Six Suspects (47 page)

'Didn't neighbours hear the gun shot?'

'They must have, but gun shots are so common in Sarai
Meer, nobody pays any attention to them.'

'Then how did you go home in a torn
kameez
?'

'I took one of his
kurtas
from the cupboard, ran to the
main road and took an auto-rickshaw home.'

I pictured the scene in my mind, then went to the
cupboard and opened it. It contained a couple of shirts and
pairs of trousers on thin metal hangers. All the shelves were
empty, but when I peered deeper, I discovered a black
canvas bag stuffed into the inner recesses of the bottom
shelf. I pulled it out and unzipped it. It was full of stacks of
crisp new hundred-rupee notes.

Sapna's eyes widened on seeing the cash. 'Oh
didi
, how
much do you think there is?'

'I don't know. But at least seven or eight lakhs,' I said.
'Let's find out who this bastard is.' I rummaged through the
dead man's
kurta
pockets and came up with a tattered black
leather wallet and a clunky blue Nokia mobile. The wallet
contained 3,325 rupees and a few coins, but not a scrap of
paper which could identify him. I turned to the mobile. It
was dead too. It probably needed recharging.

'OK, let me start removing evidence of our visit,' I said,
and for the next half-hour proceeded to wipe every inch of
the room with a handkerchief to make sure no fingerprints
were left anywhere. I cleaned the pistol as well and put it
into the canvas bag. When I lifted the bag, I found it was
really quite heavy.

'What are you doing,
didi
?' Sapna cried. 'You are
stealing money.'

'We need it more than he does,' I said, dropping the
dead man's wallet into the bag.

We closed the door to the room as before, wiped the
metal latch clean, crossed the courtyard and stepped into
the alley once again. No sooner had I stepped into the street
than a bearded man in a grey
pathan
suit pointed his grubby
finger at me. 'Isn't she Shabnam Saxena?' he asked his
similarly dressed companion, who gaped at me with his
mouth open.

'Yes. It is Shabnam. SHABNAM IS HERE!' he
screamed at the top of his voice.

'Shit!' I swore softly as I realized that I had forgotten to
pull down the veil over my face. People were beginning to
stare at me, even with my face now covered. I grabbed
Sapna's arm and half ran, half walked to the mouth of the
alley, lugging the heavy bag with me. Luckily an empty
auto-rickshaw was passing by and I jumped into it,
pulling Sapna in as the startled driver almost overturned.
'Take us to Kurmitola. Quick. I'll pay you five hundred
rupees.'

The driver did another double-take and gunned his
glorified scooter as though it was a James Bond vehicle.

We counted the money this evening. It is ten lakh rupees. I
handed over the loot to Ma. She needs it more than I do.
But Sapna was still inconsolable. 'Now I have got you
involved as well,
didi
. The police will catch you,' she wailed.
She clung to me like a daughter as we slept in Babuji's
bedroom, but when I got up later to get a glass of water I
found her missing. I discovered her in the bathroom, sitting
on the wet floor, trying to slash her wrists with Babuji's
shaving blade.

'What are you doing, Sapna?' I screamed and snatched
the blade from her trembling fingers. Her whole body shook
as if she was in the grip of a violent chill. I helped her back
to the bed, and lay down with her, pulling the heavy
woollen blanket over us completely, smothering both the
cold and my sobs.

It was inside that blanket's dark cocoon, as I listened
to my little sister's muffled heartbeats, that I had my first
real epiphany. With startling clarity, the impermanence
of life, the transience of fame and the true meaning of
family were revealed to me. I saw the starkness of
Sapna's predicament and the source of her poignant
anxiety, and I decided in that instant that come what may,
I would protect my sister. Even if it meant taking the rap
for murder.

At the same time, I remembered Barkha Das's words –
how the rich and famous manipulate the law and get
away with murder – and wished I had an ace up my sleeve
which could trump all our troubles, an ally in high places.
Someone who could get the body disposed off and get the
whole thing hushed up. And that's when it struck me, I
know such a man. He is a part-time producer, occasional
murderer and full-time philanderer. More importantly, he
is the son of the Home Minister of Uttar Pradesh, who
controls the entire police force of the State. And his
name is Vicky Rai.

