation turned to some job-related point, Linda would plead, “Please Arthur, no shop-talk now.” Linda appeared least interested in Arthur’s past and was gracious enough not to prod into Arthur’s personal life, much to his relief. It was time to proceed to the restaurant.

Il Cigno was an upscale Italian restaurant overlooking Lake Anne with an outdoor seating facility. It being a Friday evening, the weekend mood had already set in and there were more guests than usual at the tables. The weather was pleasant and both Arthur and Linda decided to opt for a seat with a view of the lake. The courteous staff ushered them to a nice table.

The warm salad of sausages and rollato with Sambuca Extra Molinari, laced with grape fruit juice, proved a perfect start for a wonderful dinner. The steward offered them a 1999 Guado al Tasso-Bolgheri Rosso Superiore, a proprietary blend Tuscany wine from Bolgheri. On the chef ’s recommendation, Arthur opted for tender and lightly breaded calamari, fried golden brown and served with marinara sauce, while Linda chose sautéed sea scallops, tender gulf shrimp, and baby hard shell clams with olive oil, fresh garlic, white wine, Italian spices, clam juice with red sauce and tossed with fresh linguini pasta. The wine was delicious, the weather charming and the ambience beautiful. The freshly-baked garlic bread smeared with extra virgin olive oil and homemade pasta tossed with ham, cheese and spinach completed the main course. Dessert was homemade orange zabaglione ice 111

cream gilded with pistachios and caramelized oranges with Italian espresso and a shot of grappa to end as a digestive.

Both were staring at each other like a lovelorn pair of teens, utterly unmindful of their surroundings. Linda held Arthur’s hands. “Arthur, how beautiful the world is, isn’t it?” Linda whispered. Arthur left hefty tips for the stewards who had been both courteous and unobtrusive during their dinner. Both left the restaurant truly satisfied.

“Arthur, can I invite you to my place? After all, tomorrow is Saturday and we can spend the weekend together.” Linda was shy and expectant. Arthur did not let go of this opportunity. “Well, I would indeed love to spend more time with her.” Arthur revved up the engine as he sought the direction from his co-passenger. The car speeded towards Linda’s residence.

Linda’s bungalow was in an upscale condominium with three tall towers of apartment blocks and sixteen individual bungalows. The Red Mitsubishi Eclipse103 was flanked by a Golden Land rover SUV in the garage. The gates operated from Linda’s remote switch lying hidden in some corner of her bag.

“Welcome to my cottage”, Linda was truly hospitable. She ushered him into her house, which was a tasteful blend of oriental and occidental cultures. The red festoons that adorned the doors revealed her Chinese leanings. The Bose music system and the Ferrari red shelves with the choicest Lladro porcelains and Swarovski crystals expressed her taste for the western style. The Balinese low mount cane and coir sofas with tiger bamboo shoots near the window reflected a down-toearth mind. The shoe rack boasted of Bally and Jimmy Choo shoes as well as hand-crafted Henry’s. The draperies on the French-style long windows were European, perhaps Spanish. The rich lacquered rosewood dining table for eight and the expensive sofas and the settee all proclaimed luxury.

Arthur himself was well-off. His means were supplemented by Amanda’s, who also earned handsomely, which made their collective living style much above average. However, he never indulged in such opulence. Such pomp and luxury was not the American style at all. For a few moments, he was speechless. Linda was open-

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ing the door of the backyard to reveal a small but beautiful swimming pool. She put on the lights and dimmed them with a remote controlled dimmer.

“Come Arthur,” Linda ushered Arthur to the poolside. She already had two glasses and a bottle of wine ready. He finished the glass in one gulp and was soon staring at Linda with a sense of accomplishment. Linda carefully poured him another portion of the wine, looking at him intently. Arthur could not return the look and lowered his eyes. The fiery Chinese wine was having its effect on him. He was muttering “Linda I love you, I just love you.” Linda came close, sat on his lap, put her arms around his neck and gave him a piercing look. She pressed her lips against his. Arthur melted into her hands and stayed lip-locked for what seemed like eternity. He slowly drifted into sweet slumber.

Arthur pressed his watch to see the time; it was just around 5 am. He was on a king-sized bed beside Linda, who was cuddling a pillow and sound asleep. Arthur used the toilet and peeped through the lifted curtain to look outside. It was dark, with the street lights dimmed by the engulfing fog. He went in and opened the fridge, picking up a bottle of Perrier. He came out of the bedroom, still in his boxers. Linda had virtually shown him over her entire apartment, except the door at the far right which was bolted from outside. He was curious and opened it. It opened without any creaking noise. The switch was just at the right place and he put on the light.

The clean and simple room with a table and a chair had some hi-fi equipment resembling an old music system with several knobs. He bent to check the label, which read ‘102E HF Radio Made in China’. There was a slim screen monitor and a computer server. Arthur felt guilty for intruding into the room. He was expecting another well-designed and ornate set-up, but was disappointed. He put off the light, closed the door behind him and went back to the bed room.

Linda had not changed her posture and was still sleeping. Arthur slid back into the quilt and touched her bare body, still unable to decide whether it was her skin or the satin bed sheet that was softer. “God opens many a door when he closes one,” Arthur thought, hugging his new-found love with satisfaction and going back to sleep.

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The vibration of the mobile phone under the pillow woke Linda up instantly. She slid out of bed, groping for the phone and moved away from the room. Arthur had gone back to sleep and lay with limbs outstretched like the famous depiction of man by Leonardo da Vinci. She looked at his sleeping figure with satisfaction, while hurrying outside the room as quietly as possible.

“Yes, he is asleep,” Linda’s voice was no louder than a whisper. The time was well past 8 A.M. It was a Saturday and no one was in any particular hurry. “I shall try and make radio contact tonight,” Linda told the caller at the other end. The expensive Nokia handset was quietly slid back away from sight.

She washed up and walked naked back into the room and lay on the cot. The feeling of a warm and sensuous body woke Arthur up, who moved closer and hugged Linda. “I love you,” Arthur murmured half-asleep. Linda came even closer and kissed his forehead and eyes. Arthur was awake now and was not high on wine.

This time, they made love slowly and for a long time, until both lay exhausted and content.

Linda went into the kitchen followed by Arthur and both prepared a belated breakfast — as if they had been doing it for ages together. Arthur casually asked Linda, “What is in that corner room?” He didn’t notice the sudden change of colour in her face. “Oh, that belonged to my father and he was a radio ham buff. I have not disturbed his belongings and left the room intact,” Linda replied carefully, looking at Arthur intently. He left it at that. Both were ravenous and ate with relish. Arthur showered and slid into his casuals, which he had brought with him in the car.

They decided to take a walk in the scenic green surroundings to get some fresh air.

“Has it been long since you moved in here?” Arthur asked. “No, the condo is just three years old and I moved in about a year back,” Linda replied.

The two walked hand in hand as if they were made for each other. It was otherwise picture perfect — except that Arthur’s tall American frame was perhaps a little too large for the oriental and petite Linda. Linda abruptly stopped and came in front of Arthur, facing him. She put both her hands on his shoulders, looked at him and asked, “Arthur, why don’t you come and live with me at my place? I am alone and so are you. Will it not make sense?” For a moment, he was taken aback.

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“Well, that was a good idea of course. Could I take a few days to think about it?”

“Why, of course!” Linda hugged him and kissed him passionately and both basked within their little bubble of affection amidst the verdant greens for a few moments.

Arthur had a hard time keeping pace with the brisk-walking Linda, who went teasingly ahead of him. Arthur had to quicken his pace and felt his pocket to check if he was carrying the nebuliser, which was indeed there. He was now more confident and hastened to catch up with her. The very thought that he may be running out of breath troubled him. He was gasping. He tried waving and shouting at Linda to slow down, but by now, she had taken to slow jogging and was almost a hundred metres ahead. His voice got stuck in his throat. He had to charge himself with medication.

The vapour expanded from the cartridge to fill his lungs and ease the constriction.

It took a few minutes after which he was back to normal. He knelt down in the few moments of helplessness, and then, slowly revived. Linda, who by now had hit a dead-end, was running back towards him. She instantly knew something was wrong, knelt beside him and rubbed his back.

“I am not going to let you suffer alone and you shall move in with me as soon as possible. Is that clear?” It was a statement with finality. Arthur smiled weakly. “Yes I would”. Little did he realise that the course of his life was changing permanently.

Both of them leisurely walked back, covering most of the 2-km distance silently, but hand in hand.

Her beautiful bungalow in the condominium beckoned him!

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C H A P T E R 11

Nethidhopani The sun spread warmth and the morning chill soon gave way to the usual sultry and humid day. Raju dutifully put away all the warm clothes that they had used at night. Dressed in a pair of shorts and a tee shirt — with a skull cap covering his head and Ray Ban sunglasses dangling from his neck — Amit looked less like a professor and more like a budget tourist on an adventure safari. His dark complexion was tanned darker by the salt-laden wind constantly lashing at his skin. There was a distinct difference between the colour of his skin where it was covered by clothes and the skin that was exposed--that too, in a single day!

Biru was cleaning up the boat. Manna was sitting quietly on the edge of the deck, looking wistfully at the waters. Dipak had opened up his rifle and was cleaning it with oil. There was a rat-a-tat sound that seemed to come from a distance, but Amit couldn’t figure out from which direction. Sundari made a sharp right turn, with Malik deftly avoiding a large chunk of floating water plants. Pilots had to skirt these as the midstream greenery could knock out the engine propellers.

Something whizzed past Amit’s cap. There was the unmistakable sound of an automatic weapon firing at them—he shouted, “Down, everybody. Raju, do not peep out.” The offending vessel, a deceptive looking country boat with a powerful engine, did a menacing waltz before pulling ahead full throttle and disappearing into the horizon, sailing at breakneck speed. Amit tried to look at the boat and could see two persons of average height wearing bandanas, one with an automatic weapon in his hands, watching Sundari.

Dipak had bolted to the lower deck and was still under the bench, trembling. “Dacoits, dacoits,” his choked voice was barely a whisper. Banchharam and Biru had 116

taken shelter in the anteroom to the pilot’s cabin and Malik had dived below the wheel. Jibon the guide was nowhere to be seen. Manna had again gone onto the lower deck.

“They came to scare us. If they wanted, they could have easily killed us all with the firepower they possessed,” Amit told Raju, who was more excited than afraid with the adventurous beginning to the day. Manna looked intently at him and did not utter a word. Amit felt increasingly irritated with his silence and stubbornness.

He went to the boat’s stern and looked at its wooden frame. The bullet which had grazed past him was embedded there. He took out a pen knife, scooped it out, folded it in his handkerchief and pocketed the bullet.

Jibon appeared from the bathroom, where he had locked himself up. “I am married and have a younger sister to marry off, for which I am working to save money.

Otherwise, I could have also fought the dacoits,” Jibon justified his absence.

“How will you resist the attackers?” Amit asked.

“I have a Swiss knife, presented to me by a foreigner,” Jibon flashed a three-inch knife which Amit thought might be just good enough to sharpen a pencil. He let him win. **********

Amit was changing the lens in his camera and looking at the distant riverbanks.

Each hental bush looked like perfect cover for a tiger. “The yellow-green palm leaves of these short trees are ideal hideouts for the big cats,” Jibon had said earlier. Every movement in the bush appeared to be animal-induced.

The constant whirr of the engine and the lazy cruise of the vessel made him feel sleepy. Raju was busy with his camera, taking several photos. Since this was a digital camera, he could merrily click away without worrying about film reels. Besides, Amit had loaded the instrument with a whopping 64GB memory card.

Malik stopped at an intersection and dropped the anchor. The sudden quietness woke Amit up. The sun was right above his head and his watch said it was close to 117

noon. A boat approached them, as if from nowhere, rowed by a lone man.

Banchharam was waving at the boatman, asking him to come closer. Amit got up because he was curious. The boatman was illegally fishing in these dangerous waters—no one was permitted to fish in the tiger reserve, for fear of a mauling from the great cats. There was not a soul for miles around, and they were chance intruders.

The boat lay motionless next to Sundari and the fisherman proudly showed them his day’s catch. There were eight to ten varieties of fish, some that Amit had never seen before. Banchharam picked the best, bargained hard and paid a fraction of what it would have cost him in the bazaar. He also picked a sufficient quantity of a small variety of fish, morolla, which he would fry and serve with the beer.

“What will you do if there is a crocodile attack?” Amit asked the fisherman.

“This is a tabiz from our Ojha,” he confidently pointed at a black neck band.

“This cost me Rs 3,000 and I have already paid Rs 700. I shall pay the rest before this year ends,” he said.

Jibon was chatting with the fisherman and came back to explain, “Actually he has bought a talisman of the highest potency, which protects the fisherman from the policemen so that he is not caught fishing illegally, that his boat is safe from storm, that he is not mauled by crocodiles or attacked by tigers. In fact, the talisman to include protection against tiger attacks itself cost two thousand rupees. See, the fisherman is clever and made a good bargain to get all-round protection. It is true; otherwise the Ojha would not grant any credit to the boatman.”

Amit was exasperated by the gullibility of the poor village folk and furious about how fake and greedy Godmen were fleecing them over the centuries. They moved on, leaving the fisherman’s boat which sailed off and became a distant dot. Amit prayed that the talisman really worked. Malik again slowed at the next turn and swore under his breath. Amit could clearly see, with his binoculars, the bandanasporting gunmen in the distant boat moving forward at great speed, and then, going out of sight.

Amit checked the photos taken so far and deleted many inconsequential ones.

Later, he downloaded the good ones onto his laptop.

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“Wait”, he moved back to the last image that he had been browsing. There it was, amongst the hental bushes, the face of the Royal Bengal Tiger. There was no mistake. For a few minutes, all activity in the boat stopped. Every one leaned over the laptop in fear and excitement. Banchharam and Biru were both praying to God, thanking the almighty for sparing their lives. Jibon promptly asked for a printout so that he could show it to his future clients. For Dipak, it was the first-ever sighting of the elusive tiger. Malik said it was larger than the ones he had ever sighted.

Raju was ecstatic, as he was the one who had actually taken the photo, though without realising that he had caught the great cat in his frame.

“Sir, what time did you take the photo?” It was Manna.

The question surprised Amit as he had not thought of that. He went to the preview mode and selected the file information option. It displayed, at a corner on the right side of the picture, the file name, camera model, shooting date and time among various other technical details. The time read 05.16 am. It dawned on him that he had not yet altered the English time loaded in his camera clock. So, he figured that it should have been around 10.46 am IST. Manna leaned forward, took out a scribbling pad and pencil, jotted down something and rushed off before Amit could turn his head to ask him what he was up to.

It was late afternoon and they landed on a lesser-known island. The jetty was nondescript and rickety. The sky was orange as far as their eyes could see, with the setting sun seemingly in a hurry to bid goodbye for the day. There were no cottages there as in Sajnekhali. The island housed only the forest department office and staff quarters.

The lone guard in the island was preparing for an early dinner. Malik, after duly anchoring the boat, went up to the guard and they greeted each other. After some persuasion and a crisp Rs 500 note, the guard agreed to let Amit and Raju occupy his quarters. The rest were to be housed in the boat, to which everyone agreed.

They off-loaded their luggage and moved in. It was a very basic jungle set-up with a cot, a wooden almirah, a table and a chair, a transistor and an earthen pitcher with potable water. A few pictures of Hindu gods and goddesses adorned the wall, with the plaster peeling off at several places. There was a generator similar to the 119

one Amit had seen at the hotel in Pakhiralay. He took out his laptop and other camera equipment that needed to be charged and got them ready. He called Raju and decided to take a walk around the island.

“Sir, please do not go into the interiors as we cannot guarantee your safety in case of a tiger attack if you go out of sight,” the guard warned. He beckoned them to a wire-meshed boundary to point out fresh pug marks. “This one came close to the camp just yesterday and is roaming with its two cubs, see here,” again he pointed with his stick at the smaller paws distinctly visible in the clayey soil.

Amit assured the guard that he would not venture anywhere out of sight and remain within the confines of their camp. Raju followed him with some degree of caution laced with fear. He eagerly took several photos of the pug marks and was as elated as if he had encountered a tiger face to face. They had walked for five minutes, but not away from the watchful eyes of the forest guard. He was responsible for their safety and might get into trouble if anything happened to them.

“Do not proceed any further please,” the guard half-pleaded, half-ordered them.

But he wasn’t perturbed as any tiger’s arrival was always announced much earlier by birds and other animals. Having been posted for some time in these riverine areas, the guards had developed and relied upon a warning system perfected by a combination of factors — observing the least disturbances in the bushes; being on the alert for screeching calls by monkeys, which were the best early-warning systems and, of course, the birds which always panicked and took to frenzied flight.

Uncle and nephew returned to the camp and spread out their belongings in the medium-sized room. The bed was smelly and moist and the pillow cases had never been washed. The guard, seeing their discomfiture, hastened to the store and came back with two sets of clean pillow cases and blankets.

He requested them to step out and went on a cleaning spree for the next ten minutes. “The new sets of bed linen and pillow cases are kept for our superiors who visit once in a few months. To clean the linen well, we have to send them to the laundry in Gosaba and that costs some money, you see.” Amit gladly paid him a hundred rupees for the clean-up. The room looked much better now.

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Malik and Dipak sat down on a cot under a tree with their ‘Maal’ and were later joined by the forest guard. Banchharam was preparing the meal with Biru at a small kitchen in the forest guard’s quarters. Jibon, who was sitting alone in a corner, was trying his potential as a musician with his flute with little success. Manna pumped two buckets of water from a tube well for everyone to bathe. Amit bathed first and later coaxed a reluctant Raju to take a bath as well.

Amit enjoyed his after-dinner walk within the wire meshed territory and came back. The others had finished their dinner and were ready to sleep. The generator had been long switched off and hurricane lamps had been provided at a few vantage points. Jibon was still trying to convince his hearers that he was a better flute player than a guide. The noise of utensils being washed ended and they were loaded into the boat, which was berthed in the jetty and securely tied to the wornout pier.

Seeing Raju and Amit seated on the cot, Jibon came over. They appreciated his flute playing skills or at least his determination to acquire the skill.

He was shy, but his eyes brightened up. “I can sing Rabindra Sangeet, if you want to hear.”

Amit said, “Please, I am dying to hear a song.”

He broke into a surprisingly melodious song in his baritone voice and looked at Amit for his reaction when he ended. Both Raju and Amit clapped spontaneously and it made him feel good.

“Tell me Jibon, what do you know about Netidhopani?” Amit asked.

Jibon said, “As students, we used to picnic in every safe nook and corner of the Sundarban. Many years ago, when I was in class nine, two of my friends and I went to Netidhopani. The weather turned bad and we were forced to stay on the island. It was somewhere in this area, just a few miles from here,” Jibon paused and pointed at an outward direction towards the east.

“There was a temple. We saw several people coming at night to offer prayers.

There used to be a guard’s quarters which you do not see now. There I saw tribals who had torches in their hands. They beat drums, danced wildly, drank, sacrificed 121

spotted deer and ate the meat. Before daybreak, all of them left in boats. I hid in the bushes with my friends. We were scared to death.”

Jibon paused once again, taking his flute out and looking at it for a few seconds, as if trying to wipe out the trauma he had suffered that night from his memory. Amit patiently waited for him to resume and signaled to Raju be quiet as well.

Jibon finally put his flute aside and continued, “In the morning, I came out after making sure that there were no men on the island. Both my friends were tired after that terrible night and were asleep. It could have been around five in the morning and I decided to take a closer look at the spot around the temple. I found a lot of evenly cut rocks. The structure resembled a dilapidated building devoured by water. A hundred yards farther, I saw a temple on a mound. There was an altar with lots of flies where the sacrifice had been made. Then I found this temple of Goddess Kali — at her feet were the heads of five deer that had been offered to the Goddess and a pail of blood. It was a gruesome sight; I ran back to my friends and woke them up. I did not tell them what I had seen, but all three of us swore that we would not disclose the fact that we had set foot on the forbidden island of Netidhopani, lest we be hauled up by our elders. This place was strictly out-ofbounds, we learnt later, but we didn’t know why. Everyone warned us not to go anywhere near this island, and I wondered what the secret was. Times have changed now, and you have a forest guard’s quarters established in this area, essentially to keep a check on the activities of dacoits from the neighbouring areas. Yet, nobody ventures onto the other side of this island as they are afraid of the stories of great danger associated with this place.”

“You too must not venture to the other side and, for your own safety, never go near the Kali temple. If the Goddess gets angry, she will curse you and you may not get a good job or a good wife.” Jibon was more than convinced of the unwritten penal provisions and the punitive measures invisibly handed out to the intruders.

“Both my friends, who had been sleeping and didn’t go near the temple, finished their college and took up prestigious jobs, one at a rural health centre and the other in a co-operative bank. I am still almost unemployed and struggling. Now, 122

do you believe me?� Jibon was better educated than the fisherman we had seen early in the morning, but he was as naive and superstitious as most other villagers of the Sundarban. Amit nodded in complete agreement with the guide so as not to offend his sentiments.

Raju and he went off to sleep in a relatively cleaner but still smelly guard’s room.

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C H A P T E R 12

Elena in Kolkata The old man’s small residence was busier than usual. It also doubled up as a temple. The nondescript house, located on the fringes of the lake by the side of a Buddhist monastery, was the temple for the handful of Romani living in the city. They came to seek advice from their head priest, offer prayers to their deity and sometimes procure medicines for their ailments. The old man was the guide, doctor and philosopher to the community, which still lived in some degree of seclusion from the mainstream.

Two disciples were seated at a distance behind their master, waiting patiently as the old man was seated in meditation, cross-legged and hands folded. The man spoke without opening his eyes, “She is finally here to salvage her heritage. Go and bring her to me. I would like to talk to her. I shall be seated near the lake to take a whiff of fresh air.” The old man got up and started walking out. The loyal assistants followed their Guru.

The two men, who had followed Elena from the airport in a motorcycle all the way to the hotel, came close and flanked her as she walked out from the guest house. “Madam Elena Valson, good afternoon. Do not fear us as we mean no harm to you.” Elena froze! How did anyone know her name, that too her family name, in a distant part of the world where she had no friends, no acquaintances!

She looked around. There was quite a crowd on the road. There was no vehicle with dark windshields in the vicinity, where she could be spirited away. The strangers had no hands hidden in their pockets with a bulge of a weapon pushing at her back. The strangers were not heavily dressed with overcoats or shawls which could have any weapons hidden beneath. She relaxed a little and tried to breathe nor124

mally. “If you trust us, we can take a small walk and sit and discuss things. We won’t take more than a few minutes, madam.” Their eyes somehow reflected sincerity and she decided to take a chance. The duo silently gestured her to follow them.

They walked her up to the sprawling greenery surrounding the serene lake. There were schoolchildren playing at one section and little boys playing cricket on another. The promenade had a wonderful canopy of tall trees. It was in sharp contrast to the noisy traffic just outside on Southern Avenue.

“There,” the man pointed at the lone elderly figure seated on a bench on the bank of the lake. He could have been an octogenarian. She approached the man who, with eyes shut and immersed in prayer, looked as if he was in a trance. The frail old man stood up and bowed to Elena. She reciprocated the courtesy.

“Welcome to India, my child,” the old man’s voice was barely audible and quivered. “Elena Valson, daughter of Mathias and Elisaveta, granddaughter of Grigore and Stana, great granddaughter of Anton and Katalin who were children of....” The old man paused and said with a smile, “I am boring you, am I not?”

Elena was about to faint. “How on earth was it possible? Thousands of kilometres away from home — where she had come for the first time in her life with no friends or relatives anywhere around — here was a man as old as time itself rapidly churning out her genealogy.” She did not know how to react. She allowed the shock to sink in and looked at the old man expectantly.

“The great lady from our clan, who left these shores many centuries ago, was entrusted with two precious things — one, a packet of palm leaf manuscripts and another, a prince of Bengal. You, Elena Valson, are the direct descendant of the dynasty and therefore are the true heir to the legacy of the great king. As for the palm leaves, I am aware that they are in your safe custody and I can see that, in the near future, they will reach safe hands through your friend, whom you will meet shortly,” he took a deep breath. “However, please be careful of the yellow intruders, who will disrupt and try to hurt you in every way.” He got up with difficulty.

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His two assistants sprang up to support him. “Zhan le Devlesa tai sastimasa, Go with God and good health.” The old man did not look back and walked away, spurning the help provided by his aides.

Elena was left seated on a bench in the midst of tall trees with a large lake before her. The large fishes in the lakes, just a few feet away, seemed to say, “We knew it all along.” She sat still for the next few minutes, before rising reluctantly and walking away. Nothing in her life had ever left such an indelible mark on her mind. She thought she would call her mother, and then let go of the thought for the moment.

Instead, she moved towards the main road to peep into the hordes of tiny shops where hawkers were selling clothes, bags and other trinkets. The place called Gariahat was probably more crowded than St. Peter’s Square in Vatican City during the Christmas mass or the gay protest parades you see in London.

“My God! What a stark difference! Two different worlds in the same city, one serene and tranquil, and the other, busy selling and buying as if there was no tomorrow.” She picked up a nice terracotta necklace and paid without bargaining. The adjoining shop owners immediately smelt a wealthy foreigner and coaxed her with their wares, literally mobbing her. She beat a hasty retreat and walked back to her hotel.

Her attempt to call Amit failed yet again. A despondent Elena simply lay back on her bed and relaxed a bit. “Amit should be calling back. After all, she had left her contact number three times by now and was also sure that she had called at the right place.” She did not know how long she had slept until the phone rang and she picked it up.

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C H A P T E R 13

Continental Biocon Arthur and Linda readied and packed their overnighters into the Golden Land Rover and were ready to move out to the Appalachian Mountains to celebrate their newfound togetherness. The almost six-figure SUV started effortlessly at the mere turn of the key. Linda looked at Arthur, smiled and said, “Here we go.” The oversized guzzler moved forward silently out of the parking slot.

Linda’s cell phone rang. She promptly brought the SUV to a halt, hurriedly opened her Hermes bag and brought out a Nokia Vertu — a Titanium Indianapolis Limited Edition handset — which he had never seen before. He had only seen her iPhone. “Yes. One moment please,” she looked at Arthur, “Please excuse me,” she abruptly got down from the vehicle and ran towards her bungalow, picking up her key.

Arthur sat silently, exploring the dashboard. The engine was still idling. Several minutes passed. Finally she appeared and walked towards the SUV, quietly boarded and took the steering. She did not utter a single word, but looked tense.

“Is everything alright?” Arthur asked. “Oh yeah,” she replied without looking at him and accelerated. The drive during the next few minutes was quiet, the silence broken by oriental songs, which Arthur was yet to understand and appreciate.

From Reston Pkwy State Route 602 they merged on to VA 267 and cruised comfortably on not-so-heavy traffic. Linda suddenly swerved the car to the left into State route 828 and drove for a while into Wiehle Ave. before turning right to a North Shore Dr and then taking the second right into Oak Spring Way, which led to a narrow road. The obscure building in the woods, away from the prying eyes,

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carried a sign “Continental Biocon”. She looked at Arthur and smiled, but her smile somehow looked made up and unreal.

“A very short detour and I promise that I will not take more than ten minutes.”

The new glass and aluminium structure emerged from nowhere. The weatherbeaten “Continental Biocon” signboard with silver and navy colours proclaimed the owners. There was not a soul in sight, only a rundown dull grey Ford car revealing an olive underneath and worn out tyres, leaving little doubt about the taste of the owner. Arthur looked around and found Linda’s cigarette packet. He took one and lit it. He rarely smoked. But, this time, he was confused and nervous.

Here was a girl with whom he was ready to restart his life. Yet, there was a growing unease at the bottom of his mind about her which disturbed him.

He decided to take a walk around the building. As it appeared to him, it was certainly not a manufacturing unit and was presumably a laboratory of some kind.

He peeped through the glass window at the rear. The black hazardous label on the drum was clearly visible through the haze. He moved on a little further and heard loud voices. He slowly peeped through the window. Fortunately, the bushes and the foliage gave him enough cover. There she was, standing before a burly and apparently Chinese person who was shouting with his finger pointed at her. He slammed the newspaper roll on the table so hard that some articles fell on the floor. Arthur could not see Linda’s face clearly as her back was turned towards him. The Chinese suddenly came close to her, grabbed her neck and menacingly gestured with his fist close to her face. Arthur did not know what to do. Should he barge into the factory by breaking the window? The glass seemed strong and he might end up injuring himself rather than helping Linda. He saw the man release his grip on his girl, who hurriedly left the room.

Arthur ran towards the SUV. He had to switch the engine on without arousing any suspicion. His heart was pounding. Linda took time to reach him. She went into the toilet and wiped the tears off her face. The rouge and mascara were applied once again. She checked her lipstick and was satisfied with her overall composure.

The red marks on her neck, where she had been throttled was visible. She quickly opened her bag and took out the matching Hermes scarf and wound it around her neck. She was ready to go.

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“Sorry, I had to urgently meet my cousin, working in this lab,” she was apologetic.

He smiled at her. “Will you drive for me?” she requested. Arthur readily obliged.

The big machine behaved much better than he had expected. He was at ease and concentrated on the traffic. Little did he realise that Linda had given him the wheel so that he would be busy driving while she regained her composure. Linda leaned on him and closed her eyes.

Arthur was thinking of Googling Continental Biocon as soon as he was back in office. Linda’s submission suddenly aborted his thoughts. He put his right hand on her face and caressed her. She seemed half asleep with eyes closed. Maybe it has really something to do with her cousin and, as a matter of fact, the whole episode may have been a family affair. Arthur felt sorry for Linda. He would ask her at an appropriate time regarding the skirmish at the lab. “No, rather I will wait for her to confide in me,” he decided.

Back in the laboratory, the burly Chinese placed a call to his master stating that the message had been communicated strongly. The snakes in the glass chamber of the lab hissed. They were trying to hypnotise the mice, which had just been let in, and scare them to death by merely staring at them. Their white scaly skin, bared fangs and red eyes would have scared anyone to death. The snakes effortlessly came closer to each mouse and swallowed them — as if the mice had been ready to be devoured, to be sacrificed at an altar.

The snakes were all albinos!

Arthur and Linda stopped by a wayside McDonalds and freshened up with a coffee and burger. Linda was her usual cheerful self and was chattering sweet nothings, clinging to Arthur. She opened her cigarette case and looked up at Arthur.

“When did you smoke?” Arthur casually replied, “When you were away for hours in the lab.” Linda pretended to be angry. “Okay, I was to come out in ten minutes and was delayed by barely two or three extra minutes.” “But each minute was like a whole hour for me,” Arthur teased. Both laughed and came out clinging to each other. The lab and the burly Chinese were forgotten for the moment. Life was once again filled with enjoyment and love for both of them.

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The motel close to the Appalachian Mountains was basic, but satisfactory. The manager was an affable person. Arthur filled in his name in the register. Linda grabbed the register and wrote a ‘Mrs’ before Mr. Arthur Benson and looked at him teasingly. Arthur kissed Linda’s forehead. The old manager watched them with a smile, perhaps trying to remember his long lost partner.

Sunday morning began in a leisurely way for Arthur and Linda, particularly after a night of frenzy in bed.

Arthur went out to give a quick wash to the ready-to-roll SUV and Linda got dressed in the meanwhile. It was a wonderful escape from the monotony of computers and satellites — in the pristine lap of nature. It seemed both Arthur and Linda’s tastes matched like a needle and thread. “The world could not be any better,” Arthur thought. Neither of them was a churchgoer and avoided talking about God. Linda explained about Taoism, but Arthur was so engrossed in her lips and eyes that he simply missed out on what she was saying.

