Six Suspects (12 page)

Five men and a lone woman take their places around the table.
Vicky Rai sits at the head of the table, in front of a projector
screen. 'Well, members of the board, for today's meeting there is
only one item on the agenda, the restructuring of Rai Textile Mill,'
he begins briskly. 'As you all know, we purchased this factory from
the government two years ago as a sick unit. Drastic measures are
needed to make it healthy.' He gestures to a short, fair man with
steel-rimmed glasses sitting on his left. 'I will now ask Mr Praveen
Raha, the CEO, to unveil the new corporate strategy for the
board's approval.'

Raha adjusts his glasses and pushes keys on a laptop till a
Technicolor picture full of charts and graphs is projected on to the
white screen behind him. 'Honourable members of the board, let
me begin with a stark fact,' he says. 'Last year the company
suffered a net loss of rupees thirty-five crores.'

'Total lie.' A slim man sitting next to Mohan in
kurta
pyjamas
and thick black-rimmed glasses speaks up in a gravelly voice.
'According to the figures compiled by the workers' union on the
production achieved, we believe the company should have made
a profit of rupees two crores.'

Raha frowns at him and punches a button on the laptop. A new
chart appears on the screen. 'Well, the audit report certified
by Messrs R. R. Haldar does not support your contention, Mr
Dutta.'

'The audit report is a fraud, like you,' Dutta sneers.

Raha decides to ignore the taunt. 'Anyway, as I was saying, our
operating environment continues to remain difficult. The totally
illegal strike by workers last May resulted in a loss of thirty-five
man days.'

'Please don't blame the strike on the workers,' Dutta intervenes
again. 'The management was solely responsible for the strike
by unilaterally withdrawing the transport allowance.'

Raha continues as if he has not heard Dutta. 'It is Mr Rai's
dream to make this mill one of the biggest players in the textile
field in India. Our eventual objective is to modernize the mill in
two phases, with the installation of hi-tech state-of-the-art textile
machinery. For the restructuring plan to work we are required to
bring down non-performing assets and interest-bearing debt. We
would need to maximize the use of capital intensive machinery,
with the concomitant need to . . . er . . . rightsize some of the
other parameters.'

'And what might these other parameters be, Mr Raha?' Dutta
asks.

'This will require us to downscale the workforce to an optimum
degree.'

'Oh, you mean men will be sacked to make way for machines?'

'Well, Mr Dutta, I wouldn't put it quite so starkly. And, in any
case, the restructuring plan will have in-built provisions for
matching of competencies and payment of motivational wages
and productivity-linked bonuses, together with other incentivization
packages which—'

'Stop this charade, Raha.' Dutta pushes back his chair and
stands up. 'On behalf of the unions, I totally reject the restructuring
plan.'

There is a fizz of silence in the room. All eyes look at Vicky
Rai, who drums his fingers on the table, his face inscrutable. 'Well,
in that case, I think we should put the proposal to a vote. All those
in favour, please say yes.' He stares at a middle-aged man with a
long nose on his left. 'Mr Arora?'

'Yes.'

'Mrs Islamia?'

'Yes.'

'Mr Singh?'

'Yes.'

'Mr Billmoria?'

'Yes.'

'Mr Dutta?'

'An emphatic no.'

'Mr Kumar?'

Mohan has an impish smile on his face. 'Well, I must say this
has been a most fascinating and thought-provoking discussion. I
will make only three submissions. First, that the principle of
majority does not work when differences on fundamentals are
involved.' He glances at Vicky Rai, whose eyebrows go up a
fraction.

'My second submission is that each and every one of you
should consider yourself to be a trustee for the welfare of our
fellow labourers and not be self-seeking,' he says, emphasizing
each word. 'Where there are millions upon millions of units of idle
labour, it is no use thinking of labour-saving devices. This company
cannot function with greed as its only motive. It has to serve a
higher purpose. And this brings me to my third submission.'

Vicky's face is now etched with worry lines. 'What the fuck is
Kumar up to? Is he speaking in our favour or against us?' he
whispers to Raha.

'My third submission,' Mohan Kumar repeats as he dips his
head below the table and brings up a large packet wrapped in
brown paper, 'is this.' He tears off the wrapping to reveal a
wooden spinning wheel. 'Ladies and Gentlemen,' he announces,
pausing for theatrical effect, 'I present to you the
charkha
.'