22 March

I called him up on my mobile. Luckily his number wasn't
engaged.

'Is that really you, Shabnam? I hope my Caller ID is not
playing tricks on me.'

'Vicky, I need your help.'

'So you want the National Award, after all?'

'No. It is much more serious than that.'

'Really? Have you murdered someone? Just joking. Ha!'

'I cannot talk on the phone. I need to see you.'

'Well I've been dying to see you for a very long time.'

'Can I come today?'

'Today? No, today is a bad day. Why don't you come
tomorrow? Come straight to Number Six.'

'Number Six?'

'Yeah. That's my farmhouse in Mehrauli. Every taxidriver
in Delhi knows the address. Tomorrow night I am
throwing the biggest party on earth. Celebrating my
acquittal.'

'I need to see you privately. Not at a party.'

'We will meet in private, darling, but after the party.'

'But you must promise that you will help me.'

'Of course, I promise. Anything you want. But my help
comes at a price.'

'I am willing to pay it.'

'This isn't just about your starring in
Plan B
.'

'I know what you are talking about, Vicky.'

'Good. Then I'll see you tomorrow, 23 March at eight
p.m. at Number Six.'

'See you.'

'One more thing, Shabnam.'

'What?'

'Wear something sexy, OK?'

So this is it. The die has been cast. I refused to sleep with a
prince, but I have just agreed to sleep with a murderer.
Sisterly love has extracted the ultimate price. And I shall
pay it willingly.

I took out the dead man's Beretta, pressed the release
button and ejected the magazine. I have handled enough
guns in films to know them inside-out. There are six
cartridges left. I reinserted the magazine and carefully put
the pistol inside my handbag.

I am going to a murderer's house; the least I can do is go
with back-up. My own Plan B.

'There are no facts, only interpretations.'

Friedrich Nietzsche,
Daybreak

M
OHAN
K
UMAR
looks at his watch and inserts a hand in the
pocket of his
kurta
, feeling the cold metal of the pistol. It is
a timely reminder of the mission he is here to undertake.

It has been over an hour since he entered the gates of
Number Six. The strong police presence outside the farmhouse
had surprised him. But luckily there was no screening through a
door-frame metal-detector for those arriving with their invitation
cards.

Vicky Rai had greeted him in his usual pompous manner.
'Hello, Kumar – or should I address you as Gandhi Baba? Glad you
could make it.' The hostility between them hung in the air like
fog. For a brief moment he had flirted with the idea of shooting
Vicky Rai then and there, but his hands had suddenly turned
clammy and his heart had started palpitating alarmingly, and he
had quietly slunk away into the garden.

His mind has been playing tricks on him all evening,
strengthening his resolve one moment and breaking it the next.
He swings between confidence and despair. And matters are not
helped by the strangers who keep distracting him. They waylay
him every few minutes, either to compliment him on his exploits
as Gandhi Baba or to seek a favour. 'You deserved the Nobel Peace
Prize, Gandhi Baba,' says one. 'Would you agree to address the
World Leadership Conclave next July?' requests another. He
smiles at them, while inside him the anxiety is growing. He wants
to end it, quickly.

To take his mind off the issue of murder, he tries to focus on
the mechanics of the act. The party is much bigger than he
expected – there must be at least four hundred people on the
sprawling lawns of Number Six, another hundred inside the house
– and he will have to shoot Vicky Rai in full view of all the guests.
This does not faze him. On the contrary, he relishes the prospect
of a public execution. It will be an apt lesson for all future Vicky
Rais. He touches the butt of the Walther PPK again and senses its
power seep into his hand.

He moves towards the gazebo, hoping to locate a suitable
vantage spot. The swimming pool is bathed in light, its cool blue
water shimmering like glass under the bright spotlights. A girl in a
blue bikini suddenly dives into the pool, splashing him with water.
As he brushes the drops from his
khadi
vest, a flashbulb pops in
his face, blinding him momentarily. He loses his footing and is
about to fall into the pool when someone catches his arm and
steadies him. For a few seconds he sees only blackness. When his
vision clears he blinks at his benefactor. It is a bearded waiter in a
red-and-black outfit. 'Thank you,' he mumbles, feeling flustered.
He will have to be more careful, he reminds himself.

There are a good number of people around the pool, sipping
wine and swaying to the music. They are all under twenty-five,
and he feels old and out of place. He is about to turn away when
a statuesque blonde girl in a body-hugging dress approaches him,
strutting like a model on a catwalk. 'Ghandi Baba, how lovely to
see you,' she drawls, pirouetting seductively in front of him. He
can smell liquor on her breath. 'I'm Lisa. I'm in India for a photo
shoot on the Kama Sutra. I could teach you some interesting positions.'
She laughs and tries to kiss him.

'Ram, Ram,' he says and steps back hurriedly. In the process he
collides with a waiter heading for the bar with six bottles of
whisky on a tray. The tray falls from the waiter's hands and the
bottles tumble to the paved stone floor and shatter. The air begins
to reek of alcohol. So pungent are the fumes that he begins to feel
dizzy. He stumbles away from the pool, feeling nauseous and
strangely light-headed. He lurches down the lawn, moving further
and further away from the crowd.

Before he knows it, he is deep inside a wooded area, where the
lights of the garden do not reach. The moon is a giant white disc
hanging above the treetops, its chalky light the only illumination
in the forested gloom. He hears the steady gurgle of a waterfall
some distance away, but closer to him the only sound is that of his
own laboured breathing. He is wheezing slightly from all the
running. Something is happening inside his brain, some kind of
chemical reaction. His mind has become a kaleidoscope of shifting
thoughts and images. Old suppressed memories are rising up,
a fog is lifting, but only partially.

His foot crunches on something. First there is a creak and the
snap of a breaking twig, and then he hears a faint hissing
sound. He looks down to find a snake on the ground, and from
the shape of its large head he knows instantly that it is a cobra. It
is poised just above his right leg, its slippery tongue flickering in
and out. He freezes and the blood stops coursing through his
veins.

The snake rears its head, preparing to strike.
I am going to die
,
he thinks. Just then he hears another twig break and suddenly a
hand grips the head of the snake and lifts it off the ground. The
cobra writhes for a while till it is flung far away.

'Who . . . who are you?' he asks, trying to peer into the silvery
darkness.

A shadow shifts and a strange young man steps forward. He is
dressed in a white shirt and black trousers, with a red Gap cap on
his head and a black bag draped over his shoulder. His skin is so
black that he merges with the darkness, but the whites of his eyes
shine like torches. 'I am Jiba Korwa from Jharkhand,' he says.

'What are you doing here?'

'Waiting.'

'Thank you. You saved my life.'

'And who are you?'

'I am Mohan . . . Mohandas . . . Karam . . . Kumar. No, no –
that is not right . . . Let me say it again. I – am – Mohan Kumar.
Yes. And I hate snakes.'

'I have removed the snake, but you are still fearful.'

'How can you tell?'

'I can smell your fear. Is it because of the shadow?'

'What shadow?'

'The shadow that dogs you like the moon. The
embekte
.'

'
Embekte?
What is that?'

'There are two spirits in every man –
eeka
and
embekte
. When
a man dies of natural causes, like an illness, he becomes an
eeka
and goes to live below the earth. But when a man dies suddenly,
such as if he is killed, then the other spirit
embekte
comes out and
tries to find a new body. It takes temporary shelter in whichever
living body it can find. This is what you people call a ghost. And a
ghost has taken hold of your body.'

'Oh my God, so you can actually see it?'

'No, I cannot see it. I can only see its shadow. Is it a good spirit
or a bad one?'

'A very bad one. It makes me do all kinds of weird things. Can
you . . . can you do something about it?'

'I could.'

'The doctors say I have DID, but I know