They walked, ran and sat down as they liked, like teens in their first romance with utter disregard to their surroundings. The mobile in her bag rang once again. By now Arthur had identified the different tune of this expensive mobile. Linda came running, opened her Hermes tote bag and took the call. She pleadingly looked at Arthur, making a gesture to excuse her and moved to a distance. She left her bag open and was facing away from him.

Instinctively, Arthur opened her bag to peep inside. There were the usual cosmetics, a pair of sunglasses, the matching Hermes scarf, a Kleenex packet and a small box of medicine. Arthur looked at Linda. She was still talking agitatedly, raising her fist and shaking her hand. He picked the bottle, which read, ‘IOSAT’. He made a mental note to Google this too, when he went back to his office. “It was my cousin again,” complained Linda. “He wanted me back in his flat right now and I refused.” However, her face revealed that there could be more to it than what she said. He did not pursue it.

It was late afternoon and they decided to drive back to town after lunch. It was dark by the time they reached. As decided earlier, Arthur went to his house for the

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night. He had to put the house in order, clean the kitchen, wash and dry the clothes, do the bed... the list was endless.

He was dead tired and wanted to sleep. But instead, he opened his laptop and, by default, the Google search engine displayed on his screen in a few seconds. He typed IOSAT and moved the mouse pointer to search and pressed enter. “Potassium Iodide”, the screen read and had endless details. He moved at the top FAQs. “What is radioactive iodine?” He queried. The reply was instant: One of the most feared consequences of a nuclear reactor accident or nuclear bomb is the release of a radioactive iodine plume into the environment. Radioactive Iodine (I-131) is a by-product of nuclear fission which occurs only within a nuclear reactor or during detonation of a nuclear bomb. What makes radioactive iodine so dangerous is that the body cannot distinguish it from ordinary iodine. As a result, if swallowed, or inhaled, it will be absorbed into the thyroid gland (only the thyroid absorbs iodine) and may lead to thyroid cancer, especially in children. The value of Potassium Iodide (KI) tablets was demonstrated following the Chernobyl nuclear accident, where authorities began mass distribution of Potassium Iodide just hours after the explosion. In the years following the disaster, the incidence of thyroid cancer has not increased in areas where people had received the drug. But where Potassium Iodide had not been distributed, rare forms of juvenile thyroid cancer have begun appearing at epidemic rates, with over 11,000 known cases.

This number continues to rise and is not expected to peak until 2010.

Potassium Iodide (KI) is used by health officials worldwide to prevent thyroid cancer in people who are exposed to radioactive iodides caused by nuclear reactor accidents and nuclear bombs. It protects against radioactive iodine by preventing its absorption by the thyroid gland located in the neck. The thyroid gland absorbs it from the bloodstream and concentrates it inside the cell to produce hormones. For radiation that is not immediately lethal, the thyroid is your body’s most sensitive organ to the effects of radiation. Radioactive Iodine is absorbed by the thyroid and can cause thyroid disease and cancer later on. Sometimes it only takes a short time if the victim is a child because a child’s thyroid is very active in helping the child grow. IOSAT KI is the only FDA-approved full strength thyroid blocking tablet available to the public.

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Arthur forgot his tiredness. “Why in the world should Linda carry IOSAT?” The question made him uncomfortable. Arthur clicked the yellow pages searching for several options with every related key word like “pharmaceutical biocon company Oak Spring way reston va”. He was lucky to find several search results. “Zicom Biocon, Oak Springway, Reston VA.” He chose the web page and opened it.

The summary read: Established in 2002 as a biological research laboratory.

Owned by William and Malcolm Bosch, specialising in radioactive isotopes. The company went into financial difficulties and filed for chapter 11 protection. The insolvency administrators sold the company to a Winsome Bio-pharma, an overseas Chinese company, who are said to be engaged in research of speciality enzymes largely unclassified. The new owners changed the name of the company to Continental Biocon in 2008. Capital - Not known, No. of Employees - Not Specified.

The information was not exhaustive but confirmed the Chinese connection. He still had to check on Linda’s links with the Chinese company. He would soon find out, or so he thought! ********* The house was in a mess as he had left in a hurry. He had to throw out the stale food from the fridge; the wet clothes were still inside the washing machine and had dried out in these few days. They had to be washed and dried again. The kitchen took another hour to clean up. The Pizza Hut guy delivered the pizza and Pepsi. It was well over midnight by the time he finished the chores, munching slices of pizza in between. He finally hit the bed; dog tired.

Arthur woke up earlier than usual. He got ready humming a tune. The day was bright and clear. He would be meeting his children in the evening. Before that, he would be meeting his Linda. “I have to arrange to have her transferred to my department,” Arthur decided. This would eliminate any gossip if they were seen together more than necessary at the workplace. He went to the garage on the way and had a quick car wash. “Nothing can be unclean, including my car,” Arthur murmured. After all, he was on the cusp of a radical change in things — a new, enriched life which his wife….oops, his ex-wife, Amanda could never provide. The shampoo wash and a nice wax polish for the car at the garage on the way brought 132

the glitter back. He looked at his car with satisfaction. Adjusting his tie for the ninth time, he zoomed towards his office. Work of course was important, but now, meeting Linda was even more so.

He pressed the code, allowed the scanner to check his retina for matching, identified himself and headed to his favourite place in the work station — in front of his computer. He had several jobs pending. The meeting with the Chinese client was fixed in the forenoon. He had a meeting scheduled with the HR department and later in the afternoon, he had to prepare a file for the USGS on the basis of last week’s meeting. Above all, he had to speak to Steve Becker and somehow convince him of the need to get Linda over to his department. He took out a Post-it and placed it in front of him, marking his day’s appointments.

He booted his computer and checked on the present location of the satellite.

There was still time for it to move into the target area. He switched on the beam to Nominal swath width - 15.2 km / 9.44 mi at Nadir, which, of course, was for the exclusive use by the US Government. Later he would move to 0.50 Max Pan GSD (m) off Nadir with a Look angle 28 degrees which had an average revisit of 2.8 days. The portion of the Sundarban that lay on Bangladesh’s side of the border passed unseen before his eyes. “Strange, that the Chinese could be interested in a desolate region infested with tigers,” Arthur thought.

“Why was Linda nowhere to be seen?” Arthur grew restless. It was nearly 11 o’clock. He was informed over the intercom that the Chinese clients had arrived and that he had to meet them in the conference room. “Where in the world was Linda?”

The Chinese team consisted of three people. One was an elderly and mildmannered person who looked like a professor and the other, a lady translator. The third one arrested his attention. His ponytail was too damn familiar. Could he be the same man whom he had seen holding Linda by the throat in the obscure laboratory near the Oak Spring Way? Or was he imagining too much? “But where on earth is Linda?” he wondered. Steve joined the group for a while, underscoring the importance Eagle Eye attached to the clients. Arthur’s curiosity slowly grew into concern. But he had to concentrate on his work at present.

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The lights were dimmed as Arthur got ready to deliver his presentation on the video screen at the far end of the table. “Welcome to Eagle Eye,” Arthur went on to explain his present project as the translator continuously whispered into the ears of the elderly Chinese man, who by now was introduced as Mr. Liu. Ponytail, who was introduced as Mr. Peter Wong, was quiet and was often busy staring at and fingering his mobile phone. The multidimensional data displayed on the screen was painstakingly explained by Arthur and carefully watched by Mr. Liu, who occasionally asked his translator Mai Lin for some clarification in a low tone of voice, who dutifully explained the presentation to her boss. Ponytail didn’t open his mouth and showed no interest in the presentation. He was too busy with his cell phone.

“Tíng zhǐ,” Mr. Liu suddenly got animated. Gone was the nobility as he forcibly nudged the translator, who virtually shouted, “Stop”. Arthur rewound his presentation and paused at a slide selected by Mr. Liu with a nod. The slide revealed a white patch of land--an agitated Mr Liu started talking to his translator in a language that no one else in the room understood. Arthur went on for the next thirty minutes or so, talking about the hydrological and other data from the target area, explaining in detail wherever necessary. Suddenly, Mr. Liu stood up. For him, the meeting was over. The lights came on once again. Arthur was relieved to see a smile on his client’s face.

“But where is Linda?” His mind rushed back to his beloved. “Mr. Liu is impressed with your presentation and the data that you have been able to present. This will help us in our project immensely,” the translator summed up on behalf of the client she represented. Ponytail was busy writing some details in his small notebook.

There was a gentle knock at the door. It was Linda. Arthur’s face brightened. However, he didn’t let that show in front of his clients and, instead, introduced them to her.

“She is Linda from our contracts division. Linda, this is Mr. Liu and Mr. Peter Wong and the lady is Ms. Mai Lin.” Linda did not evince, by gesture or expression, that she had met any member of that group earlier, much to Arthur’s relief.

He mentally reprimanded himself for his wrong interpretation. “There could be many ponytailed Chinese around,” he reasoned. The elderly Chinese man whispered something in a low tone, looking at no one in particular. Arthur did not fail 134

to notice Linda’s face turn grim. The team got up. Ponytail explained that Mr. Liu had to catch a flight to China that evening and therefore would have to leave at the earliest.

“What is the position, Arthur?” It was Steve on the intercom. When Arthur confirmed that the meeting had ended, Steve joined the crowd in the next few minutes. After exchanging pleasantries Mr. Liu prepared to leave with his entourage.

Linda was already back in the room. “There is something on her mind—I can tell, from the expression on her face.” thought Arthur. Dignified that he was, he did not press her for the reason, nor did Linda broach the topic, at that time.

Steve was back in Arthur’s office in a few minutes. His face radiated triumph. “Arthur, congratulations to you and your team! The Chinese clients are satisfied with our work and have extended our contract for the next three months.” “I have just one request, Steve.” It was the right moment to strike. “Can you please let me have Linda to assist in my work, at least temporarily until this project is over?” he asked. “Why, sure! She can join you from next week,” Steve’s benevolence as a boss and a colleague remained ever intact, which was also another reason why Eagle Eyes Inc. had grown so rapidly. Arthur glanced at Linda through the corner of his eyes, but she did not react to his request or Steve’s agreement. “The Oriental genes,” he thought, “It is hard to understand their emotions!” Steve spent the next few minutes explaining precisely what to eliminate and where to concentrate on in his next report to the Chinese. Linda was silent all along.

“Was Linda in some kind of danger from the Chinese?” Arthur didn’t think so.

She seemed to be straightforward. “Except for her Chinese parentage, she was an all-American girl loyal to her country,” Arthur was convincing himself. He went back to work and started with the summary sheet. He browsed the slides that had interested his clients and checked on the hydrological data. Several pages of data poured out from the computer. Arthur zeroed in on the part that showed an area with little or no vegetation and seemed like a circular white desert in the middle of a thick green cover of mangroves interspersed with watery veins. The river banks in the region also looked quite different from the other islands, which was also a striking feature. He again magnified the river bank region and clicked on the op-

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tion for the hydrological data. The printer disgorged many pages of data, which he filed safely, deciding to analyse them in a day or two and summarise his report.

He sat back to marvel at the technology where so much data on earth and some beneath the surface could be ascertained without digging through the surface of the earth and, that too, in just a few days. It was just a matter of money and that was where Eagle Eyes’ success lay. With satisfaction, he murmured, “You may possess much, but still will have to come to the US, come to Eagle Eyes when technology is needed.” He mentally scored over the Chinese and collected the dozens of files he had created that day, safely locked them in his cupboard and got ready to leave, filled with a sense of satisfaction at a job well done.

Several loose threads would have to be tied up. There was IOSAT, the potassium iodide tablets; Continental Biocon near Oak Springs, which seemed to be involved in some unusual activity; the caller on Linda’s mobile phone; the Chinese guy with a ponytail, whom Linda described as her cousin and who had held Linda by the neck; the radio transmitter which Linda explained was a ham instrument belonging to her dad... was he getting into some kind of trouble? “Please do not leave me, ever,” Linda’s whisper echoed in his ears as he closed his eyes and thought about it. “Never. It can just never be! Linda would have certainly confided in me if anything was amiss. She is as much in love with me as I am with her.” Arthur started the ignition and drove home.

The Red Mitsubishi Eclipse103 was at the gate waiting for him. His heart pounded rapidly with excitement. He did go to Linda’s, but somehow was restraining himself from inviting her in as she had not visited him in the office or called him during the afternoon. In fact, she seemed to be a little disconnected from what was taking place during his presentation and after, for reasons that eluded him. Arthur parked his car in the usual slot and walked up to Linda’s car. She came out, carrying a large bag and locked the door. “I’m sure you have not had any dinner, Arthur. I am hungry like hell. Will you not invite me in?” She was already on her way to his door--he hurried, grabbed the bag and ushered her in. Arthur’s home was also in an affluent area, as was evident from the high-end models of cars and SUVs parked in the vicinity.

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The drawing room was large and spacious, with two sets of sofas at two ends of the room. “Sometimes we have couples visiting us with completely different agendas and interests and, therefore, we have created sufficient space to accommodate both,” Arthur reasoned. Linda was surprised to see his bedroom with two separate single beds instead of a double bed. “It has been like this for the last year or so, ever since Amanda decided to move away.” His voice was flat and matter-of-fact.

He had a room designed as a log wood cabin, which was in keeping with his Texan roots. There was an antique saddle and several pairs of cowboy boots, a pair of panama hats and a cellar like those shown in Westerns, only a little smaller in size. ‘This is my study,’ Arthur switched on the light. It was a deep mahogany wood-panelled room with a desk and computer, and a wall full of books, mostly technical and connected with his work.

Arthur switched on his computer and showed Linda photos of his home, back in Texas. Arthur, with an athlete’s build, truly looked handsome riding a horse as a young lad. Linda looked at Arthur questioningly about the two computers on the table. Arthur was quick to explain, “The Dell brand is the company’s and has a secured networking access. I can only access our company’s server and files from it.

If I have to mail or use a computer for any other purpose, I would use the other one.”

Arthur proceeded to show Linda how the high-speed server connected to the company’s master server, from which he could access several reports at the touch of a key. Arthur spent a few minutes on it and did some work until Linda complained and urged him to stop. With a combined 1Terabyte Ethernet network adapter and LAN on motherboard port, it was indeed a robust and speedy system that he possessed. Done with his work, he put the computer on standby and rose. Linda showed little interest. She walked around the room humming a romantic song and seemed to be in an ecstatic mood.

“What a mystery these women are,” thought Arthur. “In the afternoon, she was so distrait, sunk in thought. And now, she seems transformed into nothing short of an angel!” “Let us eat something first.” Linda warmed up the food she had brought in the microwave oven, opened the wine bottle and poured them two glasses.

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When they finished their meal, Linda dimmed the lights, put on the music system and played Sarah Geronimo’s ‘Carry My Love’, which was a favourite with both of them, as she had just found out. Silently, they got immersed in the song, sitting close to each other without uttering a word. Linda snugly drew Arthur towards her and pulled him to the single bed. “This is just the ideal sized bed for us both,” she whispered in his ears. “I am going to be just lying on top of you.”

The rhythmic and passionate lovemaking began. But, this time, Arthur was in no hurry. He held Linda’s face close to his as if he was seeing her for the first time in his life, as if he was seeing any woman for the first time in his life. For no reason, his eyes turned moist. “After all, I am a good man; Amanda did not understand me and had deserted me for her loathsome, filthy rich boss. No. I am not going to lose Linda. She was educated, intelligent and a wonderful girl, good at work and good in the bed, too!” Arthur erased Amanda from his memory and replaced it with Linda. Chinese she may be, but that did not matter. He knew of one of his uncles too, who had married a Vietnamese girl, after the war.

Linda was also looking deeply into Arthur’s face. “A tormented husband abandoned by a career woman, a good colleague, and an excellent lover.” But she suddenly set aside her personal feelings. She had a greater role and a job to do — a job for her employer, a job for the benefit of her nation. She could not give in and succumb to the complexities of normal human sentiments. She tried harder to please him. Arthur was not on any aphrodisiacs this time and yet was untiring.

They made love till early morning and slept thoroughly satisfied and exhausted.

Linda carefully chilled the air conditioner to a cool 18°C, forcing Arthur to pull the blanket over his head, while still in deep sleep.

With a bed sheet draped over her body, she tiptoed out of the room to the study. A mere tap on the touch pad revived the screen. She pressed the F5 button to dim the screen light and unzipped her bag. The small disc slid comfortably into the DVD drive. She quickly browsed his computer for the files she was looking for, selected and dragged them into the DVD drive. The fast server window copied 141 items that came to 3.3 GB in less than two minutes, which seemed to Linda like two hours. All her efforts would be wasted and her relations with Arthur spoiled if he woke up. The download complete, Linda reset the AC to a comfortable 23°C 138

and snuggled tightly around him into the bed and the blanket. Happy, content and blissfully unaware of the snake that had coiled around him and his life, or whatever is left of it, Arthur snored in deep slumber.

Arthur woke up, fresh. Linda was already in the kitchen making porridge and boiling some eggs for breakfast. They ate together and got ready for office. Linda took off, zooming a few minutes ahead of him. Arthur went to check if the gas was securely switched off. The computer was still in standby mode as he had left it. He absentmindedly touched the key pad and the screen came alive, with the page displaying a long list of file names which had been modified the same day at 2.32 am. He stared at the screen disbelievingly for a few seconds. They were inconsequential files, but curiosity made him count them. There were 141 files in the list.

There was no one else in the house except himself and Linda, who had been sleeping on top of him and had never for once left his side for all that he could remember. Indeed, she had woken up earlier, but that was in the morning when she went into the kitchen to get the breakfast ready for him. But that was in the morning!

Was there any technical glitch in the computer? He might have to check it from the office. He thought no more of it and left.

The run-down dull grey Ford with a patchy olive colour underneath and worn out tyres was waiting along the way, with the ponytailed Chinese man reading a local Chinese newspaper. Linda’s Red Mitsubishi Eclipse 2007 stopped right behind the Ford; the burly Chinese got out and extended his hand. Without saying a word, she passed on an envelope containing a DVD. The Ford roared to life and moved into the highway at surprising speed. Linda proceeded at a comfortable pace towards Eagle Eyes Inc. Steve was unusually early in office. He walked down to Arthur’s, who was already in discussion regarding the hydrology report from two locations with his team of five experts. Steve joined the deliberations for a while, learnt of the progress and left after about thirty minutes or so. Arthur was stealing glances at the glass door near the entrance, waiting for the appearance of his most beloved Linda Liao. His mobile buzzed. “I love you and miss you the most Arthur,” Linda’s voice whispered sweetly. “Me too,” replied Arthur awkwardly, glancing at his colleagues.

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The hydrology report Arthur was working on was exhaustive. He still had to meet the geophysical team, the mineral investigation chaps, the oceanography guys and a host of other people to have their preliminary opinion prior to filing his own. He sent out memos to colleagues from departments within his company to update them on the subject and fix deadlines for their submission of inputs. It was customary to inform the respective countries that were within fifty odd kilometres from the target regions of any survey, prior to passing on any information to clients.

These days, the hydrology data was not such a sensitive matter, unless it was of great strategic importance to their security or economy. Nonetheless, a formal short message was being prepared by the protocol department to be passed on, in this case, to Bangladesh and India. The header, however, was duly corrected to read thus: Tiger Territory — Sundarban Delta and its Vulnerability to Global Warming. The sponsors of the study were Continental Biocon of VA who had interests in the field of environmental research. A copy was also endorsed to the Director, Natural Hazards, USGS, Department of the Interior.

The Internal Security Department at Eagle Eyes Inc. was supervised by Ken Brown, who reported to the Chief Information Officer, in charge of the overall security of their company’s assets, which included all information created. The CIO was surprised to see an unusual activity report (UAR), a confidential memo that talked of locating a breach from a secured login ID belonging to Arthur Benson at the odd hour of 2.32 am the previous night. It detailed the 3.3.GB data with a list of the 141 files downloaded. The CIO saw and read them. It was not unusual for Class IV or Class V officers, who were Vice presidents or the president, the COO, CEO, CMO or the Chairman of the company to access information. Downloading was, however, rare. The CIO in turn sent a memo to the Sr. Vice President, Steve Becker, seeking authorisation for the download.

Steve left a note, asking Arthur to meet him before he left for the day, which he did. “How is work progressing with the current project, Arthur?” Steve queried.

“Has Amanda moved out?” Steve knew most of the key employees’ family history, or he updated his memory before striking any conversation. “Are you living completely alone now?” Arthur replied that he was. “I know you are a work horse. Do

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not wear yourself out. There is always a new beginning.” The customary coffee which Steve never failed to make and serve was completed.

Steve looked at Arthur’s face and said, “You know the rules, Arthur. You are not authorised to download files, which you did last night. I got a memo from the CIO... I know you are bona fide and have complete trust in you. And, therefore, I am authorising your action. Next time, just give me a call before you need any such waiver.” Steve was a gentleman par excellence. He quickly switched on to other topics, before ending the meeting. Arthur came out of the room, feeling uneasy. His lungs were constricting. He was short of breath. He searched his pockets with urgency and was glad to find his nebuliser. Arthur felt like a junkie who could successfully locate his missing packet of drugs. He vigorously shook the nebuliser and inhaled two deep puffs, filling the chemical vapour into his lungs. In a matter of a few seconds, he began to breathe normally as he swept off the beads of sweat from his forehead.

Arthur was confused. Last night, he had been in the house with Linda. Should he disclose his affair with Linda to his boss? The company frowned upon such relationships. “Was there a break-in? Was there any glitch in the computer system?”

He had no answer. His mind was continuously badgering him that Linda just could not have been the one. “She had been sleeping with me all night, without moving out of the bed even once, except that she woke up early to make my breakfast.” “Full of love and devotion,” he murmured aloud. “I have to go and check the computer the moment I get home,” he thought.

His car door was open and Linda was seated in the front. He forgot his meeting with Steve and his heart leapt with joy. He got into the car and looked intently at her. “How in the world could I ever suspect Linda?” He was ashamed to even think of it as she innocently asked, “Why are you staring at me Arthur?” He briefly described his meeting with Steve and how an unauthorised download had been traced to his computer. Linda was startled as if she had stepped on a live snake. “Then is it true? I heard some noise last night. I was very afraid and thought it was a dream!” “I have to check the burglar alarm system at the earliest,” thought a love-bitten Arthur. “My Linda could never be the one.” The car drove to Linda’s spacious condo, where Arthur would spend the night.

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This night was no different. Linda was full of love. She cried while hugging him, begged him not to leave her ever, put in her best to make him feel the most loved and important in the world! “Linda never needed to do anything on the sly. I could have helped her if she ever wanted any information. After all, we belong to each other and no force on Earth was going to separate us in any manner,” Arthur reassured himself as he dozed off.

The vibration of the handset woke Linda immediately. She was trained to respond to the call at any time of the day or night. In exceptional circumstances, when she could not take the call, she was to call back ASAP. Linda was at a critical juncture now and it was time to take some hard decisions. She had worked for her country’s projects in the past, too. But, this time, it was different. She had heard the name of Mr. Liu earlier only as a whisper. This time, he himself was present at the presentation at Eagle Eyes, which attached some extraordinary importance to it.

Linda had hardly any emotions; she had long been dehumanized by the hard-core indoctrination she had been through during the special training sessions that had lasted till a few months after college.

Arthur was still sleeping soundly. Back in the dimly-lit office room at Continental Biocon, the hydrology and mineral resources report clandestinely procured from Arthur Benson’s secured computer was being forwarded to a lab in Xiongsen, near Guilin in south-east China. The information having been relayed, the burly man at the computer picked up a black Chinese cheroot and lit it. He poured a large portion of a cheap Chinese wine and gulped it down. After waiting for nearly twenty minutes, the man called at the other end in China and asked if the information had reached. After a few minutes, the voice from the other end confirmed receipt of all attachments. Satisfied, the man disconnected the line, took one larger gulp in between deep puffs as the obnoxious smoke from the black cheroot filled the room. The man worked for a few more minutes, erasing all traces of the work he had just completed. The DVD was inserted in a beaker with a chemical solution. There was no trace of the shining DVD in a matter of the next few seconds. The man poured the solution in the drain, cleaned the beaker and put it on its stand. He came out of the desolate structure, confident that no soul would

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ever tread into the territory and quietly left the place in an ill-maintained grey Ford.

Ken Brown, Eagle Eyes’ Security chief, did not sleep well that night for some unknown reason.

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C H A P T E R 14

The Albinos The islands in the Sundarban are famous for mosquitoes and Netidhopani was no exception. Their sheer numbers seeking entry through the mosquito net awed as well as alarmed Raju, but he was too tired and soon fell off to sleep. Amit tried to scribble the day’s events in his diary with the help of the Petromax lamp, but soon gave up.

There were several questions troubling his mind. Why did someone steal his maps from the hotel room in Pakhiralay? Why did someone try to warn them by firing at their boat and who were they? Who is Manna and why is he pretending to be an illiterate man? Who was Manna trying to connect with through the radio transmitter and what was he trying to communicate? Whatever could it be? The questions were too many and the answers, none. Amit tried to sleep.

Muffled voices from a distance instantly woke him up and he struggled out of the mosquito net to check the source of the murmurs. Switching his torch on and keeping the light as close as possible to the ground so as not to attract anyone around, he tiptoed outside the room. For precaution, he picked the forest guard’s spear which doubled up as a support while walking, as the path was slippery. It was dark despite the crescent moon and the sound of croaking toads got amplified in the stillness of the night. The noise came from the jetty and led to their boat.

Amit could see the silhouette of a boat moored near Sundari. He inched closer to peep from behind the bushes. It was a smaller boat, similar to the one that they had encountered in the morning. There were more than two people, he gathered from the moving shadows, and they were moving something from Sundari into

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their boat. Some kind of a bundle, or was it a sack? What did it contain? He wanted to take a closer look, but abandoned the idea.

“Shaabdhaan, careful,” it could have been the voice of Manna. Amit had to hurry back to get out of sight. But, suddenly, he saw Manna! Amit didn’t wait to see whether Manna had noticed him as well. He quietly slipped back into his room and slid into bed.

As expected, the door opened slowly and the torch was aimed at the ceiling. Amit’s pretence of deep sleep with heavy snoring may have reassured the midnight visitor. He dared not move a bit and lay still like a frozen fish in cold storage. One more query got added to his fast-growing list of questions — “What was in the big bundle being silently transferred to the boats in the dead of night?” He lay awake for a long time.

“Uncle, get up,” Raju was shaking Amit, who felt a little dizzy after a virtually sleepless night with no more than a short snooze in the early hours. The sun was shining brightly into the room through the window. The sky was clear blue with no signs of the extreme weather they had faced yesterday. He checked his watch.

It was 7.35 A.M. They were to have breakfast in the boat at 8 A.M. Amit sprang out of bed and dashed to the bathroom to get ready. The mercury-stained mirror still showed his peppery stubble, layered with infrequent greys of different shades.

He quickly finished his morning routine and was out on time. The crew had already left their rooms and had settled in the boat. He was the last to board with Raju in tow.

“Good Morning Saar,” Jibon’s baritone was unmistakable. Amit waved at him and reciprocated. Dipak was already munching something. Banchharam was preparing breakfast. Malik looked refreshed after a good night’s sleep. Biru was busy pulling the anchor and later switched to veering the boat away from the bank using a large bamboo pole. Raju was ready with the camera, focussing the lens anywhere and everywhere.

Amit was looking for Manna, but he was nowhere to be seen. “Where is Manna?” he asked no one in particular. He caught Jibon stealing a glance at the policeman, who instantly lowered his eyes. It was Malik who replied, “It appears that he suf145

fered from some stomach ailment and therefore will join us later in the day.�

Where and how were the instant questions in Amit’s mind, but he decided to wait and watch. He thought it could be an opportunity to go and check the lower deck thoroughly as well.

The breakfast over, Raju focussed his camera at the distant boat and was taking shots. This was perhaps the third boat in the last two days that they had encountered. The sweltering heat probably was not the best time for visitors, who were otherwise few and far between in the buffer zone enveloping the core areas reserved for the tigers.

Their boat had made a circle of the island following the River Gosaba and was heading to meet the Matla junction, thus going deeper into tiger territory. For the first time in these two days, they met the river police patrol who, after noticing their colleague Dipak on board, waved and sped away into the distant horizon. Dipak wasted no time in proudly caressing his oiled moustache to prove that he mattered in these waters.

The roar of the king of these riverine forests was unmistakable and sent scores of birds scampering from the trees. Suddenly, the sky was full of birds of different hues, shapes and sizes, a sight which was rarely witnessed before by most of the travellers in the boat. Raju was ready with his camera to shoot, only unsure about exactly which direction the roar came from, for the sound echoed through the entire territory, sending shivers up their spine.

Dipak touched his belt and felt the comfort of the leaded bullets of his .303 rifle.

Amit prayed to God that the policeman would never get an occasion to use it.

Banchharam and Biru forgot their chores and scurried down to safety on the lower deck and also to have a peek through the windows, which were all closed save one to prevent any unforeseen feline attacks. It looked like a cartoon strip — two scared heads peeping out from the single open window of the boat into the wilderness outside. Malik took care to steer away from the banks and keep to midstream, slowly chugging the vessel forward. While everyone wished to be as far away from the hungry beast, nobody wished to lose the chance to watch the tiger alive and in the wild.

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Jibon’s hands were hidden inside his jhola and his fingers seemed to be in frantic movement. Raju was curious and asked, “Jibon da, what are you doing inside your bag? Are you counting money?” Jibon shook his head vigorously and replied, “I am praying for all our safety,” producing a string of prayer beads. Dipak promptly lifted his right forefinger, touched his forehead and his heart with his right thumb, the traditional Bengali way of praying to the almighty.

There was a lot of debate between Malik and his crew as to whether they should sail away or anchor somewhere nearby. The fact that a tiger was on the prowl in the vicinity, had created quite a stir among the occupants of the boat. While there was a perceptible fear, the possibility of spotting a tiger egged everyone on to search for a safe place to anchor the boat. With a lot of effort, Amit managed to convince a reluctant Malik to look for a safe river bank and stop the boat for a while. Biru and Banchharam helped to anchor the boat in a nearby khari. Dipak, however, looked displeased with the decision to anchor in tiger territory. Every other second, he touched the trigger of his gun to satisfy himself that he was armed and, hence, protected from any imminent tiger attack.

Amit climbed the highest point in the boat, not really very high from the deck, and took a look at the vast sheet of greenery that enveloped the wide expanse of land.

The rhesus monkeys were busy at the beach with what looked like wild fruits at first. But, after a closer look, he realised that they were catching the small crabs and gnawing at them. The large log, or so he thought, silently slid into the river, miffed by the noise and din they were creating. They barely noticed, for the dreaded alligators have of late been relegated in terms of notoriety by their more famous feline colleagues in these watery forests. Their feet sank to the knees in the slushy river bank, making their jaunt rather difficult.

Raju had a stick in one hand for support and binoculars in the other for scouting the area. Malik and Banchharam stayed back in the boat. The policeman grudgingly agreed to follow them after checking and rechecking his rifle bolt several times and deftly pocketing a Rs 500 note that Amit had discreetly handed him.

The professor was quick to learn the nuances of beating red tape and the constantly resistant officialdom in his country, although feeling a bit guilty in the proc-

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ess. Biru was leading the team with a long pole, which he thought was enough to ward off any tiger attack in the world!

The monkeys scurried away on seeing them, screeching wildly. Dipak was already sounding an alarm, warning them of danger and asking them to turn back. Biru, however, hastened his pace and moved up from the clay towards the firmer mud bank. The rest followed. It was a climb of approximately ten metres. Amit borrowed the binoculars and panned the area. The green canopy covered many miles around. There were sudden spurts of bird flights, further frightening the burly policeman. Raju, more excited than ever, stuck even closer to his uncle.