There are gasps from the board members. 'The spinning wheel
was invented in India as a device for spinning yarn from fibres, but
somehow got lost to us,' Mohan Kumar continues. 'I had to search
in almost fifty shops in Chandni Chowk before I found this one. I
claim that in losing the spinning wheel we lost our left lung.
I believe that the yarn we spin from this device is capable of
mending the broken warp and woof of our lives. The
charkha
is
the panacea for all the ills afflicting this company and, indeed, this
country. A plea for the spinning wheel is a plea for recognizing the
dignity of labour. I am sure our friend from the unions will agree.'
He looks pointedly at Dutta, who watches him, mouth agape.

'Yes . . . Yes, of course,' Dutta mumbles. 'Forgive me, Mohan
Kumarji. All along we thought of you as a snake, but you are
actually our saviour.'

A buzz goes around the boardroom. Hurried consultations are
held. Eventually Vicky Rai stands up. 'It appears that we do not
quite have unanimity on the restructuring plan. I will ask Mr Raha
to further refine the proposal. We shall notify you of the date for
the next board meeting. Thank you.'

He gives Mohan Kumar a withering look and leaves the room,
slamming the door shut.

Over the next week, Mohan Kumar devotes himself to various
causes. He participates in rallies by the Justice for Ruby campaign,
sits outside the Supreme Court with activists protesting against
the proposed increase in the height of the Sardar Sarovar Dam,
attends a candle-light vigil at India Gate for peace between India
and Pakistan, and leads a group of angry women picketing
country liquor shops. He also replaces his reading spectacles with
wire-rimmed, round 'Gandhi' glasses and the media instantly dubs
him 'Gandhi Baba'.

On Sunday, while going to a protest march against the creation
of Special Economic Zones, Mohan's car gets caught up in heavy
traffic in Connaught Place. As it inches towards the red light, his
eyes are drawn to the posters adorning a cinema on his left. Full
of lurid images of semi-naked women, they bear titles like 'ALL
NIGHT LONG', 'A VIRGIN'S TROUBLES' and 'MAN-EATING
BEAUTY'. A diagonal strip on the posters proclaims, 'Full of love
and sex. Morning show ten a.m. Special Rates.' A tag-line underneath
states boldly: 'Sex needs no language.'

'Ram, Ram,' Mohan mutters. 'How has the government
allowed such filth in a public place?'

Brijlal sighs knowingly. 'My Rupesh has also been coming to
these morning shows. These posters are nothing. I am told in the
films they show full naked women.'

'Really? In that case stop the car.'

'What, Sahib, right here?'

'Yes, right here.'

Brijlal manoeuvres the car to the kerb alongside the cinema
and Mohan steps out.

The cinema is an old, grey building, with a cloistered, mouldy
aura. The paint on the walls is peeling off and the tiles on the floor
have been badly defaced. But the frescoes on the ceiling and the
Corinthian pillars in the atrium are still intact, decaying reminders
of its former grandeur. The morning show is about to start and
there is a fair-sized crowd milling around the ticket window. It is
a hormonally driven audience, exclusively male, looking for
instant gratification. There are even boys in the queue as young as
twelve or thirteen. They fidget nervously and puff up their chests
in a desperate bid to look older. Mohan Kumar marches straight to
the ticket window, oblivious to the protests of those in the queue.
The cashier, a middle-aged man with a pencil moustache, sits in a
small airless room with wads of pink, light-green and white tickets in
front of him. 'Hundred for Dress Circle, seventy-five for Balcony,
fifty for Front Stalls. Which ticket do you want?' he asks in a bored
voice, without even bothering to look up.

'I want all your tickets.'

'All the tickets?' The cashier raises his head.

'Yes.'

'The special rates for group bookings do not apply to morning
shows. Are you bringing a group from some boys' hostel?'

'No, I want all the tickets only for the purpose of destroying
them.'

'What?'

'You heard me correctly. I want to destroy your tickets. Aren't
you ashamed of yourself, showing such filth, spoiling the morals of
the youth of this country?'

'Hey mister, don't talk to me about all this. Go talk to the
manager. Next, please.'

