On this morning, the mahji was accompanied by a small mob of busy-looking men. One or two Korok recognised to be from Balangir, local politicians, the type who turned up with bigger people during election campaigns. These were dressed in rural India’s universal political uniform of white kurta and pyjama. Some others, similarly dressed, seemed to be from the east and were therefore bigger leaders.

But the actual important people in this crowd, as it turned out, were about half a dozen young men and women in formals, sunglasses and the kind of leather shoes that should be the last kind of footwear in a Gond village in high summer. But this, too, was a uniform, and just as a politician’s white kurta remains magically unmarked through the dust and mud of rural campaigns, these pinstriped people, though a little sweaty, seemed used to the discomfort.

Descending on his yard, the mahji now informed Korok, in a quiet voice, of events far away. It seemed one of the country’s biggest political leaders had heard of the Devi Hills agitation and would be visiting the villages shortly. He would also be meeting the Gonds at their homes. The pinstripes were there to take a look around before the visit. And with that introduction the mahji fled to other parts of the village along with the rest of the crowd, leaving Korok with a young man carrying a notebook and a young woman with the rarest expression in the world.

This, the rarest expression in the world, is not that of happiness or sadness or the other usual ones. It is close to the expression seen on the faces of lottery ticket sellers at village melas: the look of a salesman who’s telling his customers he is doing a favour for them.

And this couple was full of questions, beginning with:

‘Where is your father?’

‘He is in prison.’

To which the man looked at the woman and said perhaps they should not mention Korok’s father when the big man visited.

‘And your mother?’

Korok, as usual, pointed towards the hill and they seemed to be satisfied. Of course, they did not understand what he meant, but thought they did.

Stepping inside his house, they took a look around—not that there was much to see—and asked about the kitchen. Korok, by this time a little hypnotised by their sunglasses, led them around to the backyard and the thatched room. On their way, the woman stepped on some dried earthworm castings in the yard and jumped around a little. For some reason she thought it was dog poop.

Inside Korok’s dim kitchen his two visitors recoiled a bit from the smell. Korok had cooked fermented beans the previous night and they did not seem to be used to it. The man was scribbling notes in his book and discussing them with his colleague.