“Uncle,” he looked up at Amit, who turned to look at him with enquiring eyes.

“Are you carrying your firearm?” he asked, quickly justifying, “Just in case of any emergency, for I don’t rate the policeman very high.”

“There may not be any need to use any firearms against animals, if you know animal behaviour,” Amit replied. He quickly added, “However, I cannot say the same for more treacherous humans.” Raju was more relaxed now. Little did he know that carrying firearms into these forests was an offence. The irony was that poachers and dacoits carried every kind of sophisticated weapon with impunity while the hapless forest guards were left with outdated .303 rifles.

Through his binoculars, Amit could see vultures hovering over something at a distance and guessed that it could be around 2 km from the spot where they were standing. He beckoned Dipak and whispered into his ears, to which he spontaneously and vigorously shook his head. Amit tapped the bulge in his pocket and looked at him expectantly. The policeman’s hand went for his talisman hidden inside his vest, which he took out with difficulty and held to both his eyes. Looking at the sky, he whispered, “Oh mother, please save me. I am greedy, but it’s only for the welfare of my family and children. Please do not bring any harm to us.”

Turning his head towards Amit, he said urgently, “We shall have to be back in just one hour and not a minute more. You know it is against service regulations for me to let you land in unknown territory, and it’s also dangerous for all of us. I have to stand at a departmental enquiry to justify any firing I might have to resort to for our safety. I have to take and give a good gift to my superior officers for them to ig148

nore my lapse. It will cost you.” “Fine,” Amit said. “One hour then.” Their convoy of four moved through medium undergrowth to dense forest in the direction guided by Amit’s watch’s compass. He was fully aware that it could take more than an hour even to reach the target spot. Anyway, it was early morning and the sky was clear, with no sign of clouds.

The pneumatophores, thick and thin, spread all over slowed their movement. Dipak was now visibly upset for succumbing to a bribe at the cost of the gravest ever threat to his life. The dense jungle slowed down Biru, who now lagged behind Amit and Raju. The courageous policeman, not willing to be the tail-ender, wedged in between the team, pushing Biru to the end. “Shhhh”, Amit stopped and silenced the team, which froze at once on his command. The near eight feet snake was a cobra, an albino, ivory white in colour and with transparent red eyes.

It just stopped for a few seconds, turning its head in their direction. Amit asked everyone to be still. The burly policeman panicked and made a clown of himself. He lifted his rifle, which slipped off from his sweaty hands. He froze, just as everyone else, even without noticing Amit’s signal.

The snake harmlessly slithered past them. They all heaved a sigh of relief. “Please, please, I beg of you sir,” Dipak was pleading with them to go back. He had indeed agreed to stay with the team, but little did he realise that he would have to encounter snakes and other slithering reptiles, those he had always despised. Again, Amit’s few words of courage, compassion and mild reprimand calmed him. The hidden talisman was no more hidden and was dangling outside his shirt. The team, now led by Amit, continued its onward march.

They had walked for nearly an hour now in the jungles near Netidhopani. The policeman stopped talking and went into sulk mode. The thick foliage and the canopy of trees were slowly easing out with less dense jungle. The trees had fewer leaves and appeared to be stripped of their barks. The undergrowth was also less dense with the surroundings slowly becoming barren. “Stop,” Amit shouted. The floor suddenly ended to reveal a deep crater like area, devoid of any vegetation.

Ordinarily, any pothole or crater turns into ponds during monsoon. This was an exception, and there was not a drop of water, no vegetation. Amit scratched his head in disbelief.

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‘I have to dig into this more thoroughly when I get back to England,’ Amit made a mental note. There was some noise in the scarce shrubs that they passed by. There were a few monkeys, some babies clinging to their parents, who ran past. The team froze. All of them were albinos, ivory white in colour and coated sparingly with hair. Somehow they were frightening!

The entire team trudging in the wild jungles stopped short and were speechless with bewilderment. The crater was like a glistening white desert. Amit waved to all of them to stop and hurriedly went around to the farthest outer ring on the opposite side to pick up a little of the white earth from the crater area.

“Come, let us move on,” he urged. But his mind said that something was just not right. There was a sinister feeling around the area. The few crows that he saw on the other side were albinos, too, but they were hopping rather than flying. Their wings were distorted, almost like the penguins, and they had very few or no feathers. Amit himself had cramps in his stomach and felt uneasy.

They walked back in silence. Dipak was the one who was leading them with renewed vigour now. He was happy to be leaving these lands infested with albino snakes and going back to the boat. Once on board, he could escape to the toilet and have a quick gulp of the country liquor which he had carefully brought while leaving Pakhiralay to last the entire tour. It was a godsend during these moments of crisis.

Amit’s mind was busy trying to recapitulate the visit to this island. There were no signs of human incursion, at least on the side where they had landed and accessed point zero, as he had named it. There, they saw their boat several metres down the river, with the tide ebbing. They had spent nearly four and a half hours on the mysterious terrain. Jibon was already waving at them. They silently boarded, while the policeman fetched his bag and slid into the toilet.

Amit sat down on the chair, tired.

“Saar,” Jibon whispered.

Amit looked at him enquiringly.

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“Did you see any shining hole in the island?” he asked. “You may or not believe what I have to say. I heard it from my grandfather. He who steps on the island of Kalmori must atone by taking a mud bath from the bank. Otherwise, you turn into a ghost,” Jibon was convinced about what he was saying.

“What rubbish,” Amit chided.

“Yes saar, a white ghost, with red eyes and no hair,” Jibon was emphatic.

Amit’s heart stopped for a moment. “Was the snake that we saw not white? Were the monkeys not white with red eyes? Were the crows not white with red eyes and no feathers?”

“I think I’ll listen to you, Jibon,” Amit replied, to his relief.

The policeman and Biru were already on the bank, lavishly applying the mud on their bodies. “I have already arranged to collect a bucketful of mud and have also liberally squeezed lemon juice into it as it ought to be done. You can take your bath now,” Jibon suggested. It was a sight to see, the uncle and nephew in their barest minimum and looking like muddy ghosts!

But, thanks to the mud bath, they were spared from becoming red-eyed white ghosts! Amit shouted to Biru, asking him to fetch some of the mud from the bank and neatly packed it in a plastic envelope. “Back in Kolkata or in England, I need to get the sample analysed,” he thought.

They were all exhausted. Amit went into the pilot’s cabin and asked Malik about their present location. He bent down and picked a bunch of weather beaten papers that had turned khaki with age.

He scrutinised a few and finally showed Amit one. “Many islands vanish and new ones emerge. So, the old maps become useless and that makes navigation really difficult,” he clarified.

Amit was hardly paying attention to what he was saying. He had nearly zeroed in on the location and had noted the position of the latitude and longitude of the place from the map in his small diary.

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The cold beer and the fried fish charged them up once again and tasted more delicious than ever. Raju was sleeping on the boat, already tired after the long walk into the jungles. Amit quietly unwound the camera from his neck without waking him. He switched the machine on, and pressed the view button. The 64GB memory stick with large images could store as many as 800 RAW along with JPEG images and Raju, having nothing else to do during his jaunt, had done more than justice to his learning skills. Amit started downloading the images on to his laptop.

The boat was sailing on and he did not realise how long he had slept. The sky was getting cloudy and he glanced at the camera and the computer. The transfer of images was over. When Banchharam announced that food was ready, everybody immediately responded, hungry as they all were. Amit woke up Raju, who jumped awake, apparently from the middle of yet another scary dream. Having packed away the camera and closed the computer, Amit decided to browse through the photos after lunch.

After a hearty lunch, Amit lay down and opened his laptop to go through the photos. “What!” he felt irritated. The photographs being loaded on to the computer only moments ago were nowhere to be seen. “When we get back to Kolkata, I need to check and reload the software,” he thought. This was the first time there had been a malfunction. In any case, the photos were safe in his camera. He opened his camera and pressed the ‘view images’ button. ‘NO IMAGES’ with text highlighted in red blinked on the screen before his baffled eyes! Somebody had deliberately deleted the files, both from his computer and the camera! He was sweating, not so much from the sultry weather this time, but from the feeling of being surrounded by unknown inimical forces, which had some hidden and dangerous agenda.

“Be patient and more watchful,” he told himself. He had no choice but to yield.

Raju was unaware of all this and was engrossed in Bram Stoker’s Dracula. They were now closer to an island in the region of Dobanki, where they decided to stay for the night. Malik studied his timetable and announced that they would have to start out very early in the morning to avoid the ebb tide. With the starry sky above and muddy soil beneath, it was yet another evening where Jibon entertained them with his flute and his powerful songs.

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Darkness was setting in, and the noise of birds changed as they headed for their nests, sharing the trees with the monkeys. The sky and the waters were awash with the dusky hues of red and orange. They could see the silhouettes of deer elegantly grazing in the tall grass. The great cats were sharp and prowled at these vantage points to pounce on them. Amit wondered which one of the animals would live to see another day. They had an early dinner and decided to go to bed early. They had to share a dormitory without a fan. However, the weather was pleasant and Amit thought it would be best to slip into his sleeping bag. Raju was already asleep in his.

They left early in the morning, missing their bath. A morning tea was, however, made available. It smelt of smoke, having been prepared in a clay oven burnt with wood, but nobody complained. It was a long sail initially through several kharis, until the boat came to a very large bay. The journey continued with the monotonous whirr of the diesel engine. They saw a group of alligators basking in the morning sun.

There was no end to the water to the south of them. Some dolphins were jumping together as if to impress them. It was a lazy sail through the outer edge of the Sundarban delta on their way back to Sajnekhali.

It was about 3 pm and they could see the piers of the Sajnekhali embankment.

The clerk was there with his assistant, Dasaratha, ready to welcome them. They all disembarked and went into the clerk’s room. He had replaced the guest chair with his own and forced Amit to sit, while he remained standing.

“Sometimes, people are happier while seeing someone off than while welcoming them,” Amit mused.

He generously tipped everyone around and the happy faces withdrew hurriedly — the policeman to quench his thirst, the boat crew to beat the ebb tide, lest they be tied to the place all night and Jibon to head for home.

The guide came close to Amit and whispered, “Next time, whenever you visit, please call this number and I will try to be more useful to you.” He slid his address and phone details into Amit’s hand and bade good bye. “Where was Manna?”

Amit wondered, but he let it pass.

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The faster private boat sailed Raju and Amit to Sonakhali. They could see a black Scorpio on the banks. The driver was waving to them. Soon, they were home.

Rekha, Amit’s sister and Raju’s mother, was already at the gate to welcome them.

“In just a short trip, you look ten years older. I must get you married before you return to London,” she said.

Amit simply smiled and slid into the car.

Raju was ecstatic. “Ma, many interesting things happened. I caught a tiger on camera,” he said proudly. Little did he know that there were no photos left on either the camera’s memory card or in the computer!

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C H A P T E R 15

Xiongsen, China There was frenzied activity elsewhere, too. The report filed by their field office in Reston and subsequently relayed by the lab at Xiongsen had stirred up interest in both the academic and military hierarchy. The otherwise nondescript lab in Xiongsen, near Guilin in south-east China, became the focal point of a flurry of activity overnight. Several top level officials from the Chinese army and government were arriving by the 16-seater Chinese Harbin Z-15, while some were being escorted by armed-to-the-teeth CAIC WZ-10 attack helicopters to the highlyclassified secret facility. Air-to-air capability gun machines revealed the presence of VIPs in the vicinity as well as the kind of astute security being provided for them.

From amongst the several smart-suited and peak-capped personnel, one figure stood out in his battle fatigues and beret — the battalion insignia on his shoulder band proclaiming EBR, or East Bengal Regiment. The shoulder flap revealed his rank as a colonel. “We are already the foremost power on Earth in several manufacturing sectors. They cannot drink coffee and tea if we do not manufacture plastic cups; the West and the US will have to shut down if we shut our manufacturing plants. They will be forced to walk barefoot if we do not sell them any shoes. It’s the same in case of several other commodities. Wal-Mart will have empty shelves if they shun our country. The rhetoric of China dumping goods and their levying of penal duties are merely political gimmicks that they have to adopt to please their domestic industry and voters. The fact is that we rule over them as the manufacturing hub of the world and shall continue to do so in the future, too,” the communist leader looked around the small hall, where heads nodded in approval at every sentence he spoke.

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“Our total energy consumption in 2006 was 73.8 quadrillion Btus, of which we could derive almost 70% of energy from coal, 20% from oil, 6% from hydroelectricity, 3% from natural gas, 1% from nuclear resources and 0.1% from other renewable sources. In less than a decade, our estimated energy needs are likely to see an increasing rate at 6% and shoot beyond 98 quadrillion Btus. We are likely to reach from the present 1,700 Twh to 4,200 Twh/ year by 2030.”

The crowd present understood every word that he spoke and many were intimately aware of the statistics that he laid before them from memory. “We have coal, we have oil, we have natural gas, but they will be exhausted one day. We will try to exhaust the available resources of other countries in the world and then start tapping our own natural resources more intensively. Besides our increasingly dominant presence in West Asia, we have strategically moved into Africa, Latin America and have tapped several countries for our energy needs. The Western countries will create hurdles if we bite into their territory. We have our own less explored West and North-Western China, including the Tibetan plateau, which will also be an Aladdin’s lamp for us in the future.”

The captive crowd still did not understand the real reason for this hurried secret meeting at such short notice. However, they were not impatient as the preamble was usually longer if the matter was important or grave. “The fact is that the country is facing a huge shortage of energy and there is a concerted attempt by the capitalist western nations to impose controls on us, on our growth and prosperity by defining carbon emission limits. We shall oppose it appropriately with several other developing nations, including India. We cannot stunt our growth and we shall continue to be the driving power of the world in the next decade. We shall move far ahead of America, and Europe will be too divided to disturb us in any way.” The speech was laced with political overtones, as the speaker was no ordinary person. He was a high official from the State Energy Coordination Task Force (SECTF), directly reporting to the State Council, and held a position equivalent to a Cabinet rank. The faces around were passive and waited patiently for the official to continue.

“We shall be meeting our energy needs in 2020 with new ideas. Now, I come to the reason as to why all of us had to meet here and so urgently.” At his signal, one 156

of his junior officers stood up, cleaning his spectacles. The lights were dimmed and the slide presentation of selected pictures and geology details received clandestinely from Eagle Eyes Inc. USA came alive one after another in the screen, with comments from the official.

“We are privy to a vital source of information that a rare element has been located in the Bay of Bengal area, in an island close to Bangladesh. The mineral, thousands of tonnes of it trapped in the island within Indian Territory, is not from our world and has perhaps been brought in by a meteorite strike. It is also very rare and may have some special use in the energy sector. We unexpectedly came upon this unique area while doing a recce in the region with our satellites. Colonel Rehman from the Bangladesh army, who has been specially invited to this meeting, will add his view, if any, at a later time. The problem is, the island where the unique mineral source has been located falls within Indian Territory and, apparently, the Government of India is still unaware of the find. Our scientists will get the first sample for their tests in the next few days. We need to get hold of the find and must be prepared to take the place over. Although the Government of Bangladesh will in no way involve itself in this mission because of its diplomatic relations with India, our friend, Colonel Rehman, and others who are committed to strengthen the relations between our two nations, and who are opposed to the hegemony of India and its role in Bangladesh, will be assisting us in accessing the target region and procuring the rare mineral deposit from the island.”

The meeting was interrupted by a call on the cell phone of a senior Chinese official, who briefly walked out of the room to take the call. “I have bad news. News from Linda Liao is that her source may have begun to suspect her,” the voice from the other end creaked. Unperturbed, the stiff figure gave a curt command and disconnected the phone. The man calmly walked into the hall, returned to his seat and resumed listening to the presentation intently. The long deliberation, with several clarifications, lasted nearly four hours, with a steady supply of the best tea from Longjing village. The scientists, the physicists, the engineers, all of them had something to say — some on the quality of the element located and some on the logistics of acquiring it. The meeting ended with a consensus, with all officials departing after having the limited fare of food available at the discreet facility. The 157

colonel from the East Bengal Regiment was taken to the nearest military airport, from where he would fly with two other Chinese experts back to Chittagong, Bangladesh.

Arthur was sleeping peacefully, unaware that the earth had shaken below his feet. Linda was also preparing the best tea from Longjing village to wake her paramour ceremoniously. Linda’s handset rang once again and she hurried to fetch it.

“Hello.” As usual, the call was brief.

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C H A P T E R 16

Arthur Dies Ken Brown, the CIO of Eagle Eyes Inc., called for a private meeting of his confidantes for the damage evaluation on data apparently copied, leaked or stolen from the system. It was a routine job that he was trained for. Being a Vietnam War veteran, having survived the leech-infested muddy jungles as a Vietcong prisoner and having successfully escaped, he knew when not to take any chances and how to bend the rules when it mattered.

There were several identifiable, most often sensitive and important data that the satellites were dishing out every day. They varied from the obscure nuclear installations from North Korea and Iran, the military movements from various warmongering nations to valuable mineral and hydrology data from around the world. Ken could not comprehend why the data pertaining to the relatively unyielding watery jungle would have interested anybody. Anyway, he was no scientist or prospector. His job was to ensure protection of his employer’s data and assets.

He asked one of his best boys to keep a tab on Arthur and report back for any leads. The meeting went unrecorded to avoid any contradiction with Steve’s clearance of such unauthorised data retrieval by Arthur.

Arthur came to his office in his own car, followed by Linda in her Red Mitsubishi Eclipse 2007. The day began as usual for him with his large mug of coffee. A special request had come from the government to all remote sensing agencies, asking them to file all reports on the increased migration of birds across the world to track the spread of bird flu.

The right shoulder, where Linda had bit him in the frenzy of their lovemaking the previous night, gave him a pleasurable pain. He needed her the most. It was a deci159

sion he had to make and perhaps he would propose to her over the weekend. He might also take her to his mother and kids. “Hi, Arthur,” the sweet voice of his sweetheart whispered near his ears. Startled, he turned back to see Linda thrusting a letter at him. It was from Steve, an office memo which read that Linda Liao was being transferred to Arthur’s department and shall report to him with immediate effect. “Guide me boss,” she teased Arthur. Dutiful that he was, Arthur immediately got on to the job and gave her curt instructions as both went on with their jobs as seasoned professionals. Arthur went to the conference room to meet his clients for a scheduled presentation. No one noticed Linda access Arthur’s computer, insert a memory card and type some commands before pausing it the way Arthur did prior to leaving the room.

Linda saw her own face reflected on the computer screen. She had no remorse.

She had to sacrifice her personal emotions. After all, she had a much more important role to play for her country. Blissfully unaware of the new chip inserted into his computer, Arthur came in right before lunch to type in sensitive data on the details, which were awaited by Linda’s masters at a remote Chinese town in Xiongsen. Arthur handled his computer deftly and loved teasing it. The search for bird migration routes to track carriers of the avian influenza virus was going on simultaneously in a separate search window with his main job of having to collate information that was needed to file the next interim report to his Chinese clients.

The mineral and hydrology department had to send in their initial inputs, which were due later in the day. He decided to call the concerned person and pressed the intercom.

“Sorry, it beats me and my boys,” confided the scientist-in-charge. We ran every kind of sensing apparatus and could only say that the area has an unknown heavy element emitting mild radioactivity and that the target place is also rich in some other material, particularly around the island with the white patch, which can be better identified only after physical examination. It could well be a clandestine dump yard for some radioactive waste. It’s worth a closer look. At present, it’s a wild guess, but the place is definitely intriguing.” The experienced scientist went on for the next twenty minutes or so, explaining the possible elements that could match with the data retrieved so far and the uses and application of such minerals.

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“Scientists are always confusing and one cannot make head or tail of what is on their minds,” Arthur thought. However, he dutifully recorded the details of the conversation with the mineralogy expert in his computer, which was also copied to the small unseen chip inserted by Linda. The day’s job over, she effortlessly retrieved the small memory card. She left a few minutes ahead of a disappointed Arthur after excusing herself, saying she had some urgent work. The small packet was smartly slid into the arm extended from the window of the worn-out Ford, which was waiting on the way, with no verbal exchange between the giver and taker.

As Arthur was driving back, his cell phone rang. He had taken a shortcut and was in the middle of a country road with less traffic. He picked up the phone without bothering to stop the car, for there was little chance of the cops catching him in this desolate road. “Hello,” although the deep voice was familiar, he could not place it immediately. “I am your well-wisher,” the voice continued. “I understand that you are in the midst of a deep espionage ring.....” the person at the other end was barely audible. The deep voice continued to rattle, but the driver could hear no more. The ears had become muffled and inaudible. Arthur felt uneasy. “What the hell?”......he had a lump in his throat and had slight difficulty in breathing. The voice on the other end was rattling on about spying and treason, but it hardly registered in Arthur’s oxygen-starved brain.

“Shit, the asthma.” He frantically searched for his nebuliser, trying to steady his car at the same time. Puff, Puff..... “What the...” the small handy condenser with vapour, which he had just bought yesterday and which had not been used even once, was completely empty! Puff, puff, puff....He could not believe it. There was no trace of the medicine vapour! He was still in control of his senses. He quickly reached for the glove box of the car, where he always kept a spare canister as an emergency stand-by.

Puff, puff, puff… He was scared. This one was just as empty too. He vividly recalled that he had recently bought it and had not even used it once. But it was just as empty as his lungs, which would not listen. They were constricting as if caught and crushed by an anaconda. His eyes were bulging out. The blood flow to the

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brain transported less and less oxygen. It was only a matter of seconds before the system collapse would be felt all over the body.

Arthur couldn’t fathom how a new nebuliser could be empty. He stared in utter disbelief. Someone must have tinkered with it. “But who?” Arthur wanted to stop the car. His leg tried pressing the brakes but, instead, he pressed the accelerator. The car skidded and seemed to run out of control. “My God, what was that?” His vision was blurring. Yet, his brain was telling him that there seemed to be a car coming from the opposite side of the country road. Arthur swerved and hit a concrete pillar head-on at a speed that was enough to be fatal for any occupant inside the vehicle.

But the crash did not kill Arthur. The asthmatic attack did. The dripping gas hastened his death. The grey worn-out Ford drove nearer; the ponytailed oriental came close to the car, pulling out a gun from his waist and looked around for any approaching vehicles. He stared at the body for any sign of life and gently placed his hand on the driver’s neck. There was no pulse. He was spared of a job, which otherwise he would have carried out with utmost precision. Satisfied, he moved on with his Ford, flinging a lighted match stick, as the crashed vehicle burst into flames. He had more urgent business to attend to!

Eagle Eyes gave a fitting tribute to one of their finest executives and Linda, with red swollen eyes, was visibly shaken at the loss of her boyfriend.

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C H A P T E R 17

Oh! Kolkata Amit was busy in his sister’s house in Kolkata, feverishly working on his laptop.

There were many callers, mostly neighbours and relatives with marriageable daughters. He, however, had more important things on his mind. He had to get the small piece of lead, part of the bullet fired at them from the boat, checked by an expert; he had to get the clayey mud, collected from the river bank, as well as the white earth from the crater, analysed; he had to check the exact location of the island Kalmori, or point zero as he had christened it, from the log that he had entered in his diary.

“Who was Manna? Was he the one who entered my hotel room in Pakhiralay to steal my maps? What was being loaded in the boats in the middle of the night?

Who were those who shot at us in the canals? Who was Manna conversing with on a powerful wireless transmitter? Who, in the absence of Manna, wiped out all the photos from my computer and camera? Who are Manna’s accomplices and what are they up to?” There were just too many unanswered questions. His trip to the Sundarban had unleashed an excitement never experienced before, notwithstanding the fact that he had no chance to spot any tigers, save the accidental photograph taken by Raju. Amit’s mind wandered to the mysterious island of white earth and the albino reptiles and animals.

The night was long as his sister was busy narrating long domestic tales. Raju joined them and promptly began to narrate exactly what happened during their sojourn in the Sundarban. But Amit soon cut him short so as not to traumatize his sister. They went to bed late, after he jotted down all the points necessary to follow

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the slender leads that he had got till now. He also downloaded the map of the point zero region which Jibon had called Kalmori.

“I shall try and zoom in to the map tomorrow to check the location and contents,” he thought, before tiredness got the better of him and he slept, for the first time after four nights, on a comfortable and cosy bed. The swaying of the boat and the whirr of the engine still roared in his ears as he closed his eyes.

The day broke lazily as the cook served bed tea. On glancing at his watch, Amit sprang from his bed. It was well past 11 am. He had to go to the Geological Survey Department to meet a long-time friend with whom he had made an appointment. With the steaming tea cup in hand, he ran to fetch his shaving kit. His stubborn beard was removed, but not without letting some blood flow. Satisfied at returning to his normal self, he hurried with his bath, finished lunch and ran to catch the Metro to the Park Street Station.

The Geological Survey was a stone’s throw from there. The orderly crowd and clean station was a paradox in an otherwise undisciplined Kolkata. He was amazed at the cacophony of horns; pedestrians merrily ignoring zebra crossings; indifferent traffic cops; a procession that choked the entire road; beggars who disturbed riders at traffic signals and the menacing buses and mini buses that raced recklessly to meet destination deadlines. There were also several seasoned street hawkers ready to pack and vanish at the sight of the police vans, only to return promptly as they turned the corner. Amit also saw a lone astrologer who could predict everybody’s future save his own.

The receptionist on the ground floor was an old woman who ignored him. “It is going to be lunch time. Will you come back after 2 pm?” It sounded more like a statement than a question. He merely frowned and had to reach his cell phone to announce his arrival to his friend, Bikash, who promptly came down waving to him from the worn-out elevator.

“Hi Amit,” the bear hug showed genuine warmth. “Let us go upstairs.”

He was ushered into the spacious second floor cabin allotted to his friend. In the far corner, on the floor, there were several stones of various colours with numbers 164

written on them. “These are very precious--some are from meteorites and some are millions of years old, dug out from various parts of the world,” he said.

Amit, for once, glanced at them and reached for the packet of heavy white earth that he had brought from the Sundarban. “What is it, Amit?” His geologist friend enquired. “That is precisely what I want to know,” he replied.

The next half an hour or so was spent in describing his trip to the Sundarban and his chance discovery of a remote island with a white crater, where almost all living beings were albinos. His friend got curious, too, and promised to look into the matter. Amit then produced a packet of clayey soil that they were made to rub on their bodies by Jibon upon their arrival on the river bank from Kalmori Island.

“It seems you have given me enough work for one visit,” his friend smilingly said.

“Give me a week’s time. Tomorrow, a second Saturday, is a day off for us. On Monday, there’s a strike called by a political party. As you know, the frequent strikes called here have to be either on weekends or in the beginning of the week to give everyone a long stretch of holidays, which also ensures their success,” his friend winked at him. “I can at best start work on Tuesday and try to get some data by Friday.”

Amit was grateful. There could not have been any other faster way. After exchanging some pleasantries, he left.

The old lady at the reception was knitting a sweater while gossiping with two other colleagues. They did not notice his departure, nor were bothered by it, as it was their lunch time!

Amit stepped back into the world of pandemonium and strolled up to Park Street, dodging the touts whispering of the best massage parlours in town and beggars pretending to be lepers with grotesquely painted legs imitating open flesh and blood.

The old-world charm was ever vibrant at Flury’s, famous for its light snacks, bakery products and hot beverages. He entered and settled for a small table for two in a cosy corner and took out his pocket notebook, ordering chicken sandwiches and coffee.

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“Sir,” he heard a familiar voice over his head. He turned to see which student of his had come over to seek help in her thesis. It was Anita, the one who wanted to work on ‘Prey species of Tigers in the Sundarban.’

“Hi, how in the world are you here?” She dragged forward her companion, an elderly gentleman in his sixties with a jhola on his shoulder, dressed in a crisp, starched green kurta and white trousers. His flowing, shoulder-length silver hair enhanced his grace. The thick horn-rimmed spectacles with high powered glasses proclaimed his scholastic background. “Sir, this is my uncle, Professor Timir Sinha, who is an expert on Brahmi and ancient scripts. He has spent all his life writing and lecturing on the early Hindu civilisation and its evolution.” “And this is Dr. Amit Roy, the London professor who will be my mentor in my pursuit for the doctoral thesis.” Anita finished her introductions.

The handshake from Prof. Sinha was firm and the smile warm. “Why don’t you join us?” The professor, without waiting for an answer, took him by his arm and made him sit at a larger table. Prof. Sinha briefed Amit on his specialisation, which he listened to with rapt attention. He was impressed with the list of books and papers he had authored and also learnt that he was an international authority on the subject. As he was speaking, he took out his Dunhill Christmas 2009 pipe which surely cost more than US $1,000 and started filling it expertly with Davidoff Pipe Tobacco. Amit had to acknowledge that he was a connoisseur as far as tobacco was concerned.

“Now that I have found you in Kolkata, you must pay me a visit in the village. Although I also stay with my uncle in Kolkata at Jodhpur Park, I enjoy the rustic beauty of village life,” Anita said.

They exchanged addresses and contact details. As they left the restaurant, Prof.

Sinha lit his pipe and enjoyed a long puff, turned back to Amit and scoffed, “Look at the misery, they have a law banning smoking everywhere. Can they stop these taxis belching black soot right into your face?” Amit smiled again without arguing.

Occasionally, he too secretly enjoyed a puff or two of the choicest of Havana cigars in a pub he frequented in London. There, too, smoking was now banned and he was left to enjoy the rare few puffs within the confines of his home.

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They parted with assurances to meet once again.

“I could finish one more important task before returning home,” Amit thought and walked towards Dalhousie Square. He expertly manoeuvred through the maze of hawkers crowding the pavements right from Lindsay Street, shouting the virtues of their wares, coaxing the reluctant passers-by that it was the last chance to make a killing.

He crossed Chowringhee with a private bus whizzing past and narrowly missing him, startling him out of breath. He had been born and bred in Kolkata, but his stay in England had taught him to observe road safety while walking or driving.

The multifarious sounds of horns were deafening. “Or am I overreacting?” He had no time to think and was now being pushed by an impatient crowd which had to cross over. He proceeded towards Dalhousie, now renamed BBD Bag, through the narrow Bentinck Street.

The sprawling police headquarters in Dalhousie Square was more than a hundred years old. Built by the British with a large courtyard at its centre, it was flanked by three storeyed buildings on all four sides. Traffic control in front of the large complex was as disastrous as anywhere else in the city.

He went to the entry door and requested to be sent over to the Deputy Commissioner of Police, who was an old friend and to whom he had announced his visit.

The policeman guarding the reception did not press him any further to surrender his cell phone and allowed him to proceed to the reception. The disinterested lady looked up at him and made him fill up a visitors’ slip, after which he was guided to his friend’s office.

His friend was curious. He was also certain that Amit would not get himself into trouble and then ask for a bailout.

“It’s a funny story,” Amit began.

“Wait, let me get you some tea,” the officer signalled for tea and then was all ears.

He described his trip to the Sundarban and focussed on the firing incident. He produced the bullet carefully tucked in his pocket.

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“Looks like it’s been fired from a Kalashnikov,” the experienced cop was confident. “This cannot be from the local thugs and must be the handiwork of a more organised gang. I shall retain this to check from the ballistics expert and shall get back to you.”

Amit thanked him profusely, promised to spend an evening with him over drinks and left. He stepped once again into the world of disorder and chaos, boarded a minibus and headed for home.

It was almost eight in the evening by the time the nerve-racking minibus speeded its way to its destination, dropping him on the way near his home. He marvelled at his co-passengers, who were brave enough to commute daily under such gruelling conditions.