'Please call the manager. I refuse to leave till the manager
meets me,' Mohan says firmly.

The cashier glowers at him, before getting up from his stool
and disappearing through a green door. Presently a short,
corpulent man enters the room.

'Yes, what is it? I am the manager.'

'I want to talk to you,' says Mohan.

'Then please come to my office. It is the first room to your
right when you come up the stairs.'

The manager's room is larger, with a faded green sofa and a
wooden desk which is totally bare except for a black telephone.
Framed posters of bygone films adorn the walls.

The manager hears out Mohan Kumar patiently. Then he asks
him, 'Do you know who owns this cinema?'

'No,' says Mohan.

'It is Jagdamba Pal, the local MLA. I am sure you don't want
to tangle with him.'

'And do you know who I am?'

'No.'

'I am Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi.'

The manager breaks into hysterical fits of laughter. '
Arrey bhai
,
that
Munnabhai
film with Gandhi has come and gone. Your
dialogues are one year too late.'

'Laugh, Mr Manager, but I would like to see your face when
you see your own son entering through the turnstiles. I believe
that the reckless indulgence of passions promoted by the films you
screen encourages unrestrained licence and corruption amongst
our youth. I am afraid I cannot turn a blind eye to this entirely
avoidable calamity.'

The manager sighs. 'You are a decent man, but also a foolish
one. If you insist on going ahead with your protest, be prepared to
face the consequences. Don't blame me if the MLA sets his goons
on you.'

'A true
satyagrahi
does not fear danger. From tomorrow I am
going to sit outside and fast until you agree to stop showing these
filthy films.'

'Be my guest,' the manager says and picks up the phone.

The next morning Mohan Kumar arrives at the theatre clad in his
Gandhi dress – a white
dhoti
and
kurta
with a cap on his head. He
picks a spot directly in front of the ticket window and sits down
on the ground, propping up a simple placard which declares,
'WATCHING THIS FILM IS A SIN'.

The men in the queue look at him curiously. Some bow before
him, some drop coins at his feet, but not one drops out of the line.
By nine fifty, the ticket window is closed and a 'House Full' board
is placed in front of it.

Shanti arrives a little later. 'Why don't you come home now?'
she asks anxiously. 'The film has already started.'

He gives her a dry smile. 'Another film will start soon. I am
sure someone will listen to me. If I am able to convince even one
man that what he is doing is wrong, I will feel that I have
succeeded in my mission.'

'But how will you succeed, when no one even knows that you
are fasting?'

'My fast is a matter between God and myself, Ba. But you don't
worry. I am sure others will join me in this crusade in due course.'

'Then at least drink this juice I brought for you.' Shanti offers
him a flask.

'When a man fasts, it is not the gallons of water he drinks that
sustains him, but God, Ba. You go home now.'

With a final forlorn look at him, Shanti leaves with Brijlal.
Mohan continues to sit on the ground, watching the ebb and
flow in Connaught Place, the harried-looking office executives in
jackets and ties, the young women with happy glistening faces out
for a shopping spree, the hawkers selling belts, sunglasses and
pirated books. The roar of traffic is deafening.

When Shanti returns two hours later to check on him, she is
amazed to discover Mohan sitting on a wooden platform with
another man, their backs resting against foam cushions. A crowd
of nearly two hundred people is standing around them, waving
placards and shouting slogans: 'PORN IS FILTH', 'GANDHI BABA
ZINDABAD', 'DOWN WITH JAGDAMBA PAL'.

Mohan looks smug and content. 'How did this happen?' Shanti
wants to know.

Mohan points to the middle-aged man sitting next to him in
white
kurta
pyjamas. He has an oval face, a narrow nose, a sharp
jawline and shifty eyes. Shanti takes an instant dislike to him. 'This
is Mr Awadhesh Bihari. He met me by chance an hour ago and
immediately decided to support my cause. It is he who has
organized this group and arranged for all the banners and
placards.'

'Welcome, Bhabhiji,' Bihari says with the smoothness of a conartist.
'It is a privilege to meet someone as great as your husband.
I was telling him how evil this man Jagdamba Pal is. He owns this
sleazy cinema and also several brothels.'

'And what do you do?' Shanti asks him.