Six Suspects (10 page)

'What is that, Bibiji?' Rupesh calls out in alarm, pointing his
finger at the first-floor window from which black smoke is
billowing out.

Shanti looks up and the box of sweetmeats drops from her
hand. '
Hey Ishwar
, that looks like a fire in Mohan's bedroom. And
he is sleeping inside. Run, save your Sahib,' she screams as she
begins running towards the house.

Gopi, Brijlal, Rupesh and Shanti rush up the stairs to Mohan's
bedroom and find it locked from inside. 'Open up, Sahib,' Brijlal
hollers, banging at the door, but there is no response from Mohan.

'Oh God, he must already have fainted from the fumes,'
Shanti quavers.

'Let's break down the door,' Gopi suggests.

'Get back . . . get back,' Rupesh cries. He rears back and is
about to crash his shoulder into the door when it opens suddenly,
hitting him with a blast of heat. Mohan Kumar staggers out. His
face is bright red and there is black ash on his clothes and hands.

While Gopi, Brijlal and Rupesh run into the bedroom and try
to douse the fire, Shanti tends to her husband, who is choking and
wheezing.

'Aah . . . aah.' He opens his mouth, taking in gulps of air.

Rupesh emerges from the bedroom with black soot all over his
face. 'We managed to put out the fire, Bibiji,' he declares. 'Luckily,
it had not spread beyond the curtains.'

'Thank God you woke up in time,' Shanti says to Mohan.

He blinks repeatedly. 'What is happening?'

'There was a fire in your room.'

'Fire? Who could have done that?' He looks around suspiciously.

'Must have been the handiwork of one of the street kids in the
garden,' Gopi avers.

'Street kids? What the hell are street kids doing in my house?'
Mohan demands.

Gopi and Brijlal look at each other quizzically.

A little while later, Mohan comes down to the dining room in
fresh clothes. 'I am hungry. Where is my dinner, Gopi?' he asks the
cook.

'It is ready, Sahib, exactly as per your instructions,' says Gopi
as he lays a dish on the dining table accompanied by a casserole
containing freshly made
rotis
.

Mohan takes a morsel and immediately spits it out. 'This is not
meatball curry,' he says, curling his lips in distaste. 'What kind of
nonsense food is this?'

'
Lauki kofta
, cooked specially without onions and garlic.'

'Is this some kind of sick joke? You know how much I hate
bottle gourd.'

'But now you only eat
saatvik
vegetarian food.'

'You were always without brains, Gopi. Now it appears that
you have become hard of hearing as well. Why would I ever
ask you to cook this lousy dish? Now either bring me my meat or
chicken dish or get ready for immediate sacking.'

Gopi goes out scratching his head and returns with Shanti.

'So you are no longer a vegetarian?' she asks him warily.

'When did I stop being a non-vegetarian?' he sneers.

'Two weeks ago. You told us that you would stop eating meat
and drinking alcohol.'

'Ha!' he laughs. 'Only a lunatic would take such a decision.'

'I have already become one, living in this house,' Gopi mutters
as he begins clearing the plates from the dining table.

Mohan suddenly looks at Shanti, his brow furrowing. 'What
did you say about my drinking? I hope you have not touched my
whisky collection?'

'You had all the bottles destroyed a fortnight ago,' Shanti
replies evenly.

He gets up from the dining table as if touched by an electric
cattle prod and rushes into the pantry which serves as a makeshift
cellar. He emerges, ashen-faced, and starts another desperate
search through the kitchen, opening each and every cupboard,
rifling through the shelves, even checking inside the oven. Finally
he slumps down on a chair. 'All my bottles are gone. How
could you do that? I had painstakingly acquired those bottles
over twenty years. Do you know how much that stock was
worth?'

'Well, it was you who gave the order.'

'Now you have really pissed me off,' he hisses, eyes glinting
with menace. 'Did I destroy them or did you destroy them behind
my back? Come on, out with the truth, woman.'

'Why would I destroy them? I have suffered them for thirty
years. It was you,' Shanti says, her face crumbling. 'You are the one
who was saying this morning that no one with any wisdom would
ever touch alcohol or any intoxicants.'

'Are you mad, woman? No one with any wisdom would ever
destroy perfectly good bottles of foreign whisky. Who took them
out of the cellar?'

'It was Brijlal.'

'Call that swine.'