There was quite a crowd in the house. Some were distant relatives, some were neighbours. Amit had to attend to all of them, lest they dub him as arrogant or unfriendly. One of the neighbours discreetly brought up the question of his marital preference only to be chided by another prospective bidder, thus saving his energy.

All of them left almost at the same time, albeit reluctantly.

He set to work on his computer, with Raju sitting by his side. When he told Raju about the mysterious way in which the photographs had been erased both from his camera and laptop, he was too shocked to speak for a few seconds. More than being curious about who might have done it, he was heartbroken that he had perhaps lost forever the first proof of his blooming talent at photography. He had painstakingly clicked each of those snaps, which heightened his grief.

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C H A P T E R 18

The Kidnapping It was quite a long wait for Ponytail. He had been out from the morning, scouting at different places for his target. The senile scientist had defined the parameters clearly — “Must be dark skinned, not brown and preferably jet black, around four to five years.”

The few children queuing up while getting off the school bus were all under the vigilant eye of the driver. So, there was no luck there. “No, this cannot be the right place,” thought Ponytail as he engaged the gears and moved on. The car moved into the coloured neighbourhood. There was the old nanny pushing a pram with a small child in it. He could have easily overpowered the old lady, but the child was barely a few months old. The old nanny chanced to look at him and smiled, nodding her head. But he was in no mood to reciprocate and kept a blank expression on his face, seeing which the confused nanny pushed the pram hurriedly and disappeared from sight.

For a moment, Ponytail thought of abandoning the project. He could kill anyone without remorse, but abducting a child was not his cup of tea. But the instructions from his boss clearly said, “Just obey the scientist and provide him with all the required assistance. Get him all that he needs, regardless of what he asks for.” He parked the car at the parking lot near a reasonably crowded store. An experienced hand, he tried to stay clear of all the surveillance cameras he could see.

He longed for a puff, but grudgingly decided to put off the desire until he had accomplished his goal. He picked up a plastic basket in the store and moved listlessly between the shelves. He usually avoided shops and loathed crowds. The only place he felt comfortable in was the downtown Chinese colonies where he used to go 169

daily to pick up the vernacular newspaper and, occasionally, to buy some bare-all magazines. He could play mahjong with silent partners, who would sip jasmine tea or wine all day long. Ponytail was a loner, dedicated only to his boss and would even lay down his life, if asked to do so. He did not socialise and stayed away from petty crimes. He was arrested once for manslaughter and resisting arrest, but was given a liberal suspended sentence, thanks to his influential boss.

The old man pushing a trolley with household items and the girl who was tugging at his trousers caught his attention. The girl could be around five years old and her dark skin matched nearly with her neatly pleated black hair. “This fits to the T,” he decided. He left the basket, took a vantage position near the exit and waited patiently. The old man was also a finicky customer, checking each label for expiry dates and comparing the different promos and discounts before settling to put any item into his trolley. It was quite a long and arduous wait for Ponytail.

“Here he is.” The old man was coming out of the store, carrying two large bags in both hands with the child right behind him. The girl’s eyes were moist because she had been denied a toy at the store. The old man turned back once to admonish her. As they were walking on the pavement, Ponytail started his car and slowly cruised behind the old man, who stopped for a moment, put his bag on the pavement and dug his hand into his trouser pockets. Taking out his mobile phone, he answered a call. Ponytail looked around. There weren’t many people nearby.

Those few who were within sight were busy with their own chores. “Now or never,” he thought. He was within a couple of yards of the child, and slowly showed the toy the girl had so desperately wanted from the car’s window. The innocent child looked disbelievingly at the toy, her eyes sparkling with joy. She looked hesitatingly at the old man, who was deeply immersed in his conversation.

As she stepped slowly towards the car, Ponytail smiled at her, encouraging the child to come closer. The girl obliged, lured by her favourite toy.

A split second later, the door opened and she was whisked in. The hanky smeared with anaesthetic knocked her off immediately as the Chinese man pushed her near the foot rest under the front seat. In the next few seconds, the car sped towards its destination. The Chinese looked satisfactorily at the glowing black skin of the small girl. The toy lay on the kerb.

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C H A P T E R 19

The National Library It was about 3 pm in London. Amit phoned his friend, who had earlier supplied him with the detailed maps of the Sundarban region. He was assured that a copy of the maps would be sent by DHL the same day to reach him within the following two days. He dialled another friend, who was an expert in radio and telecommunication. “Pick a paper and pen and start writing what I am saying,� Amit urged. He carefully spelt out the model of the radio transmitter that he had seen Manna use in the boat. He gave the serial number of the set and requested him to check on it as well.

Raju was asleep. Amit took out the external hard disc drive in which he had earlier transferred some of the photographs taken and spent the next three hours analysing them. The effort was not wasted, but revealed several interesting bits of information. The picture of the tiger that Raju had unknowingly caught in the frame was hazy, but the great cat was visible, peeping out from the hental bushes.

There it was, the stern of the boat from which they had been shot at. It was a white boat with a blue stripe and looked much newer compared to other boats Amit had come across in the region. However, there were no signs or letters that were visible, so no identity could be established.

He made a lot of notes and then switched on his computer. The internet broadband connection was surprisingly speedy. He e-mailed many of the photographs in several instalments to his own mail ID. At least, if the computer was ever attacked again, the mail server would still store the photographs safely. He also did

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not forget to mail one of the photographs to his friend in the police headquarters with a small note. It was well past midnight when he slid bleary-eyed into bed.

“Uncle, Wake up.” It was Raju, shaking the hell out of him. “I have been trying to wake you up for the last few minutes,” he was excited.

Amit’s eyes ached. He had gone to sleep a few hours ago and it was merely six in the morning. He looked at Raju, who was waving the newspaper in front of him.

The folded inside page read, ‘Poaching in the Sundarban.’ It went on to describe how a full-grown tigress had been killed by poachers who fled in a speed boat after being chased by the river police. The tiger statistics that were provided by forest department officials were contested by a well-known and fiery NGO. The mananimal conflict owing to shrinkage of forest cover was criticised by a political leader from the opposition party from the area. Amit finished reading the news in a few seconds and got up to prepare for another long day.

He spoke to the director of the National Library over the phone and made an appointment in the forenoon. He had breakfast, finished his shower and stepped out into the noise and chaos.

From Southern Avenue, he took a cab to the National Library at Alipore. The library was the largest in India and had a collection of many rare books. The sentry allowed his taxi in when he referred to the director and they cruised into the sprawling lawns filled with colourful flowers in the not-too-cold Kolkata winter.

The wide stairs leading to the director’s office had rows of potted plants. The outer wall was covered by posters put up by the workers’ unions. The person manning the gate ushered him inside to an assistant seated at a table overloaded with files and papers. The old man looked up at him from above his spectacles, which were dangling precariously at the tip of his nose. He requested Amit to take a seat and tried to connect to the director over the intercom. After two attempts, he finally got through and announced Amit’s name over the mouth piece. He was shown the way to his office.

The large teak wood table could have been nearly a century old. The room was Victorian in every respect. The tricolour on the table displayed authority. The director was courteous in offering him tea. Amit explained the purpose of his visit 173

and the need to be given access to old records pertaining to the Sundarban. His credentials proved the genuineness of his query. An old membership card of the library, which he had possessed during his college days, was revalidated in a matter of minutes and he was sent to the Rare Books Section of the library at another end of the sprawling campus.

“Hello and welcome,” the friendly section head was truly helpful. The place was neat and climate-controlled. Many books were available on the computer and in micro-film form. In a few minutes, he was provided with a list of several books and gazettes that contained references to his query. He began the laborious task of sifting through the huge database from the archives. From the myriad reference works available on the Sundarban, there was detailed work on the tribes that dwelt there; the flora and fauna; tigers in particular; the hydrology, and so on. He had to shortlist his area of interest and focus on very few items, at least for the present.

‘Kalmori’, he typed on the computer. There were three references and he noted them down on a sheet of paper with a pencil provided by the assistant, as the use of pens was prohibited here. The assistant went into a special chamber, brought out two well-protected packets and laid them on the table in front of him with utmost care — as if he was laying a newborn in an incubator.

“Please be careful, if you need any help I am just at the corner table,” said the assistant and left. He opened the book and started searching for the related reference. It was a bland two-line mention of an island in the ‘Soonderbund Delta,’ as the British then called it, without any additional inputs.

The next book was an even older Indian narrative of the region, written by a seventeenth century historian. In a lengthy chapter devoted to the Tigers and Soonderbund, he noticed the following reference: “Kalmoree is situated near the islands of Neteedhopanee in the Soonderbund area of the Bay of Bengal. It is an obscure island which is forbidden to visitors. It was learnt that a huge fireball from the sky hit the island many generations ago, turning people and animals white, like ghosts, who do not live long to tell their tale. My best attempts to coax the natives to row me to the island proved futile and the strong currents and the crocodiles around further discouraged any valiant at174

tempt. The elders from the region were scared to talk about the island as if it was sacrilege or as if it was dangerous, like stepping on a poisonous snake,” the author concluded.

“It does match with Jibon’s theory. The guide said something similar to me just a few days back and made me take a mud bath,” Amit recalled. He proceeded to inspect records on Netidhopani and there were several notes that were available: “Hugh Morrreison AQMG, the Surveyors appointed by the British in the early nineteenth century described the region as infested with 'tygers' which discreetly came any time of the day or night and pounced suddenly to grab and take away workmen or the dandies (boatmen), who always lived in fear. These great cats feared no men, no gun, no river and no jungle, and often fiercely fought amongst themselves, roaring so loudly that it chilled the spines of all.”

Amit went on to check even older records.

“Raja Raghunath Ray is reported to have taken refuge in the islands of Neteedhopanee and built a fort in the island. The fort was captured by the Portuguese and later by the salt smugglers. The Raja also erected a Kali temple in the island, worshipped by the dreaded cannibalistic Kutias, who periodically visited the island.

The island is considered by the natives to be hostile as there have been reported sightings of human sacrifice by the fiery native tribes, who visit the island occasionally to placate the Goddess. Such acts of notoriety, however, are unsubstantiated.”

A later reference to the Island contained a short reference to a probable treasure of the Raja buried in the island, which stated: “It is also rumoured that the Raja’s treasures may lie hidden somewhere in the island or the fort, but searches yielded no results and were greatly hindered by snakes and tigers which abound in the island.”

The assistant was by now looking a little impatient, as he already had walked to Amit twice or thrice in the last five minutes.

“Sir,” the voice was more a kind of appeal as he turned around. It was the assistant. His sheepish grin revealed some agenda. “Do you like football matches Sir?”

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Amit replied, “Yes I do. In fact I am an ardent fan of Man U and here in India, my favourite is Mohun Bagan.”

“Sir, today there is a match between Mohun Bagan and Mohammedan Sporting and the game starts at 3 pm. In fact, I have an extra entry ticket and I would be glad to take you with me. In fact, I will make up tomorrow with a few extra hours work for the time that you lose out on today,” the assistant was in a hurry.

Amit did not want to disappoint him. So, though he declined the offer of joining him at the football stadium, he did leave early so he wouldn’t miss the match. After all, he might have to come back and check into the vast records available in this library later. But, for now, the information that he had gathered was substantive. As he left, the section head assured him that he would get the relevant materials photocopied and keep them ready for his next visit. Amit thanked him profusely and departed. He walked out towards the massive arched gate with the sculpture of a lion at the top. The taxi waiting at the gate, much to his surprise, agreed to take him to his next destination without any argument. The library assistant, who was hurrying behind him, requested a lift to the football grounds, to which Amit gladly agreed.

The route from the National Library to the police headquarters was a breezy drive. The taxi drove by the race course along the Red Road crossing, where the library assistant hopped out and ran to watch the kick-off of his favourite football team, along with hundreds of other fans. He forgot to even bid Amit goodbye.

The taxi had to wobble with private buses dwarfing it on either side, driving at break-neck speed to meet their deadlines. Amit lifted the window glass in an otherwise stuffy taxi just to avoid gulping in the poisonous fumes belched out by them.

The drive to the police headquarters from Dalhousie, a sixth of the distance from his point of boarding, took six times the total driving time, with Amit often wondering if it would be prudent to walk down rather than be seated in a smoky coffin. However, he decided to continue his ride, which also gave him some time to think and put together some pieces of the puzzle.

The formalities at the police headquarters were milder this time as the constables manning the gate were the same as the day before. “He is the boss’s friend,” the 176

older policeman whispered to his colleague deliberately in a tone that Amit could hear easily. “He is from a foreign country,” now the policeman smiled at him.

“Where from sir, America or London?” There ended his knowledge of Geography.

Amit replied, teasingly, “From the UK.” “Must be even farther away,” the older policeman informed his junior, who nodded his head obediently. “Please proceed, you know the way already.”

He repeated the walk through the corridor and entered the spic and span first floor, which contained the cabins of all the senior police officials. The secretary looked up at him absentmindedly and gestured him to go in.

“Come, Come.” His friend was as usual affable. The usual tea ceremony was completed with an exchange of pleasantries.

“As I suspected, the bullet was from an AK-47. It is unusual for local thugs or pirates from Bangladesh normally caught operating in the area to have access to such sophisticated weaponry. In fact, the picture that you had mailed me was also sent over to the boys downstairs, who are analysing it. The boys said something is queer about the boat. It does not belong to the area and, although it is flying an Indian flag, there are some inscriptions on a drum that bear some foreign markings,” his friend paused, looking at him. “We would be passing the information on to the river police to search for the boat, but the chances are 50:50, with such a vast network of waterways making it easy for anyone to escape.”

He added, “I am not making any official note on the incident as you would have to be back to give evidence. Fortunately, no one was hurt and that makes my job a little easier.” The officer knew the cobweb of procedures which could often weigh you down, even necessitating appearance in courts, thus interfering with the travel plans of any foreigner.

“I might go back to the area in a few days,” Amit said, though not really sure why he said this.

“Please let me know if you ever decide to visit the region. I would speak to my counterpart in the area to extend better protection,” his friend assured him. Amit 177

thanked him profusely and, before leaving, promised to call on him and his wife at their residence in the next few days.

The sun sets fairly soon in Kolkata during the winters. And this day was no exception. The spirit was festive, with an important football league being played. He stood at a wayside stall for a few seconds to feel the eager pulse of people milling around the small TV. The man next to him smiled and said, “We could have easily scored five goals by now. The boys are just killing time. Anyway, 3-0 is a good enough score to clinch the league shield.”

Amit smiled, nodded and moved on to catch the devil of a minibus which mowed through the maze of Kolkata traffic towards his home in Southern Avenue.

“Uncle, there were many phone calls from an English girl,” Raju announced even before Amit stepped into the house.

He removed his shoes and looked at Raju.

“English?” he asked. “You must be mistaken. It could be Anita Guha, one of my students.”

He was wondering why she hadn’t called him until then. Though he carried his mobile and the number was still the same, roaming charges were so steep that it could cause deep holes in his pocket. So, he had limited his number’s circulation to his secretary and a few close friends.

“I’ll get a local mobile phone and a number for temporary use here,” he thought.

“Uncle, no. It is not Anita or any name like that. She gave her name and a contact number....let me check.” Raju took out a paper from near the telephone, where he had scribbled the details. “Her name is Helena or something like that. She has given a number requesting you to contact her immediately.”

Amit checked the number. He could not recollect any lady by the name of Helena. He decided to call her after finishing tea and sank into the sofa. His sister’s flat — a large one at 3,000 odd square feet, beautifully located in Southern Ave-

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nue, facing the lakes, a watery spread of nearly 300 acres amongst lush gardens and trees — was always a treat for the eyes, the mind and the soul.

The paper in his hand nudged him to call the number on it.

The telephone was answered by a male voice. “Charcoal Guest House,” the voice answered.

Amit broke into Bengali, explaining that there had been a few calls from the number and the caller had requested to be contacted. It was a lady and the name was Helen or something like that.

“Sir, the Manager has gone to the doctor. Could you call back in 15-20 minutes? I am the security guard and do not know the details.” Amit disconnected, noting the number down in his small diary.

“Amit, just come and see who has come,” his sister called out from the drawing room. He quickly looked at himself in the mirror, set his unkempt hair with his fingers and went out to check.

His uncle, Tarun Bose, was a tall man with a powerful personality. After serving for a short period in the army, he was chosen for a posting in the Home Department of Government of India, in an outfit similar to the MI5 in England. His aunt, who had accompanied was an author of many books, a music exponent as well as a socialite, was well-known in the city.

“Hi there, my boy.” His uncle stopped him midway as Amit bent down to touch his feet. His embrace was like a bear’s, but was full of warmth and love. His aunt looked at him disapprovingly and wondered how long he would live on pizzas and fast food in England.

“Right things have to be done at the right time, too.” His sister was philosophical about Amit getting married at the right age. Amit just laughed it out. She went back into the kitchen with the cook, followed by his aunt. He had an hour or so of pure bliss, discussing everything under the sun with his uncle who had spent a lot of time carrying Amit on his shoulders when he was a child. He had taught him to cycle, swim and drive a scooter and motorcycle. He had also travelled with him to dense forests and various other adventurous places. His uncle had played a pivotal 179

role in shaping him into a composite human being, teaching him to educate himself beyond bookish knowledge.

It was nearly ten at night when they departed and Amit came back to his room.

Suddenly, he remembered the missed calls and promptly dialled the number noted in his diary.

A voice answered “Charcoal Guest House.”

“Look I had a few calls.....,” Amit repeated what he had said earlier. “Yes, yes. Let me connect you.” A few seconds later, a female voice answered “Elena Valson”. It was not a familiar name for Amit.

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C H A P T E R 20

The Silent Intrusion “Impossible!” fumed the Consul General of the People’s Republic of China in Kolkata. “We are trying to build better relations with India and cannot afford to have a diplomatic standoff on the issue of a Chinese boat caught deep inside Indian shores.”

“Energy or no energy!” thundered the consul. He had every reason to be in a bad mood. China was trying its best to build good relations with India. There were several irritants — the Dalai Lama, Tibet, Arunachal Pradesh, anti-dumping duties on its exports...the list was long. The Chinese government had been permitted to open a consulate in Kolkata, West Bengal, with great difficulty. The local government was more than friendly as it was then run by a Left alliance headed by the Communists.

South China Airlines had commenced a direct flight service from Kolkata to Kunming in mainland China. Cultural and trade delegations exchanged visits many times a year. There were apparently more Chinese restaurants in the city of Kolkata than any offering local cuisine. Obviously, the carefully nurtured seed of a fruitful relationship should not be spoilt by some stupid clandestine scientific expedition to the Sundarban — an area adjoining Bangladesh and considered sensitive by defence and environment agencies alike.

The consul general was a career diplomat and a stickler for rules. The second call to the consul general was from an official with authority greater than his.

The official from Beijing was almost harsh. “It is of the utmost importance and urgency for our country. No, there would not be any objection from Bangladesh, 181

although they would not officially know about our expedition. A section of the military from Bangladesh will provide the logistics needed for the expedition. In the unlikely event of the team or any member of it being apprehended, the consul could step in to offer assistance. However, chances are remote for any such eventuality as several overlapping security blankets have been created.”

The career diplomat did not like this one bit. He shuddered at the thought of every news channel carrying the breaking news, “Chinese submarine caught spying in Indian waters.” He had his limitations and decided not to record the conversation at all.

The illegitimate group of officers — a few from the East Bengal Rifles and others from the Bangladesh Rifles (BDR), who were secretly opposed to warmer Indo-Bangla relations — were huddled in a meeting at the Port city of Chittagong in Bangladesh. There was the Colonel Rehman from the East Bengal Rifles and two Chinese diplomats who explained the logistics to the committed group.

“It is crucial for our country to help the Chinese access the Indian island and procure rock samples for their research, which will help mankind. More important, it should not be accessed by India, which will capitalise on the find and invariably fail to pass on any benefit to our country. We are divided from the region by the river Raimangal, barely a few kilometres away from the target area. Inshallah, we shall help our Chinese friends with all our resources and might. In turn, they will support us in our struggle against Indian hegemony.” The colonel’s short speech was laced with all the elements of fanaticism, religious extremism and his limitless hatred for India.

The Chinese Air Force plane made a short run before taking off in an almost vertical ascend into the clouded skies with two scientists, both experts in nuclear isotopes and rare minerals. Amongst the numerous warships moored to the long jetties and a network of underground tunnels at the Sanya base on the southern tip of China’s Hainan Island, the 094 nuclear submarine had quietly slid into the sea and already begun its voyage towards the Bay of Bengal just a fortnight ago.

Although the monstrous nuclear submarine was to be initiated into their fleet only

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in 2012, test runs had begun a long time ago, including test firing of the dreaded Ju Lang 2 submarine launched ballistic missiles.

Like a puppy following its mother, a much smaller, pygmy surveillance submarine with six crew members had also slid into the depths of the sea, emboldened by the mighty, armed-to-the-teeth mother vessel escorting her from the dark depths below. The pygmy sub was on its way to the port of Mawlamyaing in Myanmar for its final destination to Chittagong in Bangladesh. The band of revolutionary officers in Dhaka, Bangladesh, met over the next few days to prepare a secret mission which would bring them into the good books of the authority that they greatly supported.

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C H A P T E R 21

The Human Trials Back in Reston VA, inside a desolate factory shed that belonged to Continental Biocon, there was a second car parked apart from the old dilapidated grey Ford.

Experiments with the drug had so far yielded greatly encouraging results on mice and reptiles. For the first time, the concoction was being tried on a human being.

The test specimen was the five-year-old black child who had just been abducted by Ponytail.

The girl woke in a state of haziness from the effect of the anaesthesia. She longed to be back at home with her often admonishing grandfather. She heard strange voices echoing from a distance. She wanted to cry, but could not. Her mouth was dry. She could feel the prick of a needle on her hand, which really hurt.

“Good, we can start right away. The child has not eaten much in the morning as is evident from her empty stomach. We shall put her on mild sedatives and start administering our magic potion, which will simultaneously flow into her veins with dextrose and saline,” the senile scientist muttered to himself as he set up the hospital bed and the tubes. He checked the blood pressure and pulse rate of the human specimen, which had by now been forced into sleep by the medicines.

“A few more days, and then, I will revolutionise the world. There will be no dark people. The human race will consist of only fair men and women. Millions of Asian, African and Latin Americans may go hungry, but they will save money to buy my product and change the colour of their skin. I will be in Mexico owning millions and a villa, a boat and maybe even a private jet.” The old scientist continued with his monologue while assessing and grading the skin colour of the child.

“The child will be taken back to her neighbourhood in the next few days. I shall 184

watch the confusion and joy of their parents from a distance, clapping with glee when they are unable to recognise their own child — for she will no more be dark but a fair girl.”

“Funny,” the scientist thought. “Everyone wants to be fair, which is nothing but a human genetic mutant condition, stabilised over several thousand millennia. If the Neanderthal man was dark, we had to be dark too. If the human race originated in Africa, somewhere down the line the aberration took place, turning dark people into white.” A controversial scientist, he always held Dr. Cress Welsing as his theoretical guru and the latter was of the firm opinion that Caucasians were Albino mutants. “It’s good they want to be fair, or else I wouldn’t be able to retire in luxury,” he chuckled.

“I have yet to teach them a lesson. They all thought I’m a dim-witted quack and threw me into prison for trying out useful experiments. My initial attempts may have failed, but I shall have the last laugh.” The scientist was noting down in his pad several figures as he examined the animals from several species in the cages all around him. He held a snake with tongs and administered an injection, whispering sweetly, “Look how I changed you from being a black-skinned cobra to glistening white!” The snake simply hissed.

Ponytail, neither interested nor distracted, was reading a Chinese magazine. He had heard the old scientist talk to himself throughout his work, sometimes even whistle. “In a few more days, I will gift to the world the true and lasting solution to any form of racial discrimination.” The scientist’s voice rose above the noise of their barking dog. “Keep a watch as the liquid will take about eight hours to flow into the body. I shall be back in the evening,” said the eccentric old man before leaving.

As the scientist left the premises, Ponytail cleaned up the place, collected the used syringes, bottles and wrappers, carefully packing them. He checked if all the cages were secured after feeding the reptiles and animals as prescribed. He then dutifully placed a call to his master, reported the day’s progress and hung up. The drips were entering the unconscious child’s veins, elsewhere as an old man in tears kept frantically searching for his granddaughter.

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C H A P T E R 22

The palm leaf manuscripts Amit quickly checked the number he had dialed. Indeed, it was a local number and he did speak to the hotel manager in Bengali before being connected to the room from which the female voice responded, which he understood as Elena’s. For a moment, he was at a loss for words. Elena, from the other end, was also silent for a few seconds. She had sunk into deep slumber and, for those first few seconds, didn’t know if she was still in London or somewhere else. The room was indeed small. There was a fan overhead, which she didn’t have in her room back in London. The AC made a whirring noise, which was also new. The cot was smaller.

She slowly recalled that she was in a hotel room in Kolkata. The afternoon’s meeting with the old man suddenly came back to her mind like a flash.

“Jesus! It must be Prof. Amit Roy,” she quickly composed herself and said, “Sir, it is me, Elena. I studied in the UCL and passed out last year. You may not remember me, but I know you. I am sure you would recognise me once you see me. I need to see you as soon as possible.”

“What brings you to Kolkata? Is everything all right?” Amit enquired.

“Yes, everything’s all right. But so many things have happened so quickly over the last few days that I had to fly in urgently and unannounced. It is very important,” Elena’s voice sounded tense. They agreed to meet over breakfast the next day at nine and hung up.

Till late in the night, Amit kept wondering what could have brought Elena so suddenly to Kolkata that she had to look for him. He was trying to recall her face and thought he vaguely remembered her. He did not know when he slept. The usual 186

morning clamour — from the milkman to the newspaper boy, to the cook, to the house maid — woke him up. He had an early shower and got ready. It was nearly half past eight in the morning. He came out, with the cold wind blowing on his face. It was very refreshing. He decided to walk to the hotel where Elena was staying, two blocks away.

The large park on the way was bustling with activity. Football and cricket were simultaneously being played on the adjacent grounds. Morning walkers had finished their last round and were crowding around a herbal juice counter — which was dishing out anything and everything, from green grass juice to infusions from several herbs, roots and fruits for any and every ailment under the sky — to devour glassfuls of supposed ambrosia for a hefty price. Amit noticed that the vendor was himself sipping a morning cuppa on the sly. He moved on.

It was indeed a very small guest house, with three storeys and a restaurant. Elena was standing right at the gate, awaiting his arrival. “I do hope that you remember me. I graduated last year,” she looked at him hopefully. Like a flash her face registered in his mind, which he remembered now distinctly. “Yeah, now I remember you. What brings you to Kolkata?” He extended his hand and she held it with both her hands.

They decided to go to a local joint, not too far, for breakfast.

“Sir,” she began. Amit interrupted and corrected, “Just Mr. Roy or plain Amit would do.”

“It is an unbelievable story and you may think I’m crazy.” She began with her experiences in Bad Tolz and described all that had taken place since then.

When Elena finished, Amit was speechless. “Where are the palm leaf manuscripts?” he asked in a tone of urgency.

“They are secure in my bag in the hotel,” responded Elena.

“It may not be the safest place. Your arrival in Kolkata has been followed and traced, although I do not know by whom. Let us presume by friendly people. It does not bar unfriendly people from tracing your activities. One thing is definite — you are not what you are, or what you knew you only were. There is something 187

more to it. Let us first vacate the room and move out as fast as possible.” They rose to leave.

They walked back to the hotel and checked out. Elena went up to get her room to vacate. She settled the meagre bill, as Amit called his sister to announce that the second guest room would be soon occupied, by one of his acquaintances, who had arrived from London. Knowing his sister, she didn’t object at all. They walked the two blocks from the hotel to his home and rang the bell.

“Nomoshkar,” his sister ushered both of them in with traditional greetings. She asked if they had anything to eat, while simultaneously ordering the cook to make two cups of tea for them. She took Elena by her hand and showed her the room in which she would be staying. “Do not hesitate to ask for anything at any time. This is the kitchen and you are welcome to make any food of your choice any time you desire. It’s just that you’ll have to make larger portions so that it’s sufficient for all of us.” She could endear herself to anybody in no time. Elena walked into her room and looked with admiration at the Victorian furniture, all family heirlooms, still occupying the house.

Amit was alone with his sister, with Elena in her room, organising things. With her out of sight, his sister caught hold of his wrist and pulled him aside. She gave him a piercing glare that seemed to say, “I’m smarter than you. I know you better than yourself. Out with the secret!” She admonishingly mocked, “Okay, is she the one?

If it is her, why in the world did you keep it a secret?”

“No, my dear sister, she is merely an acquaintance who had studied in my University, and who landed up here yesterday to solve an unusual mystery about her life.

Believe me, if there was any woman in my life, you would be the first person in whom I shall confide.” She sighed and moved into the kitchen to address his taste buds, clearly not convinced.

Elena came out of the room and squatted before him with a packet. It was a chamois-type wrapping cloth, which had become dirty with age but still held well.

On a closer look, it revealed the imprint of a kind of royal insignia that had faded over the past few centuries. His heart was pounding. He was about to open a

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centuries-old manuscript shrouded in mystery, handed over from generation to generation.

The cover was unwrapped carefully. On the inner side of the cloth were several inscriptions, somewhat like a list. The manuscripts smelt of age but were surprisingly unaffected by the elements. The palm leaves tied to each other at both edges opened like a multi-month calendar. The surface had a pale powdery coating of dust, which Amit carefully cleaned with a piece of fine cloth. The first leaf had only floral motifs and one large phrase. He took out his camera and fit the closeup lens. He set up the tripod and created suitable light conditions.

The rest of the manuscript was written in a mix of languages unknown to him, with several glyph-like drawings in a few of them. Amit browsed the Web to get more information on ancient Indian scripts and languages. There were several search results on Sanskrit, Tamil, Brahmi, Devanagri, Grantham and so on. He compared the letters in the palm leaves with the sample scripts of these languages.

His confusion only increased as the inscriptions on the palm leaves matched only a few letters of some of the languages sometimes and, in many instances, none of them at all. He could not make head or tail of the drawings that accompanied the text. He realised that it was not his cup of tea and that he would have to approach someone who had sufficient knowledge on the subject.

He did, however, complete the painstaking task of photographing each of the palm leaves carefully, on both sides, so as not to miss any detail. It took about three hours to complete the job. Both Elena and he knew that they were precious, not just because they were old, but also because of the manner in which they had been given by a king to be taken away to safety a couple of centuries ago. Elena was looking at him with anticipation in her eyes but he had to confess that he could not help her himself. However, he assured her that he would help her seek assistance from reliable experts on the subject.

The phone rang and the maid said that the call was for him. “Hello, Sir, this is Anita. How are you? Sorry, I could not talk to you after we had met at Flury’s. If you are free, I could invite you for dinner. Or else, I can just

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come over to your place.” She poured out a deluge of words as usual, without even giving him an opportunity to respond.

“Hi Anita, good to hear your voice. I myself was a little busy yesterday.” He recalled something vividly. “Anita, tell me, where is this uncle of yours, Professor Sinha, the specialist in ancient scripts? I need to meet him urgently and, before that, I need to meet you, too.”

Amit had to take Anita into his confidence and explain the background of this enquiry while he checked the credentials and trustworthiness of her uncle before parting with any information. He would have to be quick about it.

They agreed to meet in the evening again at the lake, which was a nice meeting place. Instead of sitting in the open and being pestered by hawkers selling tea and peanuts, he decided to organise the meeting at the Lake Club, one of the few clubs facing the water body—it had an excellent ambience, a bar and a restaurant.

There was sufficient time in the morning and he, along with Elena, decided to spend it in the National Library to check on the palm leaf manuscripts, if possible.

He printed one of the photos on his laser jet printer. Instead of going to the Director's office, he went directly to the Rare Books section. The section head was happy to see him. He was delighted to receive Amit’s gift—a jersey of his favourite soccer club, the Mohun Bagan. By a happy coincidence, he had picked up number 10, which was the number of his favourite player too. He was ecstatic. “I would have declined any other form of gift. This, however, I cannot refuse. My son will be even more delighted as we share the same size. Tell me how I can help you.”

He was already putting together the information he had collected for Amit on Kalmori Island.

Amit told him he was looking for an expert on old scripts, which could date back to between the sixteenth and eighteenth centuries. He took out one of the snaps — the cover of the palm leaf scriptures with a large inscription--to make his point and see if he could recognise the script.

The man was simple and unpretentious. “I am not really an expert in the field.

However, I know a gentleman who is a frequent visitor to the library. I can intro190

duce you to him.” He dug into his equally rare and worn-out telephone directory.

He jotted the number on his palm and looked at Amit triumphantly. “Your job will be done. You have come from London, but knew in a few minutes regarding my favourite team, dropped me in a taxi at the soccer stadium, to be just in time for the match and got me the right jersey. I owe you eternally, sir.”

Amit was touched by his simplicity and thought how easy it was to establish relationships here — not with money or expensive gifts, but with small trinkets, with tokens of care and attention.

Elena was browsing through the photocopies that had been provided by the section head on Kalmori and the Sundarban, in keeping with Amit’s request during his earlier visit. As she sipped the tea poured out in earthen terracotta cups, she was watching the interaction between him and the section head. He took the small folded paper from him with details of the expert on ancient scripts, carefully stuffing it into his wallet. He promised to come back before his departure to London and bid him good bye. They hailed a taxi to take them back home.

For Elena, everything was new; the manner in which she arrived in Kolkata and drove in a cab through the crowded streets. The traffic was bad as usual as it was already late afternoon and commuters were returning from their workplaces. It was quite a scary sight — passengers precariously poised on the footboards of buses and trams, clinging on to a stubborn hope for survival in this dog-eat-dog world. Amit got down from the taxi and paid the fare. The yellow paper, which the section head had given, was protruding from his wallet. He took it out and read, “Prof. Timir Sinha, Linguistic Expert....” It contained his full address and telephone numbers. The name matched Anita’s uncle’s and it could indeed be the same person!

The lake and its surroundings seems to change at different times of the day. In the morning, it was frequented by walkers — some jogging, some walking, some simply sitting and talking, some practicing the motions of forced mirth at laughing club gatherings, some swimming and some rowing. At times, there were also Buddhist monks beating the Bodhran, their religious drum and walking along the banks to their monastery located on the south-eastern flank of the water body. Sev191

eral sports activities, like cricket, football, and hockey also begin early in the morning as do the yoga sessions. The lone walkway surrounding the lake is crowded then, with many regulars waving at each other while walking.

During daytime, it assumes a lazy and sleepy look and is only occupied by players of all kinds and occasional students who bunk classes. It is in the evening that the area comes back to life, with all the clubs in the vicinity opening up for its members. The innumerable couples, emboldened by the courts restraining the police, which encouraged them to conduct their affairs on every available bench and below every tree as well as in the open, are regular customers for the scores of tea and peanut vendors who abound during the crucial three to four hours in the evening. The unwritten contract between the vendors and the couples is clear. Do not disturb us and you have your business. Both value and respect each other’s needs.

Lake Club, ideally located among tall trees, is a family club with pool tables, a bridge corner, a gym and, of course, dozens and dozens of row boats. In the evening, the bar and restaurant comes alive with tables laid all over the sprawling lawn, directly overlooking the lake. Amit walked to the club with Elena from his house, which was close-by. It was nearly 7 pm, the time Anita was to join them. He requested the sentry at the gate to direct Anita to his table upon her arrival, indicating the direction in which he should be sitting, and went in with Elena by his side.

There were a few people he knew who waved at him and he waved back. When some members saw Elena with him, they raised their eyebrows in appreciation. He took a table at the farthest corner, which enabled him to keep an eye on the gate as well. He ordered a beer and Elena followed suit. They also ordered some starters.

Elena’s cell phone rang and she took the call. “It’s from my mom, please excuse me,” she hurriedly stepped back to take the call.

“Hi!’ As usual, Anita sprang at him from the back. “So nice of you to have ordered a beer for me, too.” By now, he realized Anita’s signature trait — she hardly gave others any time to respond and often jumped to speedy conclusions.

“Hello,” Elena returned after her brief call. For a few moments, there was no reaction from Anita. She only grunted an “Oh!” but soon recovered and stretched her 192

hand to Elena. “Have I not seen you in the college? Professor Roy did not mention anything about you when I met him the day before.” Anita mockingly complained.

“I have a few things to explain.” Amit ordered another beer and resumed the conversation. He described how Elena arrived in Kolkata and then let Anita hear the rest of the intriguing story from the horse’s mouth.

Anita’s jaws dropped and she stared at Elena, astonished. “It’s like a thriller.

Where are the palm leaf manuscripts?” Anita’s excitement was that of a child’s and her voice rose, resulting in heads turning from other distant tables. Amit told her to calm down. A club is a private place, but how could he discount the possibility of Elena still not being watched? Anita was quiet for a few moments. She finally said, “I have found a solution, at least to one problem. My uncle, Prof. Sinha, could perhaps help in deciphering the script of these palm-leaf manuscripts.”

Amit showed her the yellow paper that the library section head had thrust into his hand, which Anita’s confirmed was indeed her uncle’s address. They went up to the restaurant, located on the first floor, and opted for typical Bengali cuisine.

They said little, but the excitement and mystery that surrounded the palm leaf manuscripts sparkled in everyone’s eyes. They left the club after dinner. Anita had brought her car and dropped Amit and Elena off while promising to pay a visit soon.

Amit could not hide the matter from his sister any longer and had to take her into his confidence. He narrated the story as simply as possible, including his own experience in the Sundarban. She was aghast and hurriedly went to the kitchen to bring some mustard seeds and red chillies. She returned and ordered both Amit and Elena to stand. Then, with her fist full, she moved her outstretched hand in a circular motion thrice from their heads to their toes, first in a clockwise and then in an anti-clockwise direction, and went in to burn them in the fire. She came back triumphantly to declare that all evils chasing them had been duly exorcised.

He went to his room, which he shared with Raju. The latter gave Amit a mortified look, as if he was being kept out of some big secret. He patted Raju’s back and

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told him, “Maybe I need to go back to the Sundarban in a few days. Please see if you can arrange for a boat.”

Raju literally jumped out of his chair and hugged him. “Uncle, don’t leave me behind. I am going to be with you in this.” Amit couldn’t guarantee anything at this point, but assured him that he would try to take him if possible.

He took the printouts of the manuscripts and tried to understand what was written, but in vain. It was leading nowhere. He worked on his computer for the next hour or so, sequencing the events, so that he didn’t miss out anything. The incoming mail reminder beeped. The mail was from his friend in London, who had collected the detailed Kalmori maps during the day. He checked the maps thoroughly after taking printouts. The white circular desert-like area was unmistakable. There was no vegetation of any kind in the region. He recalled the albino snakes and monkeys.

It was well past midnight. The phone rang and Amit picked it up hurriedly, lest it disturb anyone. “Sir, it is me, Anita. I called my uncle, Professor Sinha. We shall be meeting him tomorrow in the morning for breakfast in his home. I will come and pick you and Elena up at 8.30 am. Bye.” She disconnected abruptly, taking his consent for granted.

Jodhpur Park was not far from Amit’s place. It was a mere ten-minute drive as the rush hour honking and traffic had not started yet. Prof. Sinha was in his study and they were seated in the drawing room. Anita went in and then came out to invite Amit and Elena into the study. The teak-walled room had an antique look with old leather chairs and a reclining sofa. A distinct flavour of rich tobacco emanated from the pipe clenched expertly between his teeth, filling the entire room.

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“Well, well....what do I hear? A lot of interesting stuff regarding some mysterious palm leaf manuscripts, strangers following your friend...please be seated Prof. Roy and Miss Valson.”

Professor Sinha extended his hand to both of them. There was something extremely impressive about him. Was it the flowing white hair? Or was it his heavy glasses, his dangling pipe? Or was it the look of keen intelligence on his face? It could well have been an amalgam of all these.

“How uncivilised I have become,” Sinha admonished himself. “Please go and check the status of our breakfast,” he ordered Anita. “Let us eat and then discuss your problem,” he rose and ushered his guests to the large wooden-top table.

While eating, he enquired about Amit’s area of specialization, about his family and also described his own work and interests. Having lost his wife two years ago, he was living alone with a male servant and a maid, a couple. They went back to the study. Amit began his story, and let Elena describe her experiences in Germany. Professor Sinha cleaned and refilled his pipe as he listened to their story.

“Please forgive my indulgence,” he pointed at his pipe before lighting it. He leaned forward with his eyes closed and listened with rapt attention as Elena described her meeting with the old man at the lake the previous day. “Very interesting,” he said, his eyes closed. For a moment, Amit wondered if the remark was meant for Elena’s experience or was on the mellowness of the tobacco he was smoking.

“Let me have a look at the palm leaf manuscripts,” he extended his hand and Elena took out the bundle from her bag as Amit simultaneously took out a bunch of photographs from his bag. He took both the manuscripts and the photographs, laid them on the table and switched on the lights in the room as he drew a large magnifying glass from one of his drawers. There was absolute silence in the room as the elderly man browsed through the manuscripts as well as the photographs.

“I must say, the photographs are good. The colour reproduction and clarity are excellent,” he said. Amit was in no mood to receive accolades at this point and was impatient to hear about the contents. “The manuscripts are remarkable and unique as they have not been prepared in any one year or period. They have been compiled over generations. The first one begins with an account in the Brahmi 195

script somewhere around the twelfth century A.D. Thereafter, the manuscript has progressively been added to, with the last palm leaf reading in Bengali somewhere in the sixteenth century A.D.,” he paused. “I will need some time to go through these. Can you leave the photographs and the palm leaves with me for the time being?” the professor enquired, to which Amit readily agreed with Elena’s consent.

The professor came up to the door to see them off. “It’s just that I haven’t seen anything like this ever before--a narrative running for almost over five centuries. This is very unusual.” They thanked him for his advice and left. From a distance, two figures shrouded in shawls watched the trio driving off in Anita’s car, then picked up their mobile phone to relay the information.

*********** Professor Sinha was re-examining the palm leaf manuscript for the umpteenth time. Each time, he felt as intrigued as he had at the beginning. The first leaf provided a background to the setting up of the kingdom, sometime in the twelfth century A.D. It described the marriage between the then king of a part of Bengal and the princess from Kalinga, now Odisha, and the subsequent enlargement and consolidation of the kingdom. The other leaves described the annexation of new territories by later rulers. These were largely historical facts that may not have had much value even if they fell into the wrong hands. However, information about the kingdom and the family tree in a variety of languages over nearly five centuries was prized property for a historian.

He read the page written in the late sixteenth century. The advancing influence of the Moghul army was mentioned, so was the need to secure the kingdom’s riches.

It also mentioned the family members in each generation, the names of the maharajas and the years of their reign. The last leaf was the most confusing. It was in a more readable Bengali script. It narrated how Raja Raghunath Ray had to leave his kingdom hurriedly and take refuge in the watery jungles with his pregnant wife. The short lifespan of his second son and the death of his wife, the queen, were also mentioned. His building of the fort and the Kali temple were vividly described. The last entry, in a different handwriting, mentioned that, “This day, the 196

fifth moon of Bhadra month, His Excellency Crown Prince Vikram, the son of the Great King Raghunath Ray was sent away with Chingi the nomad leader, to a safe haven away from the Moghuls. The palm leaf chronicles, the most sacred possession of the Raja, was also handed to Chingi, with a request to pass it on to the Prince upon his reaching adulthood.” So far so good, the professor thought.

The catch was in the phrase in the last part of the palm leaf, which when translated, read: “Beneath the history of the great kingdom lies the virtue, hidden by the facts, only the future could see.”

“This is the part which confounds me,” admitted the linguist. Failing to make any headway, the professor dejectedly handed over the manuscript and its translation to Amit and an equally disappointed Elena the next day.

Amit returned home and spread out the palm leaves on the table to check them carefully against the backdrop of the translation provided by Professor Sinha.

Elena watched him, her eyes filled with curiosity, hoping that he might be able to make a breakthrough.

The call from Bikash, his friend in the Geological Survey of India came sometime during late evening. “Hello, Amit,” he sounded confident. “The sample of clayey earth that you had given seems to be rich in selenium. The mud bath that you were made to have on the advice of your guide, after stepping onto your mystery island with the white crater, may not be without reason after all.” He paused for a while end continued, “Sometimes, the locals are cleverer than us scientists.”

“The white sample is quite challenging and unlike any that I have ever known until now,” his friend continued, “It has a much higher atomic weight than any I have tested — and it’s mildly radioactive, too. I really think you should not venture into the area again, at least not before I complete my tests. The last thing I would want is for you to get any excessive radiation exposure, endangering health, while in India to pursue your work.” Amit was breathless. A heavy element, unlike any he had ever seen? What was he stepping into? He could see the albino animals in his mind’s eye. “Something was really serious and scary,” he thought. He almost forgot the palm leaves and Elena for a few moments.

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He listened to a long sermon from his friend in the Geological Survey for the next few minutes. Amit thanked him profusely and promised to catch up with him in the next day or two, after he got more information, and hung up. Elena did not know of his trip to the Sundarban last week along with Raju. He narrated their adventure there from the beginning to Elena.

Raju came in quietly, unnoticed, and sat beside him, listening to every word he said. “Uncle, the shooting was to scare you and warn you so that you don’t venture into the area. It means the shooters had something to hide and we were not the only ones privy to the information about the island. There could be others, too,” said Raju, ecstatic with his own theory. “It does make sense,” Amit thought.

Having scored a brownie point, Raju immediately exploited his win. “Uncle, may I take a look at the palm leaf manuscript?”

“Just handle it with care,” Amit advised him and sat down to work on his computer. He lost track of time as he read up on various environmental threats to the Sundarban and its great cats. He was appalled to read a current global census on the tigers which estimated them to be a mere three thousand or so. He could smell something burning, but the smell soon faded away. Maybe he was just sleepy and was imagining things.

“Uncle,” Raju was rapturous.

Amit could barely keep himself awake. He looked at Raju with tired eyes as the clock struck 1 am. “Raju keeps dreaming of adventures, and all the more so at night,” he thought and headed towards the table where the palm leaves had been laid.

“Uncle, read the translation of the last palm leaf more carefully,” he insisted. “Beneath the history of the great kingdom lies the virtue, hidden by the facts, only the future could see.”

“Listen carefully. Beneath the history of the great kingdom, the history is nowhere else except in the palm leaves; lies the virtue, the English Thesaurus describes it as asset; hidden by the facts, which might mean hidden somewhere in the palm leaves; only the future could see, the prophecy means the descendant of the King 198

could be the one who would be able to see it. This is where Elena comes in. It’s simple.”

He continued, “On a closer look I found a slender thread protruding from the fold of the last palm leaf, which I tested by burning. It is silk, which means there may be some foreign object inserted into the fold of the palm leaf.”

Amit stared at his nephew in utter disbelief. He had cracked it! “Go and wake up Elena and bring her here,” he said. Elena was in deep sleep had difficulty waking up. She got up and hurried with him to the study.

Amit was already closely examining the last palm leaf which was, in fact, a large leaf folded into two and had a length of fine hand-stitching all around, making it look like an envelope. The burnt stub of the protruding silk yarn had carbonballed at the end and he squeezed the ash and smelt it. “Yes, it is some kind of fibre like wool or silk. In this case, it seems more like silk,” he admitted.

Amit set out to work with his multi-tool Swiss army knife and carefully started cutting the nearly invisible thread. It was a time-consuming task as he had to handle the knife deftly so as not to damage the palm leaf in any way. After nearly an hour’s labour, the stitches from the whole length of the leaf was cut. He slid the screw driver part of the knife and slightly edged it open. The two leaves, which had been stitched together for almost five centuries, parted, revealing a cleverly crafted hidden crevice. With his magnifying glass in hand and with Raju holding a torch, Amit slid the tweezers in and slowly brought out a small piece of ultra-fine silk cloth folded several times and tucked in between the palm leaves. His hands were trembling, Elena and Raju were speechless. Elena was clutching the holy cross that was dangling from her neck.

The commotion was enough to wake his sister up. “What’s the ruckus about and, that too, at this time of the night? Now, will you all go and sleep?”

She gestured Raju to get back to bed, which he mockingly did. The rest of the night passed off slowly and painfully for the excited trio. The intrigue did not let Raju catch even a minute’s sleep as all three of them assembled at the coffee table at the break of dawn, much to his sister’s surprise.

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“Whatever in the world is going on?” His sister demanded to know as she walked in from the kitchen with steaming Darjeeling tea. Elena and Raju simultaneously looked at Amit and he instantly decided to censor as much information as possible for the time being, so as not to trouble her.

“It was very interesting, didi, (sister), when we were going through the palm leaf script. Such rich history and information,” He winked at Raju, who winked back.

“We have a very busy day ahead. I plan to go to the Sundarban in a day or two.

This time, I will be taking Elena, Anita and Raju.”

Raju jumped for joy. All three of them went back into the study and crowded over the ultra-thin silk fabric. Amit fetched his camera, a pen and paper.

The sound of Anita’s car had now become familiar and it was at their gate now.

“Sir, I just couldn’t sleep for a minute last night,” Anita was gushing as usual. “My uncle, Professor Sinha was also deeply engrossed with the photos of the palm leaves. I was immersed in them, too. We need to search more deeply into the records of their kingdom, to check what the writing could mean.”

The silk cloth was yet to be studied. Elena and Amit had already decided to take Anita and her uncle into confidence by disclosing what they had found out so they could get all the help they needed. Despite her tendency to gush and run roughshod over everyone else Anita also seemed to be someone who could be trusted.

“It is getting more complex now.” Amit told Anita about their night-long research with the palm leaves and how, with Raju’s ingenuity, they had retrieved the piece of thin silk.

“It is time to look into the silk more deeply,” he said. The cloth could have been a type of silk, which India was famous for in those days. It was said that a six-yard sari could pass through a ring of barely half an inch diameter and could weigh a mere 50 grams.

The silk cloth was folded into several pleats. Amit brought a cork sheet and carefully stretched the cloth straight with paper pins. One half of it looked like a map and the bottom half contained text. He photographed it several times and put the memory card in a safe place. He returned to the cloth once again as Anita and 200

Raju were scrutinizing it. Elena could not be of much help as she could neither read the language nor make out much from the drawing.

It was a minute drawing, expertly done. It clearly depicted the river, the shores, ponds, a temple and a detailed plan of a fort with a symbol of Laxmi, the Hindu Goddess of wealth. There was a temple, too, with a small drawing of a Goddess with a protruding tongue and three eyes. None had any difficulty in recognising Goddess Kali. This place too was indicated with a symbol.

“It was something very special,” Amit thought, “Otherwise the palm leaves would not have been given to the prince, who was so important to the king.” He learnt that from Elena, who in turn had heard it from her mother.

It took time for all of them to really comprehend the significance of the great discovery. There was excitement all around. They spoke very little. “What would the map mean, now that it was nearly five centuries later that it has been recovered?”

Amit was also amazed by the durability of the ultra-fine cloth that had been inserted within two layers of palm leaves and had been viewed in daylight after five long centuries. “We must prepare to go to the Sundarban once again,” he declared.

Elena went up to call her mother and briefly informed her of the development and the decision to go to the Sundarban.

Lizi was not the least surprised. “I was only expecting this to happen sooner or later. The very fact that the palm leaf manuscript was handed over to us over so many generations, swearing us to secrecy and watchfulness, were itself an indication of its importance. Just take care, my child. God be with you.” Mathias and Elisaveta continued their nostalgic Austrian journey, tracking down the railway station where Lizi had been stopped for her passport check in the midst of several gypsies at the railway compartment.

The officer in the Forest Department of the Government of West Bengal was far from amused as Amit extended the application seeking permission for a visit to the Sundarban yet again, within the space of five days. And this time, with two of his students and his nephew as the application stated.

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“The weather is not so good. There’s news of a tiger escape near Dobanki. There is also a message from the river police that pirates from neighbouring areas are active and reportedly shot at one of the tourist boats.” Poor guy, he didn’t know that it was their boat that had borne the wrath of foreign bullets, unless off course, there had been another such incident in between.

“It is important to complete the project that we have begun,” Amit tried to reason as he called his friend, who had high connections in the Government. His friend advised him to hand his cell phone to the officer, which he promptly did.

“Okay sir. No problem. It was only their safety that I was concerned about,” the Government official had a conceding tone. Amit’s friend had his way and the formalities could be completed as usual. Raju’s call came in between, confirming the availability of Malik’s boat. Amit also filled in the name of the boat and its crew in the application form.

As they were about to leave, Amit’s friend who had helped them get permission came up, greeted him with a warm hug and ushered them into the Hon’ble Minister’s chamber. The minister, perhaps a septuagenarian, was the ultimate authority in granting approval for visits to core areas of the tiger reserve at the Sundarban.

He looked at them over his spectacles and asked them to sit. After a brief introduction, the minister said, “I have in possession Prof. Amit Roy’s works on both the Sundarban and the tigers. Good work.”

Amit wondered how the power of literature often transcended the man himself.

He also knew that his earlier works were well-researched and were used as reference books on the respective subjects in many universities of the world. He humbly accepted the minister’s appreciation. The special permission to travel into the core tiger area was quickly issued, with the minister’s approval, of course with armed escorts provided by the government. Amit vividly recalled the face of Dipak, the burly policeman.

They then moved on to the stores to buy what they required for the trip. Amit had learnt a lesson from the previous trip; he packed a few extra tubes of mosquito repellent cream, alkaline batteries for torches, dry fruits and other stuff. He spoke to

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his friend in the police about the visit, who immediately provided the phone numbers of senior officials in charge of the region.

Instinctively Amit called his uncle, Tarun Bose, who was in the special intelligence wing of the Home Department, responsible for the country’s security including espionage and counter-espionage activities. It was a hush-hush organisation. He advised Amit to pay a visit to his office, if possible, prior to their departure. Amit then went to a photo studio and got prints of the silk map which he had photographed. The print quality was not too bad. “Let us each try to memorise the map, for should it be lost or damaged, we may still be able to redraw it from our memory,” he suggested.

One could never dream that the obscure building on Lake Avenue, which carried the board of a Polio Research Centre which was merely a front for the low profile office of the Home Department. The building looked unadorned and insignificant. There was nothing to indicate that security-related activity was carried out here. The tables were covered with the usual files and a few newspapers and magazines. The wall had a photo of the President of India. There were two tables manned by officials who were monitoring polio pockets in the city. Little did outsiders know that such health monitoring activities were merely a guise to keep track of anti-national activities in areas populated by foreign and radical elements.

“Come, Come,” an unmistakable voice welcomed them from the stairs leading to the first floor. The tall figure of his uncle standing at the top of the stairs greeted them. The first floor was completely unlike the ground floor. They walked into a hi-tech office, with satellite-connected computers, wireless radio communication systems and intelligent men and women engaged in myriad activities.

They read through newspapers, magazines and Press briefings by important persons on activities that could have an adverse impact on India’s international relations or internal peace. There was a dedicated China desk, which was always very busy, what with a sizeable Chinese population living in the city. In fact, the largest ethnic Chinese population was in Kolkata. Their ancestors had settled here after fleeing China during the earliest purge almost a century back. The Pakistani and Bangladeshi desks were housed on the floor above and were usually the busiest.

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Terror threats and the mushrooming of several militant outfits both within and beyond borders kept the security agency perpetually on tenterhooks.

“Our surveillance system has been able to penetrate a small band of army personnel who are planning to intrude into our territory in the Bay of Bengal area. It seems their efforts are being sponsored by the Chinese. Unfortunately, we don’t have any information on the purpose of their visit or their object of pursuit yet,” his uncle addressed them. “I need you to be careful. If you are treading into the core areas of the tiger reserve, it is wiser to be all the more vigilant. I am giving you contact details for one of our most able officers, who is familiar with the area.

Contact him only if it is absolutely necessary. He, of course, would be duly informed of your visit and is expected to keep all of you on his radar. I have information that an injured fully grown tigress is frequently intruding into human habitation and has caused a few cattle casualties in the last few nights around Dobanki region. Do not venture into the islands without proper protection from armed guards” He thrust a sealed packet into Amit’s hands and advised, “Keep this packet safe and use it in case of extreme emergency.”

Amit securely tucked the packet that his uncle handed over to him and thanked him for his sincere advice. They left the deceptively austere looking office. He placed a call to his college in London and spoke to his friend from the department of telecommunications to check on the details of the radio transmitter that he had found in the boat — which Manna was using that night — during their last voyage. “It seems like a secured link service, which is usually used by the security forces. I can’t assess the exact model from the details you have provided, but I think it’s a Russian make. I shall look up my archives for any further data and get back to you. Have a great day.” He hung up.

For the rest of the day, Anita and Amit shopped for outdoor camping equipment in the Esplanade area shops. They also walked further south to the India Hobby Centre near Park Street for special camping gear. Anita was a little curious about his elaborate purchases, but didn’t question him about them. She was herself an outdoor adventure buff and so knew that it was always prudent to be wellprepared for a journey. The scuba diving suits were hard to find as diving was

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hardly a popular sport in Kolkata. His friends from the Kolkata Port Trust managed to lend them a set fitting Amit.

Elena decided to enjoy a walk near the lake as they prepared for their journey.

One of the two men who had met her on her arrival to Kolkata was there with a lady, waving at her. As Elena approached them, the lady gave her a warm embrace. “Me buchhov man e Mira (My name is Mira),” the lady said. The man politely folded hands with a “Sastipe”, meaning Hello. “Holy Father sends you his greetings. He also wishes you well in your journey and shall spiritually travel with you till you wish him to. He only forbade you from entering the depths on the full moon night,” the man spoke slowly in broken English.

“Whatever does that mean?” Elena asked, but the couple would say no more.

While the man folded his hand in reverence, the lady once again stepped forward abruptly and said “Pachave tut (Thank You)” and gave her one more embrace.

Both walked away without looking back. Elena was by now used to such encounters and was neither surprised nor shocked. She had an uncanny feeling that she may have been possessed by some supernatural power and that she might be destined to deliver something back to her community. She didn’t talk about the encounter with anyone, but made a mental note of the warning the old man gave through his emissary.

Professor Sinha made a surprise visit to Amit’s flat with Anita and looked at the silk map as well as its photo reproduction. “Wonderful!” he patted Raju for his prowess in discovering the map. “I wish you all a safe journey. I am leaving Anita with you all. The driver will be here with the car and will drive you up to Sonakhali tomorrow morning. Please keep me informed about your journey, although I know it’s difficult to get connectivity in the Sundarban.” He left after spending some time with them over snacks and tea. Amit left a note for his secretary, informing her that he would be cut off from e-mails and telephones for the next four or five days and advised her to forward any ‘urgent for immediate action’ mails to his colleague.

They all decided to hit the bed early — Elena and Anita shared the guest room, and Raju and Amit shared the other room. They planned to leave after morning 205

tea so that they could have breakfast at Sonakhali. But his sister, Rekha, would have none of it and firmly announced that she would be up in the morning to cook an early breakfast for everyone. They all agreed and retired.

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C H A P T E R 23

Linda’s Fate Ponytail had been standing before his master for more than fifteen minutes. The old man showed no signs of recognising him. He was busy playing his Er-Hu, the two stringed Chinese violin. “Master,” Ponytail whispered, trying to keep the man’s rhythm and mood undisturbed. “Shhh,” the master admonished him without shifting his attention from the monotonous melody. Ten more minutes passed before he put the instrument back in the case with reverence, closed it and looked up at Ponytail.

The master’s furrowed brow showed both annoyance and curiosity. What could it be for which he was being disturbed in the middle of the night? “It is her,” Ponytail barely mustered courage to speak. “She says it must have been me who had killed Arthur.” He expected his master to support him. Linda had taken the sheen off Ponytail ever since she became active. While he was powerful and vicious, Linda was suave and intelligent, which he despised. Mr. Liu, as his master was known, the head of the resource mobilisation team in the VA region was an agitated man. The narrow lids barely revealed the eyes. His fury was well-known, although he never got hysterical or blew his head. Sometimes, his silence was enough to send shivers down the spines of his adversaries. “Bǎ tā de gǒu, throw her to the dogs,” the voice lacked emotion. “She was getting emotional with the man in that company.”

Ponytail bowed a few too many times and left, his eyes glistening with pleasure.

Mr. Liu opened his Er-Hu case like a demi-god and began playing it once again.

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C H A P T E R 24

The Second Sailing They decided to begin their day early and drive up to Sonakhali, rather than going to Canning Port and being at the mercy of the river. Biru was at the bank waving at them. It was the same old team — Malik, Banchharam and Biru. However, there were two more passengers this time — Anita and Elena.

Amit’s luggage was much heavier than usual. He didn’t tell anyone about the backpack oxygen cylinders with a diving suit and breathing masks that were in the large suitcase. The other adventure gear, such as the sleeping bags, a light-weight foldable but strong ladder, all-proof Timberland shoes, LED lanterns, conventional torches with long-life batteries, poles, pulleys, aluminium alloy karabiners, waist bands and, of course, his camera equipment and personal items were carefully included. This time, he was much better prepared for the trip.

He was looking for Manna, who was nowhere to be seen. The luggage was loaded and they all took their seats. Biru tugged the cord and the diesel engine came alive.

Malik expertly steered the boat as Biru pushed the vessel away from the banks with a bamboo pole. The voyage had begun.

The brick-layered banks soon gave way to mangroves. Large, sienna-coloured sail boats formed an idyllic semi-circle, with their wide nets spread to capture all the fishes that came in between. Banchharam was at his usual best, organising instant savouries and welcome drinks. They made a brief halt at Gosaba to pick up diesel, which was packed in a few 50 litre plastic drums. A standby five-litre diesel pump was loaded on Amit’s special instruction earlier as were some spades, shovels and pick-axes. While they were busy shopping for their diving gear in the Esplanade

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area, Raju had hired all these as they would have little use for these things after the trip.

Amit had returned to the mangroves and canals within a week of his last visit, yet it deepened his longing for the Sundarban. The poor people in the region were all dependent on a solitary source for their livelihood — the river. School kids crossing the river in boats; fishermen casting their nets in hope; young women and children waist-deep in slush waiting for that dream catch that would tide them out for the day were all too familiar sights. They were all resilient in the midst of suffering, but would they ever find alternative means of livelihood, which would deliver them from a conflict with creatures of the jungle or the river? There weren’t any easy answers…

Elena, Anita and Raju had begun a game of Scrabble. Amit checked and cleaned his camera lens and began taking photographs, awed by some breathtakingly beautiful scenes along the river. The current and the wind were favourable and they were soon on the banks of Sajnekhali, the official gateway to the Sundarban Tiger Reserve.

News of their voyage had already been relayed to the forest officials in the registration office. The betel-nut chewing clerk greeted them at the pier with a wide grin and a nomoshkar. “Welcome to Sundarban, Dr. Roy and ladies. How are you, Raju?” He seemed friendlier than ever now, having acquired a taste for crisp currency during their earlier visit and hoping for more. “See, I changed the chair for you. The broken chair has been put outside and this is a chair I personally brought from my quarters. You faced so many problems last time.” Money softens many a hardball, Amit thought.

He smiled and gestured to Elena and Anita to sit on a bench at the corner of the room. “One foreigner, one NRI, two Indians — I do not see any problem. You have only to register your voyage route here. You have to mention the islands where you intend to stay,” the clerk was like a parrot, repeating everything by rote.

He went out to spit the betel juice.

“Nomoshkar doctor babu, nomoshkar to all of you,” the baritone voice from the gate was unmistakable. It was Jibon the guide with his traditional jhola. He came di209

rectly towards Amit and shocked him by bending down to touch his feet. Amit felt deeply embarrassed as such acts are usually reserved for elderly people.

“Saar, it is nice to see you and so soon at that.” He was genuinely happy to see them and it was not a cosmetic act like that of the clerk. “Madam nomoshkar, myself Jibon, the ablest guide from the Sundarban. If there is any need in future, you can contact me in this address,” he took out rubber-stamped address details and distributed them to everyone around with a sense of accomplishment.

The clerk was busy taking the formal declarations from them. Elena’s video camera warranted a few more details to be filled in. “The government has fixed a different rate for video cameras you see,” the clerk’s explanation was matter-of-fact.

“I don’t want you to be harassed by the policemen, who may play by the rule book and confiscate the gadget,” the clerk explained.

Amit marvelled at the cobwebbed regulations and the blinkered mentality of the bureaucracy. “Would you like to have the same policeman who accompanied you in your last journey? He is due to arrive now from his three-night duty and might opt for a day’s leave. Of course, you can easily compensate that by other means,” the clerk’s suggestion was only too obvious. Amit did prefer the burly drunkard rather than an unknown evil and said, “Not a problem. I prefer to take Dipak, the policeman who went with us during the last journey.”

Someone was made to run and check and came back promptly to announce that the policeman would be in the forest registration office in another fifteen minutes or so. They sat on the concrete steps of the weather-beaten pier, the pillars of which were amply populated with mussels and snails. In many places, the concrete had been so corroded that the rusty iron rods showed from within, like a vultureeaten corpse. There was another round of nomoshkar with the appearance of the policeman, who Amit thought had grown a few more inches around the waist in the past week. It didn’t matter as he possibly would have no physical challenges to endure during their voyage, except, perhaps to lift and check his rifle a few times.

Amit smiled back and with folded hands returned the nomoshkar. The boat began to move and all of them shivered with excitement for the first time.

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C H A P T E R 25

The Landing of the Chinese The tiny submarine, escorted by a powerful mother submarine from beneath the seas, stopped for refuelling and a technical check and surfaced at Myanmar’s port of Mawlamyaing, under the Mawyawaddy Regional Command. The escort vessel 094 stayed under as it easily could, for months at a stretch, when needed. This was primarily to avoid detection by several of the satellites hovering overhead. The stopover was brief, the technical check was completed in record time and the vessel was given a safe passage. The log did not record the nature of the contents, the passenger manifest, the next port of call or the final destination. Orders from the higher-ups were very clear — do not ask questions and provide assistance for speedy clearance from the port.

The scientist in the passenger’s seat of the Air Force plane landed at the Chittagong airport. Immigration formalities were exempted as the visitors were whisked away in a limousine with tinted windscreens to a safe house in the city. The tiny submarine had already berthed in Chittagong the day before and the crew were checking out all parameters. The proposed voyage, which was logged in as a maritime scientific expedition, was never questioned by the Bangladeshis. Such Chinese expeditions were quite common — for reconnaissance, scientific explorations and military purposes, too. The last, although being the most likely, was the least whispered about.

The last lap of the journey was the most difficult and dangerous as the tiny vessel had to cross over into the Indian territorial waters. Left to themselves, the Chinese would not have succeeded in such intrusion through the labyrinth of waterways and, therefore, help was strategically sought from some Bangladeshi military ele211

ments. The band of rebel officers and the few Chinese diplomats who knew a bit about the scientific expedition met that evening to finalise the details. The scientists were not present as they were not connected with the logistics. By evening, the fuel was topped up, checks on the system were redone, hydraulics of the periscope retested, pressure gauges and ballast tanks okayed. All were ready for the unauthorised and clandestine journey into the Indian waters.

The dinner was lavish and in keeping with the hospitable nature of Bangladeshis.

Special dishes brought from the best restaurants were served in a quiet place so as not to arouse any suspicion. They were to rest during the night and sail early the next morning. The crew consisted of two Chinese and three Bangladeshi personnel, with two Chinese scientists — who had been flown in under a cloud of secrecy — joining them at the time of departure.

The seven-member vessel moved silently from its slot at the Chittagong Port into the deep waters. It had to be a lot more careful, now that it was devoid of the security cloak provided by its escort, the armed-to-the-teeth 094 nuclear submarine.

Soon, it would leave the friendly Bangladeshi waters and enter hostile Indian Territory. The Bangladeshis had been given a specific mandate — to follow the scientists’ orders and, above all, to protect them at all costs.

The tiny submarine quietly sailed through the turbulent undercurrents of the Bay of Bengal and reached the mouth of the Raimangal River, all the while staying within the Bangladesh territorial waters. One of the Bangladeshi soldiers came in useful while negotiating the hidden sand heads and navigating the virtually noiseless cylindrical craft from the deeper black waters into the muddy streams of the riverine delta. The second Bangladeshi soldier was calculating the high tide timings and passed on the data to the captain of the vessel. The sub skilfully cut through the river bordering Bangladesh and India and headed for Chamta and Panchamukhani. It waited till dark to surface as the curious Gangetic dolphins brushed past its black hull, making noises duly captured by the highly active voice recorders of the sub.

It was dark and the vessel had to move now. A patrol boat of the river police went above head, causing a mild flutter in the water. All was quiet and the periscope 212

confirmed safe passage as the vessel began to move in the dark muddy waters. The water from the ballast was partly drained to let the submarine sail at barely 5 to 6 feet depth. The night vision equipment in the periscope floated just about the water level, where the mangroves and the floating debris could be seen in the silver moonlight. The navigating soldier was advising the craft’s Chinese pilot about some deft manoeuvring procedures. The group decided to surface and scout the region. Water from the ballast was pumped out and air was sucked in, raising the black metal capsule slowly. One Bangladeshi soldier lifted the hatch on the roof to peep out slowly. It took a few more minutes for him to adjust his vision to the relative darkness all around, despite the moonlight. He lifted his night-vision binoculars and panned the landscape. “No, not a soul in range. Looks like it is safe to land,� the soldier announced. The craft had to wait for high tide, offload the required equipment on the banks and arrange for a safe landing for the scientists, before slipping into the water again with two Chinese and one Bangladeshi personnel remaining inside to steer the vessel.

The two Bangladeshi soldiers, specially trained in the harsh conditions of swampy lands and mangroves, were the first to land. They were wearing water-proof trousers with weather-proof boots. Despite their training, their landing on the water was sloppy as the river current was very strong. One of them swirled the rope tied with a heavy anchor over his head and threw it far away into the direction of the trees, where it fell almost noiselessly and settled deep into the clayey soil. The soldier expertly stepped onto the land, pulling the rope towards him. He was muddy from the waist down, but was unperturbed. He secured the rope to the tree and moved back to the vessel to bring the equipment, some of which was quite heavy.

A small raft carried several heavy loads, including a tent, and was pulled over to the bank. The rope, now tied to a branch, was more secure and the soldiers had less trouble commuting back and forth from the vessel. One of the Chinese scientists joined them. Despite his puny size, the Chinese man could handle almost twice the weight the Bangladeshis could carry. It was a job that took almost two hours and the pilot manoeuvred the vessel deftly all through to keep it steady, despite strong currents. The Chinese crew member and the Bangladeshi soldiers in the sub were busy periodically adjusting the ballasts, ensuring the proper charging 213

of standby power equipment and keeping a vigil through the submarine’s powerful radars as well as through its periscope.

The last to emerge was the elderly scientist, virtually clinging to the backs of the soldiers to reach the river bank. “Well, almost over, just another fifteen steps or so,” thought the soldier, silently cursing the overweight man he was saddled with.

The fall was smooth and muted. It was dark and no one heard it or noticed anything amiss. The blow on his neck brought the Bangladeshi to his senses. “You are on top of me, and I am all muddy and wet,” complained the scientist, who suffered from hydrophobia. The soldier recovered, cursing his bosses in chaste Bengali. Yet, he had to obey, for it meant a promotion in the army and lavish retirement benefits. He helped the scientist steady himself and escorted him to the safety of the river bank, which was comparatively dry. The Chinese soldier waved to the vessel from where a torch flickered in acknowledgement. They had earlier agreed to avoid using any walkie-talkie for fear of the conversation being picked up by Indian authorities.

The team would be on its own for the next twenty four hours or so. The submarine would move away from the Indian waters and safely lodge itself in one of the several creeks on the Bangladesh side of the Raimangal River until they got a signal from the team for a pick-up. They expected no intrusion as their surveillance of the region over the past few days had revealed that there was hardly any vigilance or patrol by Indian naval boats. Sundari, Malik’s boat, which had anchored with Amit and others only a few days ago, was not mentioned in their report, for it was discounted as just another domestic boat, which had perhaps lost its way and was seen returning to its appropriate route soon thereafter Drinking water was rationed, so it was decided that it could not be used for wiping the mud off the Chinese scientist. But that only increased the misery of the Bangladeshi soldier who was carrying him. He now had to strip the scientist and wash his clothes in the river. Thankfully, the Bangladeshi was carrying his gamcha, which helped both in preserving the portly scientist’s modesty and wiping him clean. The compass directed the team, but they just could not risk switching on their torches, while stepping out into the darkness. One of the scientists was al214

ready collecting soil samples from the river banks and packing them in plastic bags. They would be analysed in the mobile laboratory the team would set up, at day break, in the deep jungles.

The place was full of creepers, various insects and crabs that were curious to know who the new intruders were. The few hours’ wait seemed like many, until the soft light of dawn appeared, followed by the call of the birds. The team of four had already begun their jaunt through the clayey and pneumatophores-infested mangrove jungles of this remote island in the Sundarban. It was particularly harsh for the Bangladeshi soldiers with their loaded backpacks. The mild chill of the night was slowly receding at dawn, giving way to a sultry day. They took two hours or so to reach the target area as they had landed on the farthest bank from their target point.

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C H A P T E R 26

The Kalmori Islands Sundari was ready to sail from Sajnekhali with Elena, Anita, Raju and Amit, assisted by Jibon the guide, Dipak the policeman and the usual boat crew — Malik, Banchharam and Biru. The only missing member was the mysterious Manna.

The policeman cocked his rifle and checked his magazine, as Amit panned the banks with his binoculars. Raju, by now more conversant with the camera, was already practising changing the lenses. Anita was sitting near the rails, scribbling in her diary and Elena was sitting in meditation on the front upper deck. The wind was cool and the sky was awash with every shade of pink and violet, changing hues every few minutes. The sound of the flowing river was broken only by the monotonous whirr of the boat’s diesel-powered engine. Rather than taking the wider and more turbulent River Bidya, Malik decided to take the vessel via Sudhanyakhali, another tiny island in the tiger reserve, and through the numerous kharis spread along the route to their undisclosed and unregistered destination —Kalmori Island, where they had seen the white patch of land, the albino birds and reptiles.

Anita — born in the vicinity of the Sundarban —thoroughly enjoyed the river, often sitting on the deck, dipping her feet into the cold water and letting the froth caress her feet. “Look, spotted deer,” she cried out like a child. There was a healthy herd of deer munching on the fresh, lush green blades of grass growing on one of the most infertile lands in the world. She was quick to take a few snaps of the deer, which were hunted by both big cats and locals alike, the latter on the sly.

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Elena got busy on her computer, typing notes. Amit was inside the pilot’s cabin, following the route of the voyage as well as estimating the time needed to reach the island. He had a hard time convincing Malik to make a detour and stop over at Kalmori, what with the local stigma attached to it.

“This is Black Label, a famous scotch whiskey that I specially bought for you. And an attractive cash bonus could be yours if you let me complete my tour the way I have planned,” he coaxed.

“Babu, it is just not possible for me to let you land on the island. I can certainly sail by, but to leave you and the others at the mercy of this policeman and his defunct rifle is just unimaginable.” Malik was in a way correct, too.

However, Amit did not want to miss the opportunity to land on the island, to learn about the albinos and the white patch of land, devoid of any vegetation. “I foresee no danger. We will all stay close to the policeman,” He knew he had to hard-sell the idea at all costs. He could see Malik in a dilemma, too. He finally made a decision and stretched his hand out to pick up the bottle of foreign liquor and that too a premium scotch whisky — he had always dreamt of tasting it at least once in his life.

Amit took his chance. “You have to manage Jibon and Dipak,” he pleaded.

Malik scratched his head and smiled sheepishly.

“I understand. You will be paid an additional bonus for your efforts,” Amit assured him. He raised his open palm in a sign of assurance, satisfied of a fat amount.

Amit kept his fingers crossed as Malik gestured the policeman into his tiny cabin and the door shut behind them. He could still catch a glimpse of the policeman vehemently shaking his head in refusal and trying to beat a hasty retreat from the cabin while the pilot tried hard to convince him. It did not seem to be working out in Amit’s favour for the moment. But as soon as Malik brought out the bottle of Scotch, Dipak’s eyes bulged out gleefully. After feigning resistance for a while, the policeman finally sat down near the pilot in his cabin. Amit knew the initial battle

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was won. Dipak grudgingly agreed, but not before taking a straight swig of amber liquid from the bottle.

Jibon was another hard nut to crack. Malik also talked to him, but without much success. He came and squatted before Amit. “Saar, please spare me, I have old parents and a younger sister to marry off. That is also not as important as the safety of all our lives. I have been to these cursed islands and have been suffering ever since.” He was pleading genuinely. Amit had to work hard on him, first convincing him that no curse would befall them and that the utmost care would be taken regarding their safety. Long minutes of coaxing and convincing finally worked, with Amit promising Jibon a relatively safe employment in the city upon their return.

The khari was small and he wondered how the boat would manoeuvre through such a narrow and shallow stretch of water. As they were moving, the water started flowing from the sea, as if someone had opened a dam. The narrow canal now looked like a river and he realised that it was high tide already. Anita was engrossed in every single activity of nature. Elena, too, was mesmerised by the sheer change of the surrounding landscape — the deep visible roots of the pneumatophores, more like supporting stilts, started vanishing under the vast sheet of water, taking with them some of the leafy branches as well. Only the tips of the trees were now visible above the water level. Amit wondered where the animals and reptiles that wandered about in the lush green forests could have gone. The tree that he just focussed on with his binoculars had the answer. He could see clearly three large snakes as well as several monkeys sheltered on the top branches.

“What a unique situation,” he thought. In ordinary circumstances, both species stayed as far away from each other as possible and the monkeys were usually scared of the snakes. But, unlike man, the natural world was more prudent and knew that, in order to survive, one must live together in harmony.

Anita was measuring the depth of the waters with an instrument she had brought from England. It read nearly thirty five feet, an increase of about twenty feet from the low tide level. She noted down these measurements. Elena had made a simple fish net with her scarf tied over a frame of rounded twig and was busy trying to catch some fish swimming close to their boat.

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On the policeman’s suggestion, an early lunch was arranged prior to their landing.

It was good to land during high tide as it would save them from slogging through the wider clayey bank. They quickly ate what was available. The excitement of landing prevailed on most of them, save Dipak and Jibon. Amit lost track of the innumerable times the policeman cocked his bolt and checked the magazine of his rifle. Jibon was silently muttering his prayers, his hand hidden in his jhola, rolling over his prayer beads.

The boat reached the mouth of the island. It was just about noon and it was warm overhead. They were all getting ready to land. It was agreed that Malik would anchor at more or less the same point and the disembarking members were expected to return in keeping with the tidal timings which were duly noted by Amit.

The gear they had procured for their trip was indeed heavy, but apart from Amit, Elena and Anita were also used to carrying heavy backpacks. Biru and Raju with their youthful strength were also of help. Dipak and Jibon were utterly useless and Amit wished they would take care of themselves and stay out of trouble, which was enough in itself. Much to the embarrassment of the ladies in their group, the burly policeman undressed in front of all of them. Wearing only his underpants, he draped himself in a lungi way above his knees, with his oversized belly drooping and prepared to wade through the river bank.

Biru also wore a gamcha and packed his pants and shirt in his bag. Taking care not to draw Dipak’s attention, they jointly carried a tent, diving gear and a lot of other equipment and carefully stepped into the knee-deep slush. It was a long haul with heavy luggage and difficult terrain, but they all heaved a sigh of relief as the first member of the team caught the branch of a tree. They reached the shore much earlier than the policeman, who looked nothing short of comic, with the rifle over his head and his bag dangling from the butt, overstuffed with his uniform, service shoes, belt and sundry other things. Anita and Elena were caricatures, too.

Both were in shorts and completely muddy right up to the knees. They all stretched out and lay down once they reached the trees. Raju was puffing and the policeman was cursing to himself in Bengali. Jibon looked resigned. Biru went to the waters and fetched a bucket full, which helped Amit clean up. It was a big re219

lief. The exercise was repeated by everybody. They were finally ready to begin their long march towards the other end of the island, where the white crater lay.

Raju was busy getting Amit’s camera ready and he had the binoculars at hand as well. The policeman, now looking cleaner, turned around and pushed his burly figure into his uniform. “I am supposed to be in my uniform while on duty. It is duty regulations,” Dipak explained, as if sharing a big secret. Amit nodded--he had no desire to disagree with him and upset him right now. He knew very well how Dipak would react when he broke the news of his plan to spend the night on this island. “Of course, only if absolutely necessary,” Amit said to himself.

Elena was checking the relative humidity and other parameters related to her study with her equipment. Anita was simply chatting as they walked along. Raju, who was just ahead of everybody else, stopped abruptly and gestured to them to be silent. They heard a sound that could not have been natural or created by any animal—it was the sound of metal striking against some hard substance in the distance. There was fear and apprehension on everyone’s face, especially the policeman’s.

He lifted his rifle in the direction of the sound, and Amit promptly forced the weapon down. “What in the world are you doing?” he demanded. “One shot, and you will give away our presence and we may all become easy targets, especially if these persons could be poachers or persons with any evil intent.” The policeman was sweating profusely and did not utter a word. He looked at Amit intensely without knowing how to react. Silently, he leaned against a tree in exasperation and confusion. Amit put his hand on Dipak’s shoulder to assuage his hurt pride. They waited for a while and heard that unmistakable sound yet again. It was sounding as if something was being hammered on!

“Now we have to be very careful,” Amit assumed leadership and advised all the team members. Anita was nonchalant but Elena kept close to him. Everyone promptly became quiet as they stepped forward in single file, trying to make as little noise as possible.

They walked in silence for the next hour or so, with the occasional sound of hammering still echoing from a distant corner of the island. Despite protests from Ji220

bon, they took a circuitous route which led them to a relatively high point of the island. The bird that clumsily flew close to Amit’s face, almost brushing his hair, settled down on a nearby branch. He tried to focus on it with his binoculars as Raju began clicking with the camera. It was a crow, an albino with red eyes. He watched it and was concerned at seeing its snowy feathers.

They were now almost at the highest point and could see miles of lush green forests, washed clean by abundant rainfall. A sheet of water surrounded the oval land mass of the island and they could see the unmistakable white patch of land below and about a kilometre to the south. There it was, a green plastic sheet shimmering in the sun. It could have been a tent or a canopy. Amit gestured his team to be quiet and positioned his binoculars in that direction.

There was a man in military fatigues, but he did not in any way seem to be from the Indian Army. The other two people under the plastic canopy were assembling some kind of apparatus. He could see another soldier as well. He carried a hammer with which he was hitting at some rocks. So, that’s where the noise was coming from! There was something strikingly different about this person. The man in focus sported a well-trimmed beard, something not permitted in the service regulations of the Indian Army. He was wearing battle fatigues and a beret. He tried to concentrate on the man’s shoulder insignia. With difficulty, he read B...D...R. So, he was from Bangladesh. The arm band of another man had a red flag with yellow stars, proclaiming his Chinese antecedents. Their presence and actions seemed suspect. He turned around and climbed down, where his entire team was resting after the long march.

Amit asked Jibon, “Are you sure we are still on Indian soil or have we by any chance intruded into Bangladeshi territory?”

Jibon burst into one of his loud guffaws, much to Amit’s displeasure. He quietened Jibon down by shaking his shoulder and repeated his question. “Look, I know this place like the back of my palm. The rivers Harinbhanga and Raimangal are the international border with Bangladesh and we are many kilometres inside Indian Territory.” He suddenly turned serious and asked in a low tone, “Is there any prob-

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lem? You would not have asked this question without reason as you know the location quite well from the maps you carry,” Jibon was smarter than he looked.

Amit called everybody to get together and whispered, “There seems to be some kind of an intrusion on this island by Bangladeshis and Chinese. At this point, I wouldn’t know how many have intruded. The fact is that they are well-equipped, with tents and heavy equipment.”

Raju was trembling with excitement. “Uncle, can we go and catch them? We can get some awards from the government.” Though he was in college, he often displayed flashes of childishness.

The policeman was quite a sight. “I am due for retirement in just another year and I was thinking of settling down in my native village among the lush green trees with my son to look after me and grandchildren to keep me company. Something tells me that the signs are not good on this island. I did not like the white crow. Now, we have the Chinese and the Bangladeshis. They would surely be armed with weapons far more sophisticated than my ancient .303 rifle, which jams whenever I wish to pull the trigger.” He looked at Amit pleadingly, “Sir, let us all go away right now. Let the Chinese and the Bangladeshis live and die here, it is not our concern. I cannot even file a report as this detour and landing are wholly unauthorised. I neither want any money nor any bonus. Let us go back.”

“You should be ashamed of yourself, Dipak da,” said Anita. “If there is an intrusion by outsiders, we need to find out the reason why the intrusion has taken place.

We can justify landing here by claiming that we had an engine breakdown, which forced us to land on this island and we accidentally came upon the clandestine activities of these foreign elements. I will ensure that you get a medal for your bravery.”

The policeman looked at Anita disbelievingly. “Just make sure I don’t get a charge sheet, suspension or dismissal from the police force,” he muttered.

The quiet Jibon suddenly sprang a surprise. “Anita and doctor babu are right. We should not run away from our land like cowards. They may be well-armed, but I know the land better than they do and we have brains and a rifle, too. I am all for 222

apprehending the culprits and cracking the mystery. I would not mind staying here for the night if necessary.”

“Me too,” chorused Elena and Biru.

“Okay, we will ask Biru to do the scouting and get back with the information on the intruders,” Amit suggested, for Biru was also a local boy and knew the terrain well. On his part, Biru was proud of being chosen as a scout and the policeman was visibly relieved at not being given the task.

He lent Biru his knife and also taught him how to use binoculars. Biru was a quick learner, and in a few moments disappeared behind the bushes towards the base camp of the foreigners.

Biru stepped carefully through the dense foliage. A sudden movement behind the bushes alerted him and he stood still. A large snake had coiled itself around a still quivering doe. Both were creamy white and Biru did not miss the red eyes. He had been brought up in the forests and was familiar with snakes, but this looked eerie.

For some unknown reason, he felt afraid, which made him wonder if he should turn back and fetch someone.

“No,” he thought finally and forced a smile. There was nothing to be afraid of. He turned back, only to see the doe being sucked head first into the abnormally widened mouth of the still snake.

He trod cautiously towards the intruder’s camp which was some distance away.

The jungle was dense and it was getting increasingly difficult to negotiate through the foliage. He tried to make as little noise as possible while stepping on the twigs and leaves that lay underneath. He did not fail to observe that the startled birds and small animals moving out of his way with alarm were mostly albinos. Biru moved on, wondering why. He was almost at a vantage point. The forest had abruptly cleared to show a large landmass of white void, on the edge of it was a makeshift tent. The green flutter of the canopy was now audible. The table under the canopy had strange-looking equipment, some glass and some metallic. A short figure, more like a Nepalese he had befriended some months ago, was shaking a flask with some liquid. There was another similar short, older person holding a white bird in his gloved hands. He was wearing knee-high gum boots.

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Adjacent to the table were some backpacks and small boxes, haphazardly piled on a plastic sheet. There was a round mask, like a solid helmet worn by motorcycle riders in English movies, which was, in fact, a diver’s suit. There was a small gas tank and some instruments he had never seen before. The bird’s clucking was muffled by the person holding it firmly with one hand. He twisted the neck of the bird as it slumped. It was laid in the large steel bowl lying on the table. The shorter person working at the table took a large syringe and drew enough blood to pump into a few vials.

Killing a bird was not new for Biru. But here, there was something more to it, something vicious, something cruel, something secretive. He had to run back and inform Amit da about what he had seen. They were now assembling some instruments on the table. There was a small oven with a blue flame on which a bowl was placed. One of the men was holding some kind of metre to it and observing, talking agitatedly in some strange language with the other.

“What are the Chinese doing? I am hungry. And what are you doing as well?” the most unexpected shout in Bengali literally threw Biru off for a second. He quickly glanced at the direction from where the voice came. A bearded man in military fatigues appeared, holding a bucket and approaching the table where the work was going on.

“I am cooking,” the reply, too, was in Bengali and, this time, it was another bearded soldier who was squatting and trying to light a small stove and whom Biru had not spotted till then.

“Cook the fish we brought for both of us and, for the two Chinese men, you can warm food up from their box,” the first soldier cried out loud.

“It means there are four of them,” Biru was intelligent enough to count the number of intruders, but their work was beyond his comprehension as he was illiterate.

He silently retraced his steps and proceeded towards his team, now perched at a high point on the island.

Amit had spent much time scouting for tigers in such surroundings and so didn’t have much difficulty in keeping watch on Biru. As his binoculars were with him, 224

he relied on his camera’s powerful telephoto lens to keep a watch on the activities of the strangers.

It took longer for Biru to return to the camp despite the fact that he understood the terrain well. He stopped suddenly, and with lightning speed caught a medium sized toad with his bare hands, which he thrust into a small cloth bag that he was carrying. He could see the burly policeman shifting with unease where they were resting, which meant that he would reach his other team members in a few minutes.

For the skilled Chinese scientists, the success of the mission was already being realised. They were debating on the progress of their field study. Both agreed that the silvery element they were analysing was similar to lutetium — one of the rarest of rare metals on this planet — though the octagonal crystals revealed under the microscope varied from the usual hexagonal crystal structure of lutetium, which was also the heaviest known element on earth. The magnetic properties, the temperature at which it burned and melted, as well as its bulk density were all critically examined by the scientists. As the results were progressively noted, the Chinese men looked more excited and talked in louder voices than before.

The mineral was unlike any ever seen before and was slightly radioactive unlike lutetium. The land mass clearly conveyed a foreign matter intrusion, perhaps a meteorite crash. One of the scientists was so busy working with the array of scientific equipment that he had not even touched his food until then. The other Chinese man was surveying the region, accompanied by the bearded and taller soldier with a disc-like gadget attached to a long rod. The Bangladeshi soldiers reminded the Chinese men not to engage in any radio communication with their counterparts in the submarine, lest the transmission alert Indian forces.

“What can be the cause of this mass albinism in the animals and birds?” wondered the Chinese at the table. But it was nothing more than a mere thought. After all, as a metallurgist, his interest was to investigate the silvery white lumps in front of him. Its impact on humans, animals and the environment was not his forte and was best pursued by some of his other colleagues back home. He secretly knew that compared to the importance his department enjoyed with the govern225

ment, his colleagues studying safety and impact assessment were usually lesser mortals with little to say. After all, the energy needs of the country preceded the safety parameters for humans and the environment, he chuckled. The other Chinese, accompanied by a Bangladeshi wielding a detector on a stick, was in the core area of the silvery white patch of land. The detector beeped more intensely than ever and the needle in the instrument carried by the Chinese hit the optimum point and stuck there, unable to move further. Satisfied, the scientist scribbled in his notebook in Mandarin.

Biru reached the team and sat down to catch his breath, much to the annoyance of the policeman. Amit patiently waited for Biru to recover and narrate his visit to the crater. He explained everything in detail, adding that he didn’t know what the intruders were doing there. At the end of it, Biru remembered the toad he had caught and opened his bag. The ivory-coloured amphibian with red eyes leapt out as Amit took a good look at it. Anita was unruffled but Elena jumped in fear.

“There are many like this on the way,” explained Biru. He also described the chilling sight of the snake gobbling up the doe, both albinos!

They quickly ate the bread rolls that Banchharam, the cook, had thoughtfully prepared for them earlier. It was time, Amit decided, that he had a closer look at the intruders himself. He took the binoculars back from Biru and told him to stay put with the team. Much to the relief of both Dipak and Jibon, he started climbing down, along with Raju. They made little noise, taking care not to arouse any suspicion. Biru, having been brought up in the jungles, had deftly left marks on his trail for them to pick up. Raju kept the camera and Amit kept scanning the path through the binoculars.

There it lay, the ivory snake with an oversized bulge in its body, with the rear hoofs of the doe still protruding from its mouth. The reptile would have to stay still like this for at least another day till its hardworking muscles had squeezed and digested every bit of protein it had gorged on just about an hour ago. Raju did not miss the opportunity and caught the wholesome lunch act on camera. It took less time for Amit and Raju to reach an ideal watching post, thanks to Biru’s tracks. He focussed the binoculars towards the makeshift tent.

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The boxes with Chinese markings were a clear giveaway. There were two persons in view. One of them, a Chinese man, was working at the table — often looking into the microscope and scribbling notes. The other one, a Bangladeshi as was evident from his shoulder patch, was stirring a flask with some liquid in it. Amit could also see two distant figures approaching the canopied shelter. The duo was a Chinese and a bearded Bangladeshi with a metal detector, leading him to wonder if they were privy to the palm-leaf manuscripts and were looking for the forgotten history of these islands. But he knew such a thing was not possible and that these people must have some other secret objective. The scientific instruments revealed that they were engaged in far more complex pursuits than mere history.

“They seem to be looking for some minerals in this region,” Amit whispered to Raju. Suddenly, he recalled the warning given by his Geological Survey friend when he had met him earlier to discuss the white patch. “We should not forget to take a mud bath once again as we leave the island,” he told Raju.

The approaching Chinese man with the metal detector was shouting out to his colleague seated under the canopy. Amit inched forward to listen to what he was saying. But he couldn’t understand a word of their dialect except “Hau, Hau”, meaning “Good, good”. He regretted not having pursued Chinese language in university. However, to his relief, the Bangladeshis started their banter in Bengali with utmost carelessness, confident that they were all alone on the island.

The puzzle was beginning to fall into place. The Bangladeshis were facilitators to the Chinese scientists, who had arrived to test the mineral deposits in the island.

One of the Bangladeshi soldiers unwittingly revealed the information about their colleagues waiting in the submarine, somewhere in the depths of the river. Amit tried to think what to do next. While his patriotism nudged him to get the intruders apprehended immediately, common sense told him not to be a reckless adventurer as the foursome seemed to be well-armed and hence equipped to overpower all of them. The pistols hanging from the belts of the two Bangladeshis were enough to dissuade him from his former plan. His binoculars also caught the glistening steel of the AK-47 and other arms lying below their table. He decided to wait for an opportune moment to make any move.

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“Go and fetch Dipak and Biru quietly. Tell the policeman not to make any noise or do anything stupid,” Amit turned and whispered. “Jibon can stay up with the ladies.” Raju promptly vanished into the jungle to fetch the other members of their team. Amit quietly checked the exit routes of the intruders. They had just two ways to decamp. One was the longish route, crossing the point where his team members were entrenched, and the other, a shorter one, was through the woods that lay to the right of the canopy.

He had to keep them under watch until help arrived. He did not want Elena and Anita to be anywhere near at this point.

Raju reached the other members of the team, panting with exhaustion. This had been the most adventurous day in his life. His heart was beating faster than ever.

Excitement, fear, apprehension and adventure all bundled into one quivering, overwhelming emotion. He waved madly at the others. “Uncle has asked Dipak and Biru to come down immediately. For now, Anita and Elena, you are to stay here.

Jibon da, stay with the ladies. Dipak da is to double check his rifle and is not to make any move until uncle gives the clearance,” Raju was like a trained soldier relaying instructions from his commander.

The policeman felt the saddest of the lot. He was cursing to himself. “I knew it would come to something like this and I should have stayed away. I hear from Biru that the persons down there are heavily armed and are enemies.” He was sweating in panic.

Elena asked Anita what the commotion was all about as Raju had rattled off his orders in Bengali, which she didn’t understand one bit. Anita explained to her all that she had just heard. “We will just stay put here, only for a few moments until Raju, Dipak and Biru move down. We will discreetly follow them thereafter,” she whispered to Elena.

The policeman was wiping off the sweat from his forehead for the umpteenth time as he reluctantly joined the younger duo and started trudging towards the target area. The rifle seemed heavier than ever before. Anita and Elena waited as the team began their descent and vanished from their sight. It was now their move and the brave ladies started following their other team mates. Jibon was glad to 228

stay back and take care of their belongings. He was also too afraid to die in any unnatural way. His sister had to be married off and he had to live to earn for it!

Amit’s eyes ached as he trained his binoculars on the intruders. He watched the tell-tale yellow lead-lined envelopes in which the scientist carefully packed the mineral samples. The Bangladeshi soldiers packed a few insect specimens, plant samples and rodents into glass containers. The sun was scorching and they had taken off their uniforms, sporting only their trousers and vests. The belts and the holstered guns lay carelessly on the ground under the canopy. The Chinese men were too deeply engrossed in their work to notice anything.

One of the soldiers was frantically trying to contact his counterpart in the submarine through his radio with a scrambler. “Hello, hello…” the noise in the otherwise quiet island was loud. His colleague inside the submarine had just finished his lunch and was trying not to drop off into a post-lunch siesta. He did not observe the blip in the radio. For the crew in the submarine, the team that had landed on the island was expected to stay there for several hours, even overnight if need be.

After a few attempts, the Bangladeshi soldier gave up. It was better to try after some time, when the signal was stronger and the radio on the other end was able to pick it up.

“Looks like the submarine has moored deep down in the river, or there may be Indian patrols around. I should try later.” He certainly didn’t know how to conduct himself in enemy territory, for he was thinking aloud without a care in the world.

For Amit, another piece of the puzzle fell into place. The team had travelled to the island in a submarine. His mind flooded with a thousand queries — where was the submarine? How many more soldiers were in it? And, above all, what was the nature of their daring and secret visit to the island?

“Look, there behind the trees,” the sudden shout came from one of the Bangladeshis. The bullet from the pistol whizzed past into the bushes. Both the Bangladeshis sped towards a particular direction in the bushes. Elena’s greenish blue shirt first came into view followed by Anita’s Tee. Both had their arms behind their heads. One of the Bangladeshis, who held a gun to Anita’s head, was virtually

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pushing them, led by the other soldier. There was frenzied banter between the captors, who led them towards the canopy.

Dipak was fuming. This could never happen while he was around with his rifle!

He cocked his rifle and checked the bolt, which was working fine. He rechecked the magazine and looked at the two men. Raju held him firmly and cautioned him against doing anything silly. “They are heavily armed, let us reach uncle and seek his advice on our next move,” Raju suggested. He was trembling and nervous, too.

But, the burly policeman would have none of it. He had had his training, too, and needed no advice on how to respond to attacks from novices. He brushed aside both Raju and Biru and moved a little closer.

The .303 was one of the notoriously powerful weapons developed by the British.

The 635 mm long barrel could deliver a deadly three inches of lead easily to a range of 550 yards. Little wonder then that the antiquated weapon was still in use by the security forces in India. Although the policeman had all along carried the weapon around, he had hardly ever practiced firing it recently. The reflex action hurt his shoulder bone more fiercely than ever before and he lost his balance, falling to the ground unexpectedly with a thud.

Something inside Raju urged him to bolt from the scene and he ran with all his might. Biru, on the other hand, bent to lift the burly policeman. “Check if I have hit any of them,” Dipak said.

“You could have killed one of your girls,” the heavily accented voice came from behind. Dipak turned back with difficulty to see the bearded Bangladeshi holding a gun to his temple. Soon, Biru and the policeman joined the captive ladies and they were all securely tied up with rope. The Chinese scientists were busy debating amongst themselves on the sudden turn of events. One of them whispered something in the Bangladeshi soldier’s ears.

“How many are you and what have you been doing here?” the Bangladeshi soldier demanded to know from Dipak. “Let me explain,” Anita volunteered, and the soldier turned towards her. “We are tourists and landed on this island by mistake. We did not realise that this area belonged to the army. The policeman was assigned to accompany us and our boat is anchored at the river bank. We are students and 230

have all the materials to prove it. The other boy, Biru, is our help and cook. It was a big mistake, but the policeman’s gun went off accidentally.” Anita was trying to sound convincing.

The Bangladeshi huddled with the two Chinese and translated all of it. “I think she believes that we are from the Indian Army. They could actually be tourists,” the soldier reasoned. “Keep them tied until we leave safely. The policeman may not pose any threat and his weapon also seems to be antiquated. As for the boy, it can be tested if he can really cook. We can have a change of taste,” the Bangladeshi kicked at the squatting Biru. “Get up and prepare some food for us.”

The older scientist was still shaking the flask with the mineral and some liquid. He had a complex apparatus with which he was testing and labelling the samples he had collected during the day. The Chinese men were not very concerned about the captives, who seemed to be harmless. The policeman looked like a routine escort who may have been provided by the Indian authorities to ensure the safety of the visitors. Besides, they had hardly any time to think about straying tourists.

They were here for scientific research and their sample mineral was yielding some startling results.

“The mineral is pretty close to stable lutetium. I am amazed to find this in a naturally occurring state,” the elderly Chinese man was thrilled. He was certain of a promotion in the PLA and could look forward to a blissful life post retirement.

The team of three were wriggling under the scorching sun. Anita prayed that Biru’s cooking would convince their captors about her impromptu story. Dipak was angrier than ever. He was afraid he would lose all post-retirement benefits and his pension, and that too, if he was lucky enough not to be sacked. He was furious with the ladies. “Had you just been away from the scene as advised,” the policeman said, adding, “I would have certainly finished off the entire team of intruders.” The ladies ignored his muttering and began contemplating their next move.

For Elena, the heat and humidity were unbearable. Her dress was drenched in sweat. After a point, the fluid loss from her body started telling on her and Elena began to lose consciousness.

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“Please help,” Anita’s shrill voice reached the elderly Chinese man, who looked in their direction. He said something to the Bangladeshi soldier, who seemed to disagree as he was shaking his head and arguing. Finally, the will of the scientist prevailed and the soldier reluctantly walked towards the prisoners. “Please save the foreign lady. She is fainting. Please believe us. We indeed are students and the boy is a cook. You can see for yourself from the food he cooks. You can keep the policeman tied, if you wish.” Anita was truly convincing. The Bangladeshi leaned in front of Elena and opened her eyelid. The heat was indeed gruelling. He walked back and shouted to his colleague, “The girl seems to be affected by the heat. Let me give her some glucose and water,” he shouted. “Be careful,” the other cautioned.

The soldier came back with a packet of glucose and some water. “Just behave yourselves, all of you. We will set you free only after getting clearance from our superior officers,” the soldier told Anita sternly. “I am going to untie both you ladies, but the policeman has to remain as he is. We shall decide his fate later. You shall stay in the open and not do anything funny. Otherwise, you will get a bullet each in your head.” He seemed to mean every word of it. Anita readily agreed to all the instructions by nodding her head. Dipak was really desperate by now, more so, because he could not do anything. He knew his career was precariously poised between an award for bravery and a sack. He needed his pension badly after his retirement. The policeman frantically searched for a way out.

The fresh fish cooked by Biru attracted the scientists’ attention. The soldiers were also eagerly awaiting the food that was being prepared. “Good, we now believe that you are indeed a cook,” the soldier addressed Biru, while munching appreciatively on the fare that was spread in record time. The Chinese men also nodded their head in praise.

“How will you leave the island when we release you?” they asked. Biru quickly replied, “Our boat will be in the banks for two hours during high tide, when we should be back. The pilot and one assistant are in the boat now in mid-river. They must be drinking and eating the best of fresh fishes from the river.”

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The Bangladeshis were reasonably convinced that their captives had accidentally intruded upon their area of activity and that their real identity was unknown to the captives. “You should just keep your mouth shut. If you ever open your mouth and reveal anything about the military operations in this island, you shall be immediately jailed,” the soldier threatened. “I swear that none of us will even whisper about anything that we have seen here,” Biru pleaded. Both Anita and Elena were amazed at the array of equipment the scientists had brought with them. It reminded them of a mini chemistry laboratory in college. Hidden behind the bushes, Raju and Amit were amazed too, but kept a close and silent watch on them. Amit had to strike and waited for an opportune moment.

He waited with bated breath. The scientist at the work table looked elated and so did his companion. The Bangladeshis had reason to be happy, too. If the Chinese achieved what they were looking for, their own promotion was also guaranteed.

The Chinese were discussing the results of their sample tests and making notes.

Amit lay still behind the bushes, but Raju was getting restless. He was longing to jump right into the scene, show some heroism and rescue the ladies Bollywood style. But, his uncle’s sharp reproof against doing anything rash put such thoughts to rest.

Both Anita and Elena knew Amit and Raju were hiding behind the trees somewhere nearby. “I was warned by the holy man in the lakes about the yellow intruders and it has come true,” sighed Elena. Anita pleaded to her captors to be excused for answering nature’s call, coming to a secluded spot away from their sight.

“Shhhh,” Amit dragged the bewildered girl, placing his hand on her mouth.

“Here, keep this safely hidden. Do not delay, lest the soldiers get suspicious.” He thrust a knife into her hand which she quickly hid in her clothes. A few seconds later, she returned to the other team members.

The Bangladeshi soldiers were squatting on the floor facing west, the direction of Holy Mecca, and offering their evening namaz. The sky was red and soon would be turning black, studded with twinkling stars. Raju was cleverer than Amit had imagined. He had thoughtfully packed some food and water in his backpack, which they both ate in the near darkness. Nocturnal beings had already started 233

creeping out of their holes and they had to be doubly alert. The Chinese seemed to have finished their work. The small battery pack had enough power to light the two portable table lamps. A few of the instruments were in operation and many others were being packed up.

One of the soldiers came near the ladies and thrust two plates into their hands.

“Here,” he offered. It was some of the fish that Biru had expertly prepared. “Just don’t try anything foolish. I am going to untie the policeman, too. Please inform him that if he ever tries anything funny, he gets shot in the head.” The soldier meant business. The policeman ran to the bushes under the watchful eyes of the soldier to relieve himself and came back promptly. The night wore on and the girls waited impatiently. One of the Bangladeshi soldiers tried to communicate through their radio transmitter, but without much luck. The attempts were for short durations to prevent their signals from being picked up by the security forces. It was quiet all around. It was at that moment that the croaking of the frogs got noisier all of a sudden.

The chilling roar penetrated every bone in the body. It was the first time during this voyage that they heard the royal beast’s thunderous call. The darkness coupled with its resonance increased the terror quotient. There was a scurry in the camp.

“Run,” the Bangladeshi spontaneously alerted his companions. A small torch provided the little light that was required for the intruders to flee in the opposite direction from where the roar came. In their fear and hurry to save their own lives, the team forgot about their captives. They ignored the instruments but did not forget to pick their weapons, their notes and the envelopes and containers with samples.

The sound of fleeing steps died down and it was quiet again. “Dipak da,” Anita’s voice scored over the frogs. “I am right here,” the policeman’s voice was heard from the dark bushes, just behind where the ladies were hiding. “Everybody just stay where you are. You cannot see in the dark, but the tiger can see very well,” Amit’s voice must have brought relief to all his team members, for he heard a collective sigh. “And keep your voices low, while staying close to each other.”

The night passed without any further disturbance and the welcome call of birds announced daybreak. The distant grey dawn soon transformed into pink. The ar234

ray of equipment, the food boxes and other paraphernalia that the intruders had left in a hurry were lying scattered on the ground. After looking around carefully, Amit was certain that there was no threat now. He emerged from the bushes, followed by Raju. Anita and Elena were next. Dipak came out last. He located his rifle lying nearby, but the Bangladeshi soldier had emptied and thrown away the bullets and the spare magazine that the policeman had been carrying.

Jibon awoke suddenly, with the chattering of the monkeys. He had slept off in the night out of weariness, after keeping vigil for hours. “It’s already morning and I see no soul as yet. It must be safe for me to stay here as everyone has to be back to collect their stuff,” he thought.

Biru was nowhere to be found. They went around collecting and packing the leftovers, for they could prove useful to the security agencies for their investigation.

The policeman continued to grumble that the missing bullets and the magazine, added to the unauthorised landing on the island, were going to invite a severe reprimand from his superiors and might even cost him his job.

At the other end of the island the Bangladeshis slowly climbed down from the tree they had perched on, followed by the Chinese who descended from another nearby tree. One of the soldiers was frantically pushing the knobs of his radio transmitter. “Kader reading,” the other side responded after long minutes of trying to make contact. The instructions for boarding the submarine were obtained, much to the delight of the other team members. They decided to leave a tied-up Biru on the river bank. The tidal conditions were just appropriate at the scheduled time, and the four-member team negotiated the mud banks with comparative ease now that they had shed most of their luggage at their camp.

Simultaneously, not too far away from the location, another radio was also creaking. The caller spoke briefly, giving the exact location of the intruding vessel. A frigate and the few gun boats patrolling in the area also received curt instructions and converged towards the river basin. The two Indian Navy submarines lazily lying in the shallow rivers at the seafront received “fire at sight” instructions and their sailors were put on high alert.

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C H A P T E R 27

The Ambush The Continental Biocon laboratory was full of activity. The old scientist was at the table with some complex instruments, this time assisted by a nurse. A disinterested Ponytail, as usual was busy reading a vernacular magazine. The senile scientist viewed the black child lying on the table. He had already administered the experimental serum in the correct proportion to her weight over the last twelve hours.

“The lutetium derived serum should start reacting with melanin and give the desired results, which would lead me to become one of the richest scientists in the world,” the old man had already added a dacha on the Black Sea to his proposed list of acquisitions in the not-too-distant future, when millions of dollars would be transferred to his offshore account from his Chinese clients.

Little did the crafty scientist, disgraced and shunned by the scientific community, know that he had been outwitted and outmanoeuvred by his boss sipping wine soaked in tiger bones at Xiongsen, China. The real game was not to earn a few million dollars from some skin colour changing cream. It was far more grandiose and farsighted than that. It was a blueprint to address their country’s growing energy needs. The lab, Liu’s brainchild, was merely a front to continue their espionage activities and give legitimacy to their several other clandestine businesses.

The scientist was merely a pawn in their complex chess game.

The officer at the desk looked at the toy picked up from the scene of the crime.

The abduction of the black child had already made headlines in the local editions of newspapers, with shots of the wailing family being splashed on television newscasts for the umpteenth time. The political opposition had taken a swipe at the administration and at the inept police force.

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The Captain was curt with the officer. “Crack it soon or leave it to someone else.”

The officer had not been idling for the past forty-eight hours. He had already made some headway into the case. He got cracking on the toy that was found at the kerb, where the abduction had taken place. The shop in which the toy had been bought was located. He sat in the security console and watched the video recordings at the shop. The image of the ponytailed Chinese was identified, although it was a bit hazy. The images were relayed to the FBI, the Interpol and several other organisations which shared information. The State borders including airports were issued a “find and detain” notice for the unnamed suspect.

The results on the identity of the suspect came in sooner than expected. “Here it is,” his assistant was euphoric. He thrust a sheaf of papers exposing Ponytail’s identity in the hands of his superior. The officer put down his coffee mug and began scrutinising them minutely. “Good job, my boy,” the officer’s appreciation filled his subordinate with pride. “Okay, we must move,” the officer checked his gun holster and spoke briefly to the Captain as he stuffed the sheaf of papers into his pocket. The police cars in the area were promptly alerted. The revelation of earlier indictment of the suspect of manslaughter and resisting arrest resulted in trained FBI gunmen joining the team as the siren blaring vehicles raced towards the obscure laboratory around Oak Spring Way near the State Route 828. The building in the woods far away from prying eyes carried a sign, Continental Biocon.

“Not much info on Continental. Earlier it was owned by William and Malcolm Bosch, and went into liquidation. It was later bought over from the insolvency administrator by one Winsome Bio-pharma, an overseas Chinese company dealing in some kind of enzymes. Over and out,” the police radio transmission terminated. It was getting dark as the policemen silently surrounded the facility. The vehicles got enough cover from the foliage. Specially trained personnel started climbing to the roof from several points. Once in position, they waited for the signal from the man in command.

Ponytail thought it was only his imagination. He ignored the noise and continued with his reading. The loud music from the earphones kept him insulated from the outside world. He wasn’t in any way perturbed. This was not a part of the world 237

where you can have gun-brandishing thugs. And, in any case, he was the one with the gun. He smiled to himself while still engrossed in the music.

He opened the door nonchalantly and, in a split second, the heaviest of the policemen felled him to the ground, handcuffing him. The nurse was easier to apprehend, and the trained personnel did so without firing a single shot. An ambulance which had been kept on standby rushed with the rescued child to the hospital. The senile scientist who was returning to the laboratory fled after seeing the police vehicles in the vicinity. The nurse knew very little, but was booked as an accomplice in experimenting with dangerous drugs on humans without authorisation by the FDA and the sentence was stiff. Ponytail did not open his mouth even under truth serum shots.

The powerful Mr. Liu tried to use his clout in the administration to obtain a reprieve for his trusted lieutenant. Meanwhile, a clinical laboratory, this time named, Continental Crusaders, was inaugurated at a remote area in Bangladesh for uplifting the poor and the downtrodden. The experiments to alter nature that had been forcibly abandoned in the US were resumed. The same senile scientist was in charge, and he still cherished dreams of a villa in Mexico and a dacha in the Black Sea region, besides a few million dollars tucked away in his offshore accounts.

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C H A P T E R 28

The Buried Treasure(s) Raju kept on clicking with his camera, dutifully recording minute details of the equipment that the Chinese had left behind. He was more than thrilled to think about the prospect of helping nab enemy soldiers infiltrating into Indian soil to carry out clandestine activity inimical to the nation. This was his best chance to show some real patriotism.

They climbed back to the location where they had first halted on the top of a mound. They collected their belongings and, along with Jibon, decided to go back to the river bank where they had disembarked the previous day.

“Hello,” the voice of Banchharam the cook was a welcome relief for all of them.

The boat was anchored in the middle of the river and the noise of the spluttering engine tore the silence around them. The boat started to move towards them; a long rope had been thrown to moor it close to their location. As the tired team members who had to lie awake all night slowly climbed into the boat one after another, Amit remembered to pick two buckets of silt from the river bank. The policeman was still visibly shaken, and was also afraid that Biru had been abducted—if this had not been the case, he could have got away by suppressing the part about the intruders. Malik looked grim. He was being generously paid by Amit, but losing a member of his crew was certainly not acceptable.

There was a small debate about whether they should go back to the island in search of Biru. Amit believed that he could not be on the island as the soldiers must have taken him along with them. “At the most, we could check near any other entry point of the island,” he suggested. The boat made a detour and started to encircle the island. “Professor, look there,” Anita shouted. He quickly fo239

cussed his binoculars in the direction she indicated. There he was! Biru was there, tied up. Banchharam, a good swimmer, immediately jumped into the river and started moving towards the river bank. In a few moments, a tired Biru was freed and helped to reach the vessel. Amit gave a hand and lifted the lad in.

Malik came and kicked the boy in a friendly gesture. “You almost made me think that I am not going to see you ever again,” the pilot complained. Banchharam came with steaming tea for his assistant and for the visitors. The warmth of the beverage helped soothe their nerves and eased the tension they had been through over the last twenty four hours. “What about my bullets and my magazine?” The policeman’s face was still sulky. Amit tried to calm him down, but to no avail. He applied the clay collected from the river bank all over his body and allowed it to dry. Raju promptly followed suit and Amit urged all the others to do the same.

Everybody was hungry and unanimously voted for a brunch. Banchharam obligingly went in to work. Amit sat with Anita, Elena and a large map of the area.

They were marking the route taken so far and Amit had to take Malik’s help to check the route and the location a few times. They made no alteration in their plan and decided to go ahead in search of the island marked in the secret map, which was stored in Elena’s palm leaf manuscripts.

After a quick brunch, Amit went back to the pilot’s cabin and shared the wooden bench with Malik. He spread out the map and showed him the location they wanted to head for. Malik took time to read the map and was not too happy to tread deeper into tiger territory once again. “The sailing time would be approximately three to four hours,” he said resignedly.

Amit checked their belongings, including the diving gear which he had borrowed from the Kolkata Port Trust. Oxygen cylinders were checked, too, although he didn’t know if he would ever need to use them at all. The weariness took its toll on most of them as they tried to stay awake in vain.

“Wake up. Food is ready,” Banchharam’s announcement sounded sweeter than ever. “We should be reaching in about forty minutes from now,” Malik’s announcement followed soon after. Everybody was taut with excitement. Miles of hental bushes gave way to more dense jungle with taller trees. The hillocks that had been 240

formed by millions of tonnes of silt deposited in the river basins over several millennia initially looked the same from a distance. The boat reached the location much later than Malik had predicted. The ebb tide had cost them a lot of time.

The water had started receding to levels which made further travel by boat unsafe.

Malik thought it was safe to stay afloat in mid-river for the rest of the day and began calculating the tidal timings suitable for landing on the island of Netidhopani.

There was disappointment, but everyone around understood. Here, within these desolate jungles and moody rivers, nature always called the shots. There was a sharp shower, suddenly making the weather cooler. Amit kept all the tools with him and also went through the finer details once again. They had to wake up early in the morning, well before sunrise, and prepare for landing. Darkness draped them all around with an overcast sky. Jibon took his flute out to play a melodious tune and was promptly joined by Anita, who started singing. Raju fetched a steel utensil to play drummer.

Dipak vanished to the lower deck to get his ‘refill’ from Malik. He preferred to stay down and enjoy his solitude. They all retired early. The roar of a tiger somewhere in the jungle was audible, with the wind blowing in their direction. Raju was in deep sleep. Dipak and Jibon’s snores travelled up to the upper deck. Elena got up and searched for her bag. She took out a packet of Cavenders and lit a cigarette.

Amit went up to her and she offered him one, too. He politely declined. They were both looking into the dark oblivion ahead. It was too dense to permeate.

“The smell is only too familiar,” Elena murmured. He did not know whether she was commenting on the smell of the tobacco or the surroundings. He did not ask her to clarify.

He didn’t know when he dozed off and it took some time for him to realise that he was being woken up. He woke Raju up. The ladies were already awake and were ready, too. Dipak and Jibon were snoring louder than ever. They didn’t know that the visitors were going to leave the boat in the early hours. Despite the fact that Biru was denied permission by Malik to accompany the visitors, the latter was awake too, helping to move the boat towards the river bank. It was still dark and the water levels were sufficiently high. The boat had quietly moved with the current.

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“Wait for a few more moments until the first signs of dawn,� suggested Malik, to which they all agreed readily. He then lowered the anchor and came with the Petromax lamp. The first welcome streaks of light tore through the dark veil that covered them, announcing the arrival of yet another day. Malik and Biru tested the depth of the soil. Two long bamboos were pushed into the river bank and the other end securely tied to the rail of the boat to help them get to the bank safely.

Biru slid down into the waters wearing only a gamcha and, utterly disregarding the threat of crocodiles, swam to the shore. He tied a rope securely to the nearest tree and swam back.

Amit lowered the rubber raft, which he had readied a few minutes ago. The diving suit, oxygen cylinder and a few other bulky items were loaded into the raft. He was the first one to disembark. The water was cool as the waves splashed mildly against the hull. Even as he negotiated each step carefully, Biru swam by, pulling the luggage on the raft to the safety of the shores. Anita, Elena and Raju were led

by Biru to the shore. Amit had a clear understanding with Malik. He would anchor in mid-river a few kilometres downstream at a safer location. They would stay in the island just for one night and be back in the same location the next afternoon. Amit noted the correct tidal timings to facilitate the mooring of the boat.

He had to fire a flare at 6 P.M. to confirm about the safety of his team and repeat the firing the next morning at 7 A.M. They had to return to the point where they had disembarked latest by 3 P.M., the next afternoon.

The rope was untied and the idling engine engaged the gears. As Sundari started sailing away, Dipak continued to dream of recovering his lost ammunition while Jibon slept like a log, tired as he was. Banchharam was awake and was a silent witness. They waited for daylight and moved up a little later with their luggage. Every heart was eager to unravel the mystery contained in the silken map hidden for more than five centuries. ********** The pneumatophores were slowing down their pace considerably. They also carried a lot of heavy luggage. The diving suit itself weighed more than forty pounds and the oxygen cylinder, another twenty. The tent and the array of digging equip242

ment, such as spades, shovels and pick-axes also added to the weight. Amit had carefully kept the packet which his uncle from the Home Ministry had given him in a corner of his backpack, though he hadn’t yet seen what it contained. In any case, he was instructed to use it only in case of any emergency. They had twenty litres of water, a small stove, an aluminium kettle, food and, of course, the camera equipment. Anita and Elena had expertly distributed the load so that no one felt unduly stressed and he was grateful to them for it. All of them missed Biru, who had willingly acted as their porter just the day before.

It was easy for the four of them to discuss freely the purpose of their visit to this island. Besides, the previous day’s happenings had put one of the crew members in grave danger and they did not want any of them to be vulnerable again because of their adventure. After all, these four had been plain lucky the day before. It was thanks to the sudden roar of the tiger that the intruders disappeared into the jungles, abandoning their camp, which gave Amit and Raju the chance to free the policeman, the ladies and later, Biru from captivity. Otherwise, they had no hope against the heavily-armed infiltrators. They were still wondering where the intruders could have escaped and wanted them to be caught soon.

Amit’s mind was buzzing with several unanswered questions. Why did the Chinese scientists and Bangladeshi soldiers risk a visit to an island within Indian Territory?

What were they busy analysing? What kind of link did the island have with albinism? He had to try and reach his uncle at his office as soon as possible, to apprise him of their dangerous encounter as well as the mysterious mineral on the island, which had aroused Chinese interest.

The entire team was tired after labouring through the dense jungle with the heavy loads. They paused for a while; Amit looked at the copy of the map and verified their present location with the compass he was carrying.

“In another few minutes, we should reach a clearing which would be the river bank on the opposite side of our landing site,” The sound of the flowing river was audible somewhere close by. The next few steps in the slope were easy to manage and they came to the river bank. The soil was not clayey and was comparatively harder.

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“Look,” Anita exclaimed and pointed into the distance with excitement. The rocky remnants of a fort were visible from amongst the bushes, with rocky slabs strewn around. Raju was busy taking photographs. They strode along the shoreline to reach the rocky remains. For any passing boat, it would have looked like no more than a heap of rocks but Amit could promptly picture the once powerful fort standing stoic in the jungle as detailed in the map. It was just that the rivers had swollen and the land mass had been sinking steadily. Much of the fort had been gobbled up over the centuries by the turbulent river.

They went around with care; there were fresh pug-marks of a tiger along the entire route. Even a slight movement behind the bushes made them feel that they were being watched by several eyes, an eerie feeling which was only accentuated by various grunts, growls and other noises. Amit realised that this part of the river was so shallow that boats avoided the route, thus leaving the ruins as they were, undisturbed. They had stayed overnight in an island just a few days ago, not too far away from where they were at the moment. “Yet, this place is desolate and solitary, for everybody fears inviting the wrath of Goddess Kali.” The unfriendly shore line also discouraged any boat to access this island. He remembered the dilapidated brick structure that Raju and he had seen there during their previous visit just a few days ago.

“I have to arrange for a safe place to offload the luggage while there is enough light,” was his proposal, to which the others agreed. They climbed a few steps further to the high point and unpacked their belongings. Amit cautioned them against feeding the monkeys, lest they come in larger numbers and start lifting their food as well as other equipment. He panned the area with his binoculars, made a makeshift table from a rock and spread the map over it.

“We are around this point,” he pointed out. The right edge of the fort and the high observation point as depicted in the map could be seen by them at a distance.

The features of the fort itself were laid out in the map. “The stairs should be around here,” he pointed to a particular spot after verifying the other details. However there was no trace of any stairs; there was only a mound with bushes. “We have hard labour ahead,” he said, lifting the pick-axe and passing on the shovel to Raju. “Let me start digging at the spot and you start removing the cleared earth,” 244

he advised Raju. “Move!” With an air of authority, Anita grabbed the shovel from a bewildered Raju, declaring, “I shall also join the work.” So, Amit suggested to Raju that he and Elena take a little rest for some time, until Raju could come as a replacement for Anita. “Be careful and watch out for the warning signs from the birds and monkeys,” he advised. Raju picked up a camp knife and clipped it on to his waist belt. Elena took along a long stick, which had earlier been used as support to walk through the mud bank, and got up to assess the area.

The digging went on for nearly two hours and Amit was getting tired. The earth beneath was solid and the web of roots greatly impeded the work. He was exhausted and so was Anita. They took a brief break and drank water thirstily.

“Could it be that the map is a hoax?” The thought flashed through his mind. But Elena’s conviction and the manner in which the map had been retrieved from the hidden palm leaves quickly allayed his doubts.

Raju and Elena were on their way back. They were tired, too. They all sat under a tree to review the situation. Amit was expressing his earlier frustration and Anita wondered aloud if the map in the manuscripts could be a figment of imagination.

Elena became still and quiet. Her eyes were half-closed as if she was in a trance.

“Keep on and do not lose hope,” she murmured and fell down, fainting. Amit immediately sprinkled some water on her face. Anita helped in laying her down comfortably and then poured some water into Elena’s mouth. Elena came around after five minutes and got up as if she was waking up from a nap. “What happened?” she asked. “I must have dozed off.” “Can we continue to dig here?” Amit asked Elena. Pat came her reply, “How can I tell you?” He realised that whatever she had uttered a few minutes ago was in her subconscious mind and got up to resume the digging. This time, he allowed Anita to rest and took Raju to assist him.

The friction between metal and rock made an unmistakable sound. He went on and, after a few more attempts they could see the first signs of some form of stairs below. They took turns to do the digging, with Amit taking most of the load. They must have moved tonnes of earth by now. The stairs were clearly visible and it took another hour to free the broken door open with their rods and pick-axe, to create space for the entry. The heavy wooden planks crumbled down with a loud thud. The stairs to the underground chamber were now visible clearly.

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Raju and Anita wanted to go in first but Amit firmly forbade them. “Do not forget that this place has been virtually sealed off for God knows how many years. It may have some accumulated poisonous gases, which can knock you off. Let us give it a cooling period of at least an hour before we venture in.” He slung the oxygen cylinder on his back, fixed the inhaler mask to his mouth and started descending the steps carefully. The stench was unbearable as he could smell the air of several centuries trapped within the confines of these stone walls. The ground was dry, but caked with silt. He could see fossilised fish and other aquatic beings, which had been washed in during unusually high tides long ago.

There were some torches still fixed to the walls but the cloth wrapped around them had crumbled to dust, tattered by the elements and time. The hall was large, particularly keeping in mind the harsh terrain in which it had been built. The wall across the space had a door firmly shut. Amit summoned the other team members, who were waiting for his signal and rushed down hurriedly. The smelly empty room was a disappointment, but the closed door right in front of them filled them with suspense. They tried tapping every stone in the hope of getting the door to open, but with no success.

They came up to see if there was any other route for gaining entry into the fort.

Amit put down the heavy oxygen cylinder and was glad to discard it. They armed themselves with sticks and bamboos, just in case they needed to defend themselves from wild animals or other unknown dangers. Amit was just smiling to himself at the sheer uselessness of any weapon in case of a forty-stone tiger pouncing on them. The relaxed chatter of monkeys and merry chirping of birds gave them confidence. But he still sniffed at tree trunks wherever possible for the usual sign of territory markers, which the tigers left.

The few hundred feet they covered seemed like a few kilometres as they had to cut bushes and make their way through the rough terrain. Raju had a knife long enough to slash the foliage so they could pass, while Amit kept a vigil at the end of the team. “There!” It was Elena who spotted a dilapidated brick structure at a distance. Some trees had grown on it, enveloping the structure with roots like the tentacles of several octopuses. They headed towards the structure with caution, aware off the fact that any such place could be a haven for men and animals alike.

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“Oh!” The protruding eyes and tongue with a garland of human skulls on the torso of the idol immediately affected Elena. Instinctively she held Amit firmly by his arm. The temple seemed to have had visitors as was seen from the relatively clean altar. The idols were also not very dirty. The vessels that were around were modern and were made of brass, the kind one would get these days in many local bazaars. There were two deities. The larger one was standing at the rear and the smaller one at the front. Both the idols were made of metal. Raju and Anita went to explore the surroundings.

“She is Goddess Kali,” Amit explained to Elena.

“Kali, Bhagavati, Trikalnayani, Katyayani, Bhairavi, Savitri....” Elena went on for about two minutes without batting an eyelid. She was rattling away the names of various incarnations of Goddess Kali, some of which even he did not know. Her face was like a stone with eyes half closed. She was in a trance again. She leaned on his shoulder with her eyes shut. He just put his hands on her forehead and called her name out, “Elena.” “Me buchhov man e Elena,” the voice was feeble as she fainted.

“No, it is not any of the usual European languages I have heard,” he thought. Her recitation of the different names of the Hindu Goddess reaffirmed his assessment that she became spiritually possessed at times. He wanted to lay her down for a little rest.

Raju and Anita emerged from the other side of the temple. Anita’s face turned to stone, as she saw Elena in his arms and Raju shied away, both utterly misunderstanding the reality. “Hey, come over quickly, I need your help. She has fainted,” Amit shouted. Anita rushed to them and put Elena’s head on her lap and comforted her. She also seemed to be ashamed for having misjudged the scenario a few seconds ago.

Amit went back to the altar and concentrated on the smaller idol. He touched it and the foot-long idol moved effortlessly. It was an ornate one, rather heavier than what he had thought. “Must be made of solid metal,” he thought. As curiosity prompted him to examine it closely, he saw that the antique idol had been blackened by the elements. He turned it upside down. In its lower half, the idol had protrusions of several types, some squares, a couple of them round, a triangle and a 247

pentagon each. He tried to understand the significance of the protrusions of the deity, but couldn’t figure out anything. Elena took the idol, held both the upper and lower parts firmly in both hands and started to rotate the hands in opposite directions. The idol effortlessly sliced itself, revealing a hollow inside, wherein lay the hidden key. After the initial few moments of bewilderment, Amit spent the next few minutes closely examining the designs. It left him all the more intrigued. “Hiding the key inside the idol was ingenious, but what did the protruding rods of various dimensions mean? It must have some significance,” his mind prodded.

Raju was loitering in the vicinity of the temple, when Amit heard a sudden yell.

He had sunk almost waist deep in a hole and had to be pulled out, with Anita’s assistance. The sudden fall had shocked Raju and drained the blood from his face.

Amit peeped into the hole; it was full of dried leaves and twigs. He laboriously removed these and then shovelled out the mud and slush. Finally, there was a clear opening beneath which were another set of stairs leading down. They cheered with glee. The stairs were clogged with mud and Amit had to squeeze through like a rabbit.

The labyrinth of tunnels and stairs only increased his resolve to get to the bottom and unravel the mystery. But they needed a break and were hungry as well. They rested and greedily devoured the sandwiches and rolls that Banchharam had packed for them early in the morning before they left the boat. Having woken up early in the day, Amit was really tired. He dozed off for the next few minutes and was woken up by Raju. The short nap had recharged his batteries and he began descending into the tunnel once again. The place seemed to be very old and devoid of any human intrusion over a long period, save the temple. And he guessed that the temple might have been getting only periodical visitors, who worshipped the deity and left promptly, thus keeping the island undisturbed and intact.

The door that was shut for several centuries mocked him. There was no key hole at the usual points. Instead, there was a large hole somewhere at the top of the door where he could squeeze his hand in. “Wasn’t there something familiar inside the large hole?” He inserted his palm in it and pressed his fingers on the several smaller holes to feel each of them. Each one seemed to be different, some round and some of other shapes. “Wait,” in a flash, the puzzle was solved in his mind.

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He had cracked the code. The shapes seemed to match with the protrusions at the base of the idol. “What a genius!” he marvelled and ran up to the temple. “Please pass the smaller idol,” He took it carefully and descended into the tunnel. He inserted the idol into the shaft. It fitted perfectly, like a well-oiled piston and shaft.

Years of abandonment had put the levers into disuse. Elena volunteered to help and descended into the tunnel. It took considerable effort for both of them to push open the door. The smelly room was dark. As he switched on his torch, he saw a chest in the corner of the room through the cloud of dirt that he had generated.

“Did you find anything intriguing?” Anita’s voice from above reached them as if from a deep well. “We are looking around,” Amit replied.

The key that Elena had discovered from within the idol fitted the chest perfectly.

As Amit opened the chest, Elena suddenly became stiff and her tone changed as she said, “Please be careful with a packet in a yellow cloth and another one in a leather pouch.” The earth above them seemed to be shaking. They heard Raju shout in panic, “Uncle, come up quickly, there seems to be an earthquake.” Amit pushed Elena up and then hurried out, panting heavily. Elena went to a corner and sat quietly near a bush. He reverentially put the small idol back in the sanctum sanctorum.

He did notice a sudden restlessness amongst the various birds and animals, big and small. He did not quite like it as a warning bell sounded at the back of his mind. But, there were other questions, too. “What did the packet contain? How did Elena know that there was a yellow packet and a leather pouch?” All of it seemed strange. “Could her periodical trances be a spiritual or supernatural influence guiding her and the whole team?” Amit wondered.

The rumblings underground ceased but the sky was turning orange with the sun slowly dipping in the horizon. He hurriedly checked his watch; it was just past six in the evening. Amit ran to his bag and fired the flare.

“They are having fun on the island,” Malik said, watching the red glow. “We can relax for now.” He opened a bottle of an unbranded local brew and brought out a pack of cards. Dipak, Jibon and Banchharam were all relieved. Rarely did they get

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time for themselves to enjoy a game of cards over drinks and sumptuous food, uninterrupted by guests.

The sky was turning dark. The full moon shone from amongst the clouds. Amit sat with his team members. He suggested that they all move somewhere safe during the night from where they could keep vigil. They decided to eat their packed food early and retire, each one taking turns to keep watch during the night. They hid their equipment from prying eyes, moved closer to the river bank and settled down at a spot from where they could observe without being seen.

“Haiya...Haiya...”

The row boats appeared to emerge from the haze and darkness. The torches aglow looked dim from the distance. The three boats moored and the occupants hurriedly went up into the forests. The onlookers noticed with alarm that the visitors carried two garlanded goats on their shoulders, a telltale symbol of sacrifice.

They were carrying two pitchers on their heads too. They wore clothes sparingly and carried their favourite wine in containers made of dry bottle gourd shells hanging from their waist.

“Shhhh....” Amit forbade all of them from making any noise or movement. The group of men went to the temple and washed the precincts. The religious ceremony was brief. The slaughtered animals were cut and consumed raw, with wine.

The men conversed amongst themselves and left hurriedly as the weather appeared menacing. Intervening centuries had tamed the once fearsome Kutias into more compassionate beings. They had stopped human sacrifice long ago. Yet, their primitivism prevailed and they still lived in relative seclusion in the forests, avoiding any contact with the outside world. The onlookers sat in silence as the row boats were untied and each one melted into the dark seas. The voices became inaudible soon after.

Little did Amit know that, two centuries ago, pirates who had stored millions of pounds worth of gold and other treasures here, were all butchered mercilessly on this island by the ancestors of these very same Kutias! This place, where Elena had come in search of her roots had also seen unspeakable violence unleashed upon her own Romani tribe by Mughal soldiers a few centuries ago. Time had 250

washed away its gory history, but the ghosts of the past still came to haunt the desolate place.

The looming black clouds over their heads caused Amit much unease. There were strong winds and the trees seemed to join the winds, swishing in chorus. The noise was loud. He wondered if they would be able to go to the temple. He was also worried, for they needed shelter in the event of heavy rain. Elena never seemed to get over her periodical trances and strange utterances. Something inside her was shaking, as if to remind her that the entire trip was predestined and that the purpose of her visit was yet to be fulfilled.

She had a strange feeling of familiarity regarding the surroundings, the air and the aroma of these strange lands. It seemed that she had traversed this harsh terrain several times before and even the temple precincts seemed familiar to her. “Go, Princess, go...” The voice from within nudged her to go to the underground cellar below the temple. There lay things that had to be retrieved and carried out to safety. She had a job to do and should not delay any longer. “Hurry, Princess, there’s too little time. Go....go,” the voice seemed to be screaming in her ears. She got up with a new resolve.

“Sir,” Elena came and sat in front of Amit. “We have to go to the temple now.” It was not a request. Her voice was a half-pleading command. He could see her trance-like posture again and looked at the others. There seemed to be no comment from either Anita or Raju. The sudden appearance of dangerous-looking strangers in the row boats had left them frightened and too stunned to speak.

“All right, we will make an attempt. But a word of caution for everyone — the big cats can see you though you cannot see them. Let’s hope that the tigers keep away from the temple area.” Amit got up.

Elena followed him. They took their torches, went to the spot where they had hidden their equipment and retrieved what they needed. He did not forget to take the ropes and the oxygen cylinder. It was crazy, but they decided to descend into the tunnel once again. The surroundings were so different. The chirping sounds and the chatter of monkeys had stopped, being replaced by the croaking of toads and frogs. The sheer feeling of several nocturnal animals watching them filled them 251

with suspense and fear, as well as excitement. The not-too-long path, which they had walked on just a few hours ago, was still fresh in Amit’s mind. The moon was now blacked out by the clouds, which added to their misery and the march seemed to be longer than anticipated. Finally, they saw the conical dome of the brick structure.

He cautioned Elena to be patient. Religious sacrifices seemed to be taking place intermittently in the temple area, which could work as an open invitation to any carnivore. They looked for intrusions and were satisfied with the relative calm and the few deer that were resting not too far from the site added to their comfort. They carried on with their mission. Amit went down the tunnel first and helped Elena after him. They did not forget to take the small idol from the temple and thanked their lucky stars for replacing it in time for the tribal visit. He shuddered to think what the consequences would have been, had they found it missing. “The rumbling of the earth was perhaps God’s intention,” he concluded.

They did not have any difficulty either in opening the door or the chest. There were a few cloth bundles, which he opened. His mouth went dry. He had seen plenty of ornaments in movies and jewellery shops, but never anything of this kind. They were certainly regal adornments. The gold had blackened with age but the gems still shone under the light of the torch. There were crowns, belts, shoulder strings, arm bands, bangles, necklaces and many other embellishments that he had never seen before. Amit did not know how many hours they spent in the confines of the secret chambers below the temple.

Elena was utterly unconcerned by the opulence in front of them. She picked up the packet covered in yellow cloth and opened the palm leaves. As she squatted on the floor, it was difficult to say if her eyes were open or shut. “Aum,” she started chanting and reciting in a language completely unknown to Amit. Then she changed her tone and started reciting in what sounded like a mixture of Sanskrit, some other language and Bengali and then carried on to more understandable Bengali, yet completely different from the colloquial language that Amit was used to. She knelt down with arms stretched in the air, and started chanting in a low tone full of reverence. She lay prostrate and stayed for a few minutes in the same posture until he nudged her to check if she had fainted once again.

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She woke up fresh and unaware of her transition to another world. Elena packed the palm leaf scriptures securely in a self-sealing waterproof plastic packet, which Amit had thoughtfully added to their shopping list and had not forgotten to carry, and was ready to leave. He handed her the leather pouch, but she didn’t even open it and returned it to him without any emotion. Not knowing what to do with the pouch, Amit slid it in Elena’s back pack. “We can leave,” Elena was through with her work, it seemed. She held the plastic packet firmly under her armpit. The tides were unusually strong. The waves were lashing at the banks. Water splattered into the tunnel where they stood. He looked up. The roar of the sea was magnified by the echo within the tunnel’s walls. He sensed the danger and promptly got ready to leave.

The first splash of water fell on their heads. They hurriedly locked the chest as well as the door of the chamber and replaced the key inside the idol and secured it in his backpack. This time, a larger volume of water gushed in. “The rise and fall of water levels in these lands was difficult to cope with,” Amit thought. Now, the water began to pour in with ferocity. He grabbed the oxygen cylinder and urged Elena to wear the mask. In no time, the water level rose beyond their chest. He grabbed her bag and pushed the plastic packet containing the palm leaves into her backpack.

He was a reasonable swimmer, but not a great one. Elena could not swim. It was dark. The gush of huge swathes of water from the only opening shocked her to such an extent that she passed out in his arms. They were under water and he tried to reach the stairs in vain. He had to grab the oxygen tube periodically from Elena to take a gulp of the gas. The rush of water slowed down as he grabbed Elena and pulled her out of the hole. They reached the surface after hitting the ceiling and the walls a couple of times, Elena injuring her knee in the process.

“I was warned not to go to the depths on a full moon night by the holy man, and I didn’t heed the advice,” Elena moaned. The first streaks of dawn were not too far away as they traced their way back to their earlier location. Both Raju and Anita were sleeping soundly, unaware of the riches that the other two had seen or the travails they had encountered. They were sleeping on high ground and were thus untouched by the waters. It was four in the morning. Neither Elena nor Amit slept.

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They were bombarded with questions, both by Raju and Anita, about what they had seen in the chamber. Amit looked at Elena and she took out her packet containing the palm leaf manuscripts and said, “This is what I, rather we, found in the room.” They started the next lap of their exploration into the fort. Amit insisted that they carry the oxygen cylinder and the diving suit. They gained entry into the door of the room inside with the base of the idol acting as the key. Obviously, the builder had used the same techniques for locks in both the temple and the fort.

He had not encountered such a stench from any of the rooms in the fort so far. He forbade everyone from entering the room and ventured inside alone, with an insistent Anita following him. There were fossils and wait....a human skeleton...... it was half buried in the clay and crumbled into powder where he touched it. That was enough bravery for Anita, who ran out of the room in fear. The bones of the hand still held a beautiful dagger, which Amit extricated without any effort. The handle read, “Mike Bill-1850 A.D.” He secured the dagger safely in his backpack.

The half-visible chair and the bed reminded him of last night’s fury of nature and what could have happened had they not had the oxygen cylinder with them. He got onto the bed carefully, dusting off the thick layer of dust and clay that lay accumulated on the surface. He reached the centre of the bed. For a few moments he did not understand what had happened. He found himself surrounded by darkness and switched on the torch. The hole in the ceiling mocked at him as he realised that the bed had given away to reveal a chamber right beneath it. He checked around.

There were nearly two dozen crates that had been stored haphazardly. Most of the crates were of the same size while a few were larger. He opened one of the crates, which were secured only by padlocks. The typical smell of aged leather reached his nostrils. Each of the oily pouches carried the British royal insignia. He opened one. The coins with Saint George slaying a dragon on the reverse and the monarch on the front were indeed gold sovereigns, which he had seen in England.

They had simply blackened with age, he realised. He picked just four of them, put them in his pocket and closed the crates.

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The contents of a large case he found was mind-boggling — a wide variety of cutlery which bore the mark “HMS Morning Star”. A little rubbing revealed the glittering silver beneath. Things began to fall in place. “There may have been a shipwreck sometime and the survivors may have stacked the treasures in this fort. The furious waters probably wiped off all the survivors,” Amit surmised. He climbed up with difficulty and squeezed himself through the broken bed. Mike’s crumbling skeleton seemed to laugh at him.

He longed to call his uncle in the Home Ministry and break the news, so that the Government could take charge and retrieve the buried treasures. He left the room and went upstairs. “There is nothing down under, except a skeleton of a long-dead sailor and, therefore, there is no need to venture there,” he explained. Anita’s depiction of the human skeleton had further eroded any excitement left in any of them to venture to the chamber below. “They all were ready for thrill and adventure but not for horror,” Amit mused. They had lunch and were ready to get back to the boat. He was wondering if it was only he who felt the rumblings below his feet. “Or was it my exhaustion telling on me?” He did not ponder for long. They plodded to the river bank and boarded the raft, loading it with the diving suit, oxygen cylinders and other essentials.

Malik woke up late after a long card game which he had lost. The usual early riser, Jibon, too got up leisurely along with the others. Malik was disturbed at the prolonged quietness of the river. It was longer than usual. The inflatable raft was barely enough for the four of them with the luggage in addition. They were to row to the middle of the river and meet their boat about half a kilometre down. They were ahead of their schedule by about two hours. The water seemed to drain away from the river to a level lower than that Amit had ever witnessed. He was wondering if the sudden flight of birds was prompted by a tiger in sight. There were more birds, almost from all directions. All of them hurriedly flew up in a haphazard fashion, discarding their nests. Surely, all the tigers in the Sundarban could not have come to this region together? “Something is seriously amiss,” his mind warned and he urged his team to board the raft before the waters drained further away.

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The first wave hit them even before they were midstream. It came with such force that it took them all by surprise. They witnessed the first rumbling from a distance.

A big chunk of land with tall trees went down first. They could see the shaking of the land mass and water engulfing several places that they had been exploring just a few minutes ago. The river again seemed to be receding fast and to dry up and they could see fish jumping all around them. They realised that they were nearly thirty feet below the usual high level of the water, with the muddy river bottom showing up in places. It was shocking! A giant wave came and lifted their raft up by almost ten feet. They fell with a thud. “Everyone quickly wear the life jackets.

Elena, wear the mask,� Amit hurried to fix the oxygen cylinder on her back. He knew a wave of this kind had to be accompanied by more and he was right!

They could clearly see the second wave hitting them and raising the raft even further. They were all thrown around, with their raft over their heads like a flying saucer. Elena held his arm. Her eyes somehow did not reveal fear, despite her not being a swimmer. The third wave was kinder, but was powerful enough to send them all a few hundred feet upstream. The rumbling of the land beneath reverberated through the waters for a good five minutes before calming down.

Amit could see both Anita and Raju reaching the raft, which was afloat but stationary owing to the heavy weight of the equipment that was tied to it. He pulled Elena and swam towards the raft, too. She was clumsy, with the oxygen cylinder loaded on her back and the backpack on her chest. Finally, his hands grabbed the rope from the raft. Raju and Anita lent their hands and moved them up and, for a few moments, they all lay still with exhaustion. The tumultuous surroundings calmed down just as quickly, as if nothing had happened. The level of the river water started rising steadily.

It was Elena who clapped first, followed by Anita, Raju and Amit. They congratulated themselves on their energy and endurance. He bent down and pulled out their equipment tied to the raft securely with the ropes and sunk in the river and thanked God that these prevented the raft from drifting away. The next hour or so, it rained incessantly and they took refuge in the nearest khari, with the oxygen cylinder acting as their anchor.

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The familiar noise of their boat’s engine, which showed up from around the corner from one of the many mangrove crevices, was a welcome relief to all. Sundari was suddenly visible in all her splendour. Biru was waving at them from the upper deck and they saw the burly figure of Dipak watching them with concern, holding the rails in one hand and his customary rifle in the other.

Amit helped the ladies climb into the boat. They virtually had to step on his shoulder to hop in. He was the last one to embark after Raju. Malik explained that he had taken the boat to a khari to escape the fury of the cyclone. He was indeed an expert hand in these conditions. They realised their exhaustion only when they were in the boat. Amit’s mind was busy. He had to call his uncle to apprise him of the finds. He had to report on the activities of the foreigners. Although it was just afternoon, the tiredness took a toll on all of them and they slept like logs.

It was nearly eight in the evening when Amit was shaken up. “Sir, wake up, we shall be reaching Canning in another hour or so. I want to serve my last dinner.”

Banchharam cooked fast even in the midst of adversities. The port was dark and they were made to disembark to another smaller row boat, which took them to the jetty. Anita’s car was there waiting for them and they all scrambled into it, utterly drained. It was nearly an hour and a half ’s drive until they reached the city. Anita dropped them first before going home. They all decided to meet at Amit’s house the next day at ten in the morning.

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C H A P T E R 29

Back in Kolkata Amit briefed his sister Rekha on their trip to the Sundarban before going to bed.

Elena retired to the room and once again was immersed in the palm leaf scriptures she had brought with her. Amit got up late and had to wake up Raju who was still asleep. He had a quick breakfast and sat down to go through the photos he had taken during his last trip.

The sudden overcast sky with accompanying rain was completely unexpected in the city. Weather experts mentioned the occurrence of a severe cyclone in the Bay of Bengal region and predicted that the bad weather would continue for the next twenty four hours. Amit just glanced through the newspapers that were lying in the drawing room. “Chinese spy submarine captured” — the news was on the first page itself. He hurriedly read the column. It narrated how the Indian intelligence team had been keeping a close tab on the intruders for the last few weeks. It, however, made no mention of the white mineral or the mysterious albinos in the island.

“Come, come my boy,” his uncle Tarun Bose was there at his desk, sharp at the appointed time, despite the inclement weather. “It was a good job that you all did. It made our job easier in apprehending the intruders,” his uncle patted him on his back. The consul general of China in Kolkata was red-faced on his being kept in the dark by Beijing. The Bangladeshi officials also expressed surprise and shock at the blatant incursion into Indian Territory by the rebel groups within their army establishment. “They will have a lot of explaining to do,” he added. “Have you brought the packet that I had given you?” his uncle queried. Amit immediately

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dug his hands into his backpack, took out the bulging packet he had given him and handed it over to him.

“This was the tool with which we were monitoring your movements with our satellites,” his uncle smiled mischievously, “You never left our surveillance even for a second.” He turned around and called out, “Manna, will you come over for a second?” The face that Amit knew only too well and all along suspected appeared through the side door. He had his hair well combed and was in a smart casual shirt and jeans. “Meet Captain Manna, one of our brightest officers. He has busted two of the most notorious international poaching rings, apprehended deadly terrorist gangs and helped us clear and sanitize several sea lanes in the Sundarban of pirates,” his uncle made a formal introduction.

“Nomoshkar, I have met Prof. Amit Roy and Raju before. Sorry for any misunderstanding sir,” He extended his hand to Amit and folded his hands to all others around. The television screen in his uncle’s office room came to life as a private Bengali news channel began beaming the breaking news — “Earthquake measuring 6.7 in the Richter scale causes havoc in the Sundarban region. Some of the islands are feared to be badly affected.”

Amit’s mouth went dry again and his uncle got up. “Let us go,” he instructed Manna. “Amit, you can join us, too. Sorry ladies, the chopper may not have enough space. Raju, escort the ladies home,” His uncle grabbed his arm and they dashed downstairs. The siren blaring vehicle took less than twenty minutes to reach the race course near the Brigade Parade Grounds, where a helicopter was ready to fly them. They all signed the passenger manifest, Amit signed in the capacity of an “International Expert on Environment.”

The flight took exactly thirty five minutes and they were flying on top of the affected area. They soon reached the island of Netidhopani and were flying in circles above it. The temple dome was barely visible, but not anything else. It was a sheet of water all over. “This was one of the worst affected places,” Manna said.

“Let me try and get to the brick structure,” he descended with the help of a rope only to come up again soon as they hovered above. “There seems to be virtually nothing left in here, except for the brick structure. It seems to be just an old place 259

of worship, with nothing around. Must be in disuse for long,” he shouted, raising his pitch above the noise of the rotor and the blades.” Amit’s heart missed a beat, but he chose not to comment.

The other island of the albinos was nowhere to be seen. The havoc caused by the cyclone was compounded by the earthquake, altering the topography of the region and burying their secrets forever. All was engulfed by the water. The naval boats patrolling the region confirmed irreversible damage to some of the islands in the Netidhopani area of the Sundarban. The chopper made a U-turn and headed for Kolkata. Amit was left wondering how the calamity must have annihilated the myriad animals, birds and reptiles that used to live in the riverine forests below. He shuddered to think of the plight of tigers during such calamities. “What will cause the extinction of tigers in the Sundarban — global warming and the subsequent sea-level rise or Chinese tiger wines?” He groped for an answer in vain.

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C H A P T E R 30

Back at the Library The assistant at the National Library was truly delighted to see Amit within such a short time. “Welcome, Professor,” he was as affable and warm as he had been when he had met him during his first visit. He had become friendlier after he came to know about their similar tastes in soccer.

Amit passed on the paper to him, which read, “Mike Bill-1850” and “HMS Morning Star” and requested him to dig out any details on them. He disappeared into the rare books and documents section, leaving him with a glass of lemon tea. Amit was reading various newspapers of the day, all of which carried the news article on the capture of an enemy submarine. There was a rejoinder from the Chinese Consul General that the intruders were merely environmental scientists working on some very important project for the welfare of humanity and that they were working in the Sundarban delta of the Bangladesh side only. They were forced into the Indian waters due to the cyclonic weather and had to take refuge in an unknown island. The Chinese Government, he added, was willing to cooperate and share the project details with the Indian Government.

His friend reappeared triumphantly. “Here, see,” he was carrying a huge log book from the period. It read: “Morning Star 1830-1851 of the Royal Navy went missing in the Bay of Bengal in 1851, rumoured to be sunk by pirates. No survivors were found. Missing presumed dead included Captain Andrew Clayton, First Officer Carl Timothy, Second Officer Mike Bill, Gun Officer Samuel Pint and Dr. Glenn Morris, in addition to several sailors. The ship was reported to be carrying hundreds of thousands of pounds in gold and other valuables. Salvage teams and divers from Her Majesty’s 261

Navy continued search in the region for nearly one year before giving up. Official information on the exact nature of cargo or the bullion the ship carried was withheld by the Government.”

He left. He shuddered at the value of the sunken treasure in today’s context. He was happy that he could actually touch and feel it. “Could they ever be salvaged?”

The chances seemed remote now. That evening, they had a small party to celebrate their safe return from a perilous but exciting journey. After dessert, Amit asked Anita, Elena and Raju to close their eyes. He placed before each of them a small box and asked them to open their eyes and open the box. “Wow,” the excitement was unanimous. There was a freshly polished, glittering gold coin two centuries old, with Saint George slaying a dragon on the reverse and the monarch on the front, in each of the boxes.

“May these be preserved as a memento of our visit to a fragile place on this planet, a part of which would perhaps never be seen again,” Amit was emotional.

Looking at Anita, who was seated in front of him, he said, “We were to visit the Sundarban for your project work, but events overtook us. I hope you will pursue your project you are assigned with and complete it during our next visit.”

“I certainly shall,” Anita said, nodding her head. “Don’t forget me. I want to be there, too,” Raju joined in.

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Epilogue It was crazy, how Elena proposed and how Amit accepted her proposal when she offered to become Mrs. Roy. The marriage was solemnised in Kolkata, with Anita being the bridesmaid. Elena’s parents joined them, as did a few strangely-attired Roma gypsies. Amit gifted Elena a beautiful waistband and a necklace which his grandmother had worn. Teasingly he asked, “Where is my gift?”

“Wait a bit,” Elena ran out of the room to fetch her backpack, which she had carried during her trip to the Sundarban. “I just found it in my bag,” she said. She took out a leather pouch from which came out a gooseberry sized glittering diamond! It was the same leather pouch which Amit had thrust into her backpack in the watery temple basement of Netidhopani!

“And what did the set of palm leaves retrieved from the underground cabin contain?” Amit asked Elena. She simply smiled and said, “Leave it for posterity.”

Rekha and Raju saw them off at the airport. Elena waved at them. Amit did not fail to notice a Romani couple standing at a distance, smiling and waving at Elena and himself. Elena’s hand automatically raised itself and waved back at the couple and for a second Amit felt she was back in a trance!

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Author’s Note • A king from Bengal, had indeed fled from the Moghuls in 16th century and had taken refuge in the Sundarban. The story about his treasure and his son is imaginary. However, remnants of the fort that the Raja built can be seen in Netidhopani even today.

• The Romani are believed to have spread to various parts of the world, from India. However, Chingi, Chinga, Elena and their Romani connections are fictional.

• The ship, Morning Star, had indeed vanished in the Bay of Bengal in 1851.

• India had fearsome tribals spread all over the country. Human sacrifice and cannibalism, though rare, did exist.

• Tigers are killed for medicines in China and are still used in wine-making.

Save the tigers!

• Elisaveta Valson’s flight to the west is based on a true-to-life description of an exceptional escape from Communist Romania.

• Spirituality and mysticism are intricately woven into the Indian ethos—Elena’s trances exemplify this.

• All references to the Chinese and the Bangladeshis intruding into Indian Territory are imaginary.

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Acknowledgements

This debut novel of mine was possible only because of the tireless help from the following: Swati, Rama, Sipra di, Haimanti, Seema, Udayan, Srirupa, Prof. Buddhadev, my daughter Vinita and my nephew Sriram.

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Babu to address respectfully as in ‘sir’

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Index

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Baghis deserters from the army

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Bangla local brew as it is also called

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Beedi a local cigarillo kind

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Bishti a professional water carrier

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Bodhran a Buddhist drum

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Cha tea

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Da

is added to a name to denote someone as an elder, like an elder brothe

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Dandies oarsmen

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Dhoti a male wraparound bottom wear

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Didi elder sister

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Faujdar Commander-in-Army

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Gamcha a loosely woven red coloured towel

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Gudaku a paste made of molasses and tobacco

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Hental a typical palm that is abundant in Sundarman

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Inshallah God-willing, a frequent reference by Muslims

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Jhola a long shoulder bad, usually cotton

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Kabiraj village medicine man

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Kali A Hindu Goddess, known for valor and mysticism

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Khari a canal

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Lambadi a nobadia tribe in India

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Lungi a male wraparound bottom wear

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Ma/Mariah mother, here reverentially addressed to Goddess Kali

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Maal local brew

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Mahout elephant trainer/rider

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Majhi oarsman

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Mashaq goat-skin water bag

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Meen tiny shrimps

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Mohur a gold coin in circulation during the period

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Namaz Muslim prayer

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Neem a tropical tree with medicinal properties, bitter in products

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Nomoshkar traditional Indian greeting

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Ojha witchdoctor

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Paan Betel leaf, munched with lime and nut as a digestive

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Rabindra Sangeet melodies on compositions by Rabindranath Tagore

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Radha Gobindo Krishna, a popular deity in India

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Raja King

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Sari a draped Indian attire for women

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Sepoy Soldier

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Shabdhaan ‘take caution’ or ‘be careful’

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Sundari Beautiful

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Tabiz talisman

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Yuvaraj Prince

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