Fiction: An American missionary seeks a Port Blair shopkeeper’s help to visit North Sentinel Island

It is unusually dull for November. He has his camera around his neck. Perhaps he might get some interesting photos of Ross Island in this uncertain light. Unseasonal clouds darken the sky, creating the impression that it is late in the evening at three in the afternoon. Inside the shop, Shyam turns on the lights and the sign outside lights up – Mattoo Tribal Art, with the last “t” still blinking after it was repaired last month.

Mattoo can see the American on the other side of Rina Road, standing outside Bose’s shop, watching him. A strange man, stubborn and persistent, yet lacking the casual confidence he has seen in American tourists, and now tailing him to ensure the meeting with Subhash does take place.

Around the clocktower he loses sight of the American. The park is deserted. A light rain has begun to fall. A sign to his left announces that the sound-and-light show in Cellular Jail – in which it is blithely claimed that the Andamans are named after Lord Hanuman – has been cancelled, perhaps on account of the rain. Half a mile away, he can see the low-lying hills of Ross Island, dark green against the horizon, edges...

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