Brijlal is summoned and questioned thoroughly. He sticks to
the story he has been rehearsing for a fortnight. He had been
asked to destroy the bottles by Bibiji. He had taken them to the
municipal drain and smashed each and every one of them on
the concrete pavement, discarding the glass shards in the rubbish
bag which the garbage truck had subsequently carted away.

'Didn't you think of checking with me, first?'

'Well, Sahib, Bibiji said it was your order. Who am I to question
Bibiji?'

'This Bibiji is the root cause of trouble in this house,' Mohan
says, gnashing his teeth. 'I need a drink right now.'

'Why are you changing the perfectly sensible decision you
took to become a teetotaller?' Shanti implores him. 'I maintained
a fast all these years only for you to kick this evil habit. When you
said you were giving up drinking, I thought God had finally
opened your eyes, given you good sense.'

'Good sense is what you need, woman,' he shouts and turns to
Brijlal. 'Take me immediately to Khan Market. I cannot sleep
without having a drink.'

'But it is Diwali today, Sahib. The market is closed.'

'Then go and steal a bottle from somewhere,' he snaps at the
driver, picking up a dinner plate from the counter and throwing it
against the wall, where it shatters into pieces.

'Take him, Brijlal,' Shanti cries. 'Take him to some bar before
he destroys everything.'

'It is impossible to stay in this house,' Mohan declares and
stomps out of the kitchen.

The next morning he asks Brijlal to drive him straight to Modern
Liquors in Khan Market. The owner, Mr Aggarwal, greets him
warmly. 'Welcome, Kumar Sahib. Do you have some more bottles
for us?'

'What do you mean?'

'You sold your vintage collection to us a few weeks ago. I was
wondering if there was more. We will pay top price for every
bottle.'

'You are mistaken. All my bottles were destroyed.'

'Then someone has cheated you, Sir. I paid twenty-five
thousand rupees for your collection.'

'I see.' Kumar strokes his chin and summons Brijlal to the
shop. 'Is this the man who sold you the bottles?' he asks Mr
Aggarwal.

'Exactly, Sir. He is the man.'

'I think it is time you told me the real story behind the bottles,
Brijlal,' Mohan says coldly.

Trembling with fear, the driver blurts out the truth.

'What did you do with all that money?' Mohan demands.

'I used it for Ranno's dowry, Sahib.'

Mohan's rage bubbles over. He raises his hand and slaps the
driver. 'You ungrateful dog! You eat my salt and then stab me in
the back? Now go and get it back, each and every penny of it. If
you don't return my full twenty-five thousand, I will turn you
over to the police.'

Brijlal clutches Mohan's feet, tears streaming from his eyes.
'But Sahib, this will ruin my Ranno's wedding. You can deduct it
from my salary every month, but please don't ask me to break my
daughter's heart.'

'You should have thought of the consequences before you
embarked on your little transaction. I want my money by this
afternoon. Otherwise get ready to spend the night in jail.'

Brijlal walks into Mohan's study at noon and hands him a brown
envelope.

Mohan counts the notes and gives a satisfied grunt. 'Good.
Twenty-five thousand. You have now made amends, Brijlal. Let
this be a lesson. Another foolish mistake like this and I will have
no qualms about dismissing you. Then you won't even have a roof
over your head.'

Brijlal says nothing and walks out of the room like a zombie.

A week passes. Mohan Kumar resumes his drinking and meateating
with such vengeance that his household comes to the
conclusion that the brief interlude without alcohol was an aberrant
decision, itself taken perhaps under the influence of alcohol. He
stops talking to Shanti completely, and looks at her with such
revulsion that she avoids crossing his path. Gopi is warned against
bringing bottle gourd into the house, let alone cooking it.

Mohan resumes going to the office, and tries to speak to his
mistress, but Rita Sethi resolutely refuses to take his calls, which
causes him great consternation. And then he gets his bank statement,
which leads to an apoplectic fit.

Sister Kamala's face tightens, making her look rather schoolmatronly.
'Now let me get this straight, Mr Kumar. You are telling
me that we have illegally withdrawn the sum of two million
rupees from your account with HSBC Bank, right?'

'Damn right,' Mohan Kumar mutters, wiping sweat from his
brow with a blue handkerchief. 'I got this statement in today's
mail. Look at it.' He thrusts a sheet of paper at her. 'It says cheque
number 00765432 for rupees twenty lakhs was credited to the
account of the Missionaries of Charity. Well, I never gave you that
cheque. So there's obviously some fraud involved here.'

