Six Suspects (25 page)

'I would do it gladly, Guruji, but perhaps you don't
know that the day I was removed as Home Minister, the
Chief Minister also suspended Maurya. I have no influence
over the police any longer.'

'
Arrey
, this is very bad. But don't you worry, Lord Shiva
will set everything right. Mark my word, this Chief
Minister's days are numbered.'

'I hope your prophecy comes true.'

'OK, Jagannath, I shall wait for your man to contact me.
Jai Shambhu
.'

'
Jai Shambhu
, Guruji.'

*

'Bhaiyyaji, I have good news and bad news.'

'Give me the good news first, Tripurari.'

'The good news is that we have all the MLAs we need
to break the party and form our own party.'

'Excellent. Shift them immediately to our guesthouse in
Badaun and put them under house arrest. Take away their
mobile phones. No one must be allowed to contact them.
We will trot them out only when the Governor invites me
to parade the MLAs in his residence.'

'I have already done that, Bhaiyyaji. A bus has taken
them to Badaun. I have also put a minder with them.'

'Then what is the bad news?'

'Tiwariji has conveyed that the Opposition parties have
decided not to support your bid for Chief Ministership.'

'What? I spoke to all of them. They did not express any
reservations to me. Tiwari himself praised my decision.'

'It has nothing to do with you, Bhaiyyaji. It has to do
with Vicky.'

'What do you mean?'

'All this publicity on TV and the daily reports in the
media about Vicky's acquittal . . . the public is getting
agitated. As a result, the legislators are getting cold feet.
They think that if they support your bid to become Chief
Minister they might get tainted too.'

'
Arrey
, each of these bastards is already fully painted
with corruption. How much more tainted can they get?'

'I know, Bhaiyyaji, but this is not just an excuse. They
really think you should cool it for a while, disappear from
the public view, let this whole case die down. Tiwari says he
will support your reinstatement as Home Minister, but not
your becoming Chief Minister at this juncture. Some of the
Independents I spoke to also share this view. Vicky has
become your biggest liability.'

'So what do we do now?'

'Tiwari says he will go as your emissary to the Chief
Minister. He will help hammer out a compromise. In return
he has asked for one crore.'

'This is ridiculous. Why should I pay him to get back a
position which is rightfully mine? After all, I have not been
convicted.'

'Bhaiyyaji, sometimes the sins of the son are visited on
the father. Without the Home Ministership we will become
vulnerable. And the Chief Minister can always tell the
police to start needling us. Now we don't even have the
protection of the Director General of Police. I say we
should accept Tiwari's offer.'

'OK, but tell him the pay-off will take some
time.'

'That is fine, Bhaiyyaji. Your word is good enough.'

*

'
Jaaneman
, are you still in Delhi?'

'Yes. It is such a refreshing change from Lucknow.
Compared to the vibrant life in this city, Lucknow is like a
cemetery.'

'Don't say that, Seema. After all, I am here. I am missing
you terribly. Even Guruji has gone away to some place
called Featherland.'

'Netherlands,
mantriji
, Netherlands.'

'Whether it is feather or nether, what is it to me? I care
only for you. When are you coming back?'

'Not in a hurry.'

'Then should I come to Delhi too? We could meet in
some nice hotel.'

'No, no. I will contact you as soon as my work is over.'

'OK,
jaaneman
. Now give me a kiss.'

(
Kissing sound
.)

*

'Tripurari here, Bhaiyyaji. Tiwari has delivered. A
compromise has been worked out. The High Command will
reinstate you as Home Minister, provided you do not stake a
claim to the Chief Ministership and issue a public statement
of support for the Chief Minister.'

'I'll be damned if I agree to do that.'

'But what options do we have, Bhaiyyaji? We have
already seen that while you have the power to bring down
the Chief Minister, you don't have enough steam to become
CM yourself. Please agree to this minor condition. I will
draft something which doesn't compromise your dignity.'

'I wish I hadn't lived to see this day. '

'If only you didn't have a son like Vicky, Bhaiyyaji.
Today you would have been sitting in the CM's chair. Who
knows, you might even have become PM one day. But for
now, we will have to curb our ambition.'

'So the Chief Minister has won round one.'

'Not really. I would say it is one-all. Operation
Checkmate has resulted in stalemate.'

'I never accept defeat, Tripurari. Eventually this will end
in a checkmate, you'll see.'

*

'Congrats, Dad, on getting back your Home Ministership.
With you out, I was seriously worried about how I was
going to drive my new Lamborghini at 180 miles per hour
in Noida.' (
Laughs
.)

'Vicky, you have no idea how much harm you have
caused me. But for you, I would have been – forget it. So
are you still going ahead with your party on 23 March?'

'Of course, Dad. Cards are going out as we speak. But
my idiot secretary has made a big blunder. She used an old
mailing list and, as a result, invitations have gone to people
like Mohan Kumar and Singhania. Should I call them up
and disinvite them?'

'The problem with you, Vicky, is that you hire secretaries
for their beauty rather than their brains. But an invitation,
once given, cannot be withdrawn. It is against our culture.'

'But Mohan Kumar has gone completely mad, and
Singhania is now my business rival.'

'You know the old adage – Keep your friends close and
your enemies closer. Besides, Kumar may provide us good
entertainment in his new role as Gandhi Baba.'

'Talking of Gandhi reminds me, Dad, do I need to worry
about all this talk of a possible re-trial?'

'It will fizzle out, Vicky. Eventually, everything does,
even a son's love for his father.'

'Are you still upset that I couldn't send you the money?'

'No, Vicky. I never linger over the past.'

'By the way, Dad, do you know a girl called Seema Bisht?'

'Yes. I know her very well. She is a reporter for a thirdrate
channel called Mashaal. How do you know her?'

'She came to my farmhouse last night, gave me your
reference.'

'Yes, she told me she was going to Delhi. Did she
interview you?'

'She did much more than an interview. She was angling
for a role in my next film.'

'So what did you do?'

'What do you expect? (
Laughs
.) She seemed like a good
lay. And was more than willing.'

(
Long pause
.)

'Dad?'

(
Disconnect
.)

*

'Hi. Seema here. I have been trying to reach you for two
days. Congratulations, Mr Home Minister.'

'Don't you dare talk to me, you cheap whore!'
(
Disconnect
.)

*

'Hello? Hello?'

'Thank you for calling the Novotel Hotel. How may
I help?'

'Is this 00 31 20 5411123?'

'Yes it is, Sir. How may I help?'

'Please give me room number 567.'

'One moment, Sir. Your call is going through now.'
Beep. Beep. Beep.

'Hello. Who is this?'

'Hello, can I speak to Guruji?'

'Guruji is busy right now. He does not want to be
disturbed.'

'I know. Just tell him that Jagannath Rai is calling from
Lucknow. It is very urgent.'

(
Whispered
.) 'Guruji, someone called Jagannath Rai is
calling. Says he wants to speak to you urgently.'

'Give me the phone, and you go into the bathroom.
(
Pause
.) Hello, Jagannath. So you have tracked me down
even in Amsterdam? (
Laughs
.)
Jai Shambhu
.'

'
Jai Shambhu
, Guruji. Who is this woman who picked
up the phone?'

'She is . . . Sister Reena. She coordinates my European
operations. But tell me about yourself. How have you been?'

'I have been having very bad thoughts for the last few
days.'

'There is nothing unusual in that. Those who have not
grasped the fundamental truths of existence are bound to
suffer from negative energy.'

'I feel I have been deluded and only you can show me
the true path. Just as Arjuna came to Krishna on the
battlefield of Kurukshetra to get his divine guidance, I have
come to your refuge, Guruji, even though you are
thousands of miles away.'

'Reasoning is destroyed when the mind is bewildered,
Jagannath. The mind is bewildered by delusion. And
delusion arises from anger. Are you angry about something?'

'I am angry about many things, Guruji. I know you
always counsel me not to become tense, but what can I do?
Politics means tension.'

'Tell me, how is your campaign for the Chief
Ministership going? I read in the
Times of India
that you
have got the support of a large number of MLAs. '

'That is old news, Guruji. For now I have become Home
Minister once again.'

'Oh, that is excellent news. So can I return to India
now? Will you be able to get the arrest warrant cancelled?'

'Not immediately, Guruji. I am still facing some
difficulties. But I have a plan by which I will become Chief
Minister soon.'

'Good. Then I shall return only after you have become
Chief Minister. So what is your plan?'

'I don't want to go into that, Guruji. I want you to tell
me something much more vital and fundamental. I want to
know the real truth about existence, about life.'

(
Laughs
.) 'Don't we all want to know that?'

'Guruji, you have known me for a long time, long before
I joined politics. Tell me, is killing someone the worst thing
anyone can do?'

(
Laughs
.) 'Killing what? This body? But Jagannath, as I
have repeatedly told you, this body, like the universe is
mithya
, just a false notion, like the horn of a rabbit, or the
water in a mirage. It has only a temporary existence. It has
to die, in any case.'

'But then why do we lament over the dead?'

'The wise grieve neither for the living nor for the dead.
Because death is certain for the one who is born, and birth
is certain for the one who dies. Therefore, only fools lament
over the inevitable.'

'And even if the body dies, the soul never dies?'

'Yes. That is correct. The soul is unborn, eternal,
permanent and primeval. The
atma
is not destroyed when
the body is destroyed.'

'So if someone is killed, he doesn't really die. He merely
acquires another body, doesn't he?'

'Exactly. A person who knows that the
atma
is
indestructible, eternal, unborn and imperishable, neither
kills anyone nor causes anyone to be killed.'

'Even if the person being killed is a close relative?'

'There is no such thing as a relative. The essence of a
true
yogi
is detachment. He is detached from his son, his
wife, his family and his home. He is a person whose mind is
unperturbed by sorrow.'

'You have cleared my doubts, Guruji. You have lightened
my mind.'

'Remember what Krishna told Arjuna: "Grieve not, for I
shall liberate you from all sins."'

'You have indeed liberated me, Guruji.'

'I have to go now, Jagannath, to deliver a talk. Please try
and do something about that warrant. I cannot remain
abroad indefinitely. Even my Schengen visa will run out in
two months. I am told that bastard Brahmdeo gave an
interview on the Devotion Channel in which he made all
sorts of allegations against me. So my suspicion was
true.'

'Don't worry, Guruji. The day I become Chief Minister,
that very day Swami Brahmdeo will have an arrest warrant
against his name.
Jai Shambhu
.'

'
Jai Shambhu
.'

*

'Mukhtar?'

'Yes, Boss?'

'Are you in Lucknow?'

'Yes, Boss.'

'Tell me, Mukhtar, are you a devout Muslim?'

'Not really, Boss. But I try to attend the
namaz
at least
every Friday.'

'Still, you must be familiar with the concept of sacrifice.
Have you heard of Abraham?'

'Every Muslim has. He was a great man who was
prepared to sacrifice his son to please Allah.'

'It must have been very difficult for him. And the job I
am going to give you now is equally difficult for me.'

'
Hukum
. I am ready. Just tell me what the job is.'

'I cannot talk on phone. Can you come to the house
right now?'

'I am in coming, Boss.
Khuda hafiz
.'

'
Khuda hafiz
.'

THE UNITED AIRLINES plane touched down at New Delhi
Airport bang on time at three ten p.m. All the other
passengers seemed to be in a mad rush to get out, as though free
candies were being distributed outside. I took my time stuffing the
nice airline magazine and the card about all the safety precautions
into my bag, even using the toilet when the other passengers had
gone.

There was a long queue at the passport counter when I arrived
and the man at my desk was slower than a three-legged turtle.
Every ten minutes or so he would push off to have a cup of tea or
chat with his friends. I was chomping at the bit by the time my
turn came.

'Good day, Sir,' he said, flipping open my passport. He looked
at me and checked my photo in the passport, then looked at me
again. 'Is this your passport?'

'Yeah,' I said.

'Well, you look different from your photo.'

'That's coz Mom said send in your best picture. So I sent in my
best picture. And that happens to be when I was in High School.'

'Please wait here,' the officer said and went out to consult with
his foreman. He came back after ten minutes. 'Sorry, we cannot
allow you to enter India. We suspect you have a forged passport.
You will have to be deported back to the United States.' He
handed the passport back to me and pointed to a corner. 'Just sit
down on that bench.'

'What?' I cried. 'No, you can't be serious. Are you pulling my
leg? I got a wedding to attend here.'

He shook his head. 'There's nothing I can do.'

'Please don't say that. I've come all the way from Waco just to
meet my fiancée. I am sure you can pull some strings for me,' I
pleaded.

'Well . . .' He looked around to see if anyone else was listening.
'I might be able to help you, if you can help me.'

'I'll do anything you say.'

'I collect foreign-currency notes,' he whispered. 'I have all the
notes from America except the hundred-dollar bill. Can you give
me a hundred-dollar note? Just put it inside your passport and
slide it over.'

I thanked the Lord that he didn't have a thousand-dollar bill
missing from his collection, coz I hadn't seen one either, and
immediately peeled off a hundred-dollar note from my wallet. I
put it inside my passport and handed it to the officer, who quickly
stamped the passport and returned it to me. 'Have a nice stay, Mr
Page,' he smiled at me. I opened the passport. The greenback had
disappeared.

It took me twenty minutes to get my Delsey from the baggage
merry-go-round and another ten to convert some dollars into
Indian rupees. Then, nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of
rocking chairs, I walked out of the terminal building.
India welcomed me with a blast of warm air. It was hotter than
a well-digger's ass in August. There was a whole bunch of people
shouting and waving; car horns were blaring, uniformed
chauffeurs were running around with placards, and brown-shirted
men were asking everyone, 'Taxi? Taxi?'

I began hunting for Sapna in the crowd. Although there were
plenty of girls at the airport, no one looked like her.

I waited for three hours at the kerb, but my bride-to-be didn't
arrive. All the other passengers left. The airport became halfempty.
I wandered out towards the taxi stand, wondering if she
was waiting outside, and that's when I saw her. She stood in a red
sari, her hands folded in namaste, her neck loaded with jewellery,
a big smile plastered on her face. Next to her picture, the huge
billboard said in big blue letters, 'WELCOME TO INDIA.'

I'm not a weepy sort of guy. The last time I really cried was way
back in 1998 when Mankind (a.k.a. Mick Foley) lost to the
Undertaker in the famous Hell in a Cell match on WWF. But at
that moment I felt all choked up. I just wanted to rush into Mom's
lap and cry my heart out. I wished the officer had sent me back
on that plane. I wished I had never come to India. But when you
make your bed, you got to lie in it. It was getting dark now and I
needed a place to stay. Slowly, I walked towards a yellow-andblack
taxi.

The taxi-driver was a turbaned fellow with a thick black
moustache and beard. 'Can you take me to some cheap hotel?' I
asked the gentleman.

'Of course, Sir. I am knowing just the right place for you.
Which country are you coming from?'

'America,' I said.

'I like Americans.' He nodded his head. 'Half my village is
living in New Jersey. First time in New Delhi?'

'Very first time in India,' I replied.

'Then get in, Sir.' He opened the rear door for me and put my
suitcase and bag in the trunk.

The taxi had torn seats and a strange, greasy kind of smell. The
dashboard was decorated with pictures of old people with long
white beards. The driver pushed down the meter and started the
car.

New Delhi seemed bigger than Waco and the traffic was quite
amazing. Apart from cars, there were buses, cycles, motorcycles,
scooters, and strange contraptions which the driver said were
called auto-rickshaws, all moving together side by side without
crashing into each other or killing the people walking on the road.
Suddenly I saw a huge grey elephant lumbering towards us from
the opposite direction.

'Hey, has this fellow escaped from the zoo?' I asked in
astonishment.

'No, Sir,' the driver laughed. 'Here we don't need zoos. You can
see all the animals you are wanting in the city itself. There,' he
pointed in the distance, 'you can see some nice buffaloes and
cows, too.'

We drove like crazy for almost two hours. At one point it
seemed to me that we had returned to the airport. I started getting
worried, but the driver laughed. 'The city is being very far from
the airport, almost one hundred miles, Sir. But not to be worrying,
we will get there. In India you must be learning to be patient.'

Eventually, he took me into a market lit up with yellow light
bulbs and white tube lights. I saw narrow lanes teeming with
people and cows. Dusty men pulled wooden carts loaded to the
brim with sacks of stuff. Fat ladies rode in rickety rickshaws. Autorickshaws
zipped around like toy cars. Cyclists weaved in and out,
tinkling their tinny bells. The market was full of small shops selling
fruit, groceries, televisions and books. Signboards were
plastered on every space – advertising everything from ceiling fans
to perfume oils. Tilted at various angles, they seemed like any
minute they would crash down on the people below.

The driver stopped in front of a crumbling yellow building
which bore the sign 'Ruby Guest House, Paharganj'. Below that it
said, 'Decent Laxury Higenic backpaker accomodation.'

'This is your hotel, Sir. Very good and very reasonable,' the
driver said, and charged me a thousand rupees.

As I was about to step into the hotel, a big fat cow stopped
right in front of me.

'Shoo,' I told the animal, but it shook its head at me. I pushed
my bag at her and the next thing I knew I was flying in the air. I
landed with a thud, crashing headlong into a parked cycle. The
cow was on me again, snorting and digging its heels into the
ground. I looked around for help, but the people around me
simply laughed. I got up slowly, dusting my pants, and made
another attempt to enter the hotel, but the cow refused to let me
pass. It had taken to me like a buzzard takes to guts.

I was saved by a hawker selling bananas in a cart. The cow
mooed and made a beeline for him. I quickly stepped into the
building.

The guesthouse reception had a tattered green sofa, a dusty
red carpet and dying plants. The manager was an oily young man
with slick black hair. 'Welcome, Sir, to our five-star guesthouse,' he
greeted me. He asked me to pay two thousand rupees as a week's
rent deposit and allotted me room number 411 on the second
floor without any fuss. A young boy in dirty underpants picked up
my suitcase and took me to the room up a creaky staircase.

My room was nothing to write home about. Only a little
bigger than a cubby-hole, it had a single bed, a cupboard and a
small desk and chair. The walls were painted grey and the floor
was covered with a cheap carpet. There was an attached john with
a smelly WC, a tap, a bucket and a mug.

'Breakfast from seven to seven thirty in TV lounge,' the boy
announced as he placed my suitcase on top of the desk. 'Can I get
you anything? Food? Girl? Coke? Smoke?'

I thought about the choices. 'I wouldn't mind a Coke,' I said.

'Five hundred rupees, please,' he demanded. That was more
than ten dollars for a can of Coke! I couldn't cotton on to these
Indian price tags. Reluctantly, I parted with the money.

After the boy left, I opened the dark-green curtains at the
window to check out the view. A tangled mass of cables greeted
my eye, stretching from one building to another like a roof above
the street. There was enough dodgy wiring here to electrocute the
whole of Texas. Some kind of black smog hung in the air. Two
people were arguing loudly on a roof below me. A radio was playing
a Hindi song. I wondered how I would sleep with this racket
going on.

The bell boy returned in ten minutes and handed me a little
plastic packet containing some white powder.

'What the hell's this?' I said. 'I asked for a Coke.'

'This is coke. High grade. Top class,' he said and scampered out
of the room.

'Hey, wait!' I shouted, but the boy had already disappeared. I
sniffed at the powder. It didn't smell like Coke at all. I was
wondering whether I needed to mix it with water when the door
was kicked open and a fat policeman barged in. 'Hold it right
there, Mister,' he announced in a stern voice. 'What is this in your
hand?'

'I dunno. I asked for a Coke and I got this,' I said, spreading my
hands.

'Aha! So you admit you asked for cocaine.'

'Cocaine? What do you mean?'

'Don't act the innocent. In Paharganj, when a foreigner asks for
a smoke, he means marijuana. And when he asks for coke, he
means cocaine. But possession of cocaine is a very serious criminal
offence in our country. Now you will go to jail for ten years.'

Jail for ten years? For ordering a Coke? I almost puked.

'Come on, I am taking you to the police station,' the cop
announced and took out a pair of handcuffs from his hip pocket.

I flipped on seeing the cuffs, and that's when I remembered
what had happened at the airport. In a flash I took out a hundreddollar
bill from my wallet and waved it at the cop. 'Would you like
a little something for your dollar collection?'

The cop's eyes began shining. He grunted and snatched the
note. 'I am forgiving you this time. Don't do drugs in India,' he
warned me, pocketed the plastic packet and left, tapping his stick
on the staircase.

I slumped down on the bed, just plumb tuckered out from all
that had happened in a day. I had taken my first foreign trip, been
stood up by the girl I'd fallen in love with, almost been sent back
from the airport, been head-butted by a cow and nearly arrested
by a cop.

I opened the brown folder and took out the pictures I had
been sent. I looked into the eyes of this woman – Sapna or
Shabnam – and tried to ask her, Why did you do this to me?

The next morning I was woken up by a fluttering sound. I opened
my eyes and found two pigeons making out next to my bed. I
shooed them out the window, and leaned out to see the morning
view. The sun had not yet come out, but the day had already
begun for the people on the street. There were little girls in frocks
busy filling a whole heap of plastic bottles from a tap. A man was
taking a bath on the pavement. He soaped himself, standing in
striped underpants next to a plastic bucket, and then rinsed off
with a mug of water.

A little later, I, too, stripped off and entered the bathroom.
Standing under the tap, I turned it on full blast. A small trickle of
lukewarm water came out. Five minutes later even the trickle
stopped, leaving me only half-showered. I now knew why water
was more precious than gold in this city.

After breakfast I headed for Reception.

'Where can I make a call to America from?' I asked the
manager.

'You should go to a PCO, Sir,' he told me.

'What's that?'

'Public Call Office. There are plenty in the neighbourhood.
Best place to make international calls. And they are open twentyfour
hours.'

So I stepped into the street and found every second shop to be
a PCO. There were more phone booths in Paharganj than strip
clubs in Houston. I entered the booth closest to the guesthouse
and dialled Mom's number. I sure was glad to hear her voice.

'Larry, when are you bringing my beautiful daughter-in-law
home?' she asked, all excited. 'And don't forget to send me the
wedding photos.'

I had called to tell her there wouldn't be no wedding, but
suddenly I didn't have the heart to tell her the truth. 'I won't
forget, Mom. Everything is fine,' I mumbled and hung up.

As soon as the market opened, I looked for a travel agent to
book my return flight. Luckily, Lucky Travel and Tours was just
across the road, in an office complex full of tiny shops. The owner
was a friendly man who examined my ticket carefully and spent a
lot of time punching keys on his computer screen. 'Sorry, Mr Page,'
he shook his head, 'your ticket is of the cheapest category and
there is no seat available on any flight. As you know, this is peak
tourist season. The earliest I can get you a confirmed seat to
Chicago is 24 November.'

'But that's a long way off,' I cried. 'I want to return right now,
today if possible.'

'In that case you will have to buy a new one-way ticket. I can
arrange one for you immediately. We have a special offer on
Tajikistan Airways. Delhi–Dushanbe–New York will cost you just
thirty thousand rupees.'

I checked my wallet. 'I've only got thirteen grand.'