‘I turned around, saw the tip of a blood-stained arrow’

‘‘Don’t you know you have to pass through the Jarawa Reserve? People say they are very fond of red. They might just tear off your T-shirt,’’ he said.

I kept my fingers crossed.

Reaching Baratang Island close to noon, I boarded a bus and then a motorised fisherman’s boat to cross over to Uttar Jetty in Kadamtala before grabbing a seat on an open jeep to Rangat. The drive would take about an hour and-a-half, people said.

Two km later, the driver announced: ‘‘We have entered the Reserve.’’

Then, a 100 yards later, he exclaimed: ‘‘There.’’

It was a group of Jarawas, in the middle of the winding road. Sporting flaming red headgear, armbands and waistbands, the group—six boys between 6-15 years old—closed in.

One of them, the leader, tugged at my shirt. ‘‘Hume le chalo na. Hum thak gaye hain. Aaj bahut chala (Please take us along. We are tired. We have walked a lot),’’ he said.

Without waiting for an answer, he signalled to the rest with a wooden stick and they all got in.

As soon as the jeep started rolling again, the leader—body smeared with ash, soil and dust—turned to us. ‘‘Bikkut hai? Paan hai? (Do you have biscuits, paan?),’’ he asked, and the others joined in.

Avoiding a reply, I asked them where they were coming from. ‘‘Macchi pakda. Dekho, chahiye? (We caught some fish. Look, do you want them?),’’ asked one of them, pointing to their catch—about 10 little fish in a homemade leather bag.

By then, we had reached their village and they asked the driver to stop. Promising to get them some biscuits, we started moving ahead.

I still couldn’t believe that we had met the Jarawas, the mythical aboriginal people on the western coast of Middle and South Andamans, who are probably the oldest residents on the Indian sub-continent.

Then, as we took a turn, there stood a Jarawa woman. Bare-chested, sporting a bangle of beads and a necklace made of green leaves and a skirt—again of leaves. She gave us a broad smile and waved us on.

The second rare encounter was just about sinking in—officials say there are only 266 Jarawas on the planet—when the driver slammed the brakes. It was a roadblock. By the Jarawas. Twenty-three of them, with wooden bows and metal arrows.

Without bothering to waste time on questions, they just got into the jeep. I saw their arrows were blood-stained.

Noticing the tense air, a middle-aged Jarawa, who identified himself as Kaan, said, ‘‘Hum suvar mara. Teen suvar (We killed boars. Three of them).’’

Suddenly, the group started singing, to celebrate the hunt, perhaps.

Gathering my tattered nerves, I asked Kaan about Black Sunday. ‘‘Hum bhaga. Sab upar. Mitti hila. Bahut pani (All of us ran to higher ground. The ground shook. There was lots of water,’’ he replied.

Then, peering into my pocket, he pulled out my pen and said something to the others. Everyone started laughing loudly. I too joined in, though I had no clue what the joke was all about.

Then, I felt a slight prick at the back of my earlobe. I turned around and saw the tip of a blood-stained arrow.

But before panic overwhelmed me completely, they stopped the jeep and got off, excited at having spotted a deer nearby.

Seconds later, they disappeared into the jungle, back to their kingdom.