Sister Kamala adjusts the blue sash of her crisp white sari with
studied nonchalance. 'In that case we will have to refresh your
memory.' She looks at the woman with glasses standing beside her
chair wearing a similar dress. 'Sister Vimla, can I have the
documents please?'

Sister Vimla pushes the round glasses on her nose a notch
higher and places a green ring-binder on the table.

Sister Kamala flips open the binder. 'Would you care to have a
look at this, please, Mr Kumar. This is a photocopy of the cheque
you gave us ten days ago, on 7 November. Is this your signature or
not?' she asks.

Mohan Kumar scans the document with the suspicious air of
a probate attorney examining a will. There is a long pause, and
then he exhales. 'It does look like my signature. A very good
forgery, I must say.' He jabs a finger at Sister Kamala. 'This is a
serious matter, you know. You could go to jail.'

'So you say that your signature is forged. Fine.' She flips to the
first page. 'Would you have a look at this photograph now? Is this
you or has this photo been forged too?'

Mohan Kumar looks at the glossy colour photograph under a
plastic sheet. There is a longer pause. 'It . . . it does look like me,'
he says weakly.

'Yes, Mr Kumar. It is you. You came to us on a Wednesday. You
sat in this very room, on this very chair and gave us the cheque,
telling us how much you admired Mother Teresa and her work.
You said that possession of inordinate wealth by individuals is a
crime against humanity and then you wrote us a cheque for
twenty lakhs. Sister Vimla took this photo for our monthly
bulletin, to keep a record of the largest single donation this branch
has ever received.'

'But . . . but I have no recollection of coming here.'

'But we have full recollection, and full proof,' Sister Kamala
says triumphantly.

'Is there no way I can get my money back?' he pleads.

'We have already cashed the cheque. The funds will help us
run our hospice for the terminally ill, expand the orphanage and
open a small school for children up to Grade Six. Think of what
you will earn back in goodwill and blessings from all those who
will be helped by your donation.'

'I don't need any goodwill. I just want my money back. I am a
very senior IAS officer.'

'And also a very venal one. Sister Vimla did a full background
check on you. Aren't you the Chief Secretary who was declared
the most corrupt officer in Uttar Pradesh by the Civil Service
Association?'

'That's rich. You take my money and also insult me! Now are
you returning my money or do I need to go to the police?'

'You don't need to go to the police, Mr Kumar. You need to go
to a doctor,' Sister Kamala says. 'And now, if you will excuse us, it
is time for our prayer.'

'But . . .' Mohan tries to interject.

Sister Kamala firmly shuts the door and turns to her aide.
'Loco.' She draws circles over her right ear with her index finger.
'Completely loco.'

Dr M. K. Diwan's clinic in Defence Colony is pleasantly furnished
with a relaxing couch upholstered in blue, some easy chairs,
abstract paintings on the alabaster walls and an artificial silk fig
tree in the corner which looks surprisingly real. The décor gives
the feel of a drawing room rather than an office. Dr Diwan is a tall
man in his late forties, with a brusque manner and a clipped
British accent.

'Why don't you kick off your shoes and lie on the couch?' he
advises Mohan Kumar, who is standing diffidently next to the
wall.

Mohan obeys reluctantly. He lies down, supporting his head
with a bolster. Dr Diwan pulls an easy chair next to the couch, and
sits down with a black leather-bound diary and a silver pen in his
hands.

'Good, now let's hear what's troubling you.'

'Doctor, some unknown force has insinuated itself in my body
like a persistent toothache. I have started walking, talking and
acting like another person.'

'And who is this other person?'
He pauses. 'You won't believe me.'

'Try me,' the doctor says drily.

'It is Gandhi . . . Mahatma Gandhi.'

He expects Dr Diwan to laugh, but Delhi's best-known
clinical psychologist doesn't even raise an eyebrow. 'Hmmm,' he
says, fiddling with his pen. 'And who is speaking to me right now?'

'Right now I am Mohan Kumar, IAS, former Chief Secretary of
Uttar Pradesh, but at any moment I might start talking like
Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi.' He leans towards the doctor. 'It
all started with that Gandhi séance I should never have attended.
Do you think this could be a case of demonic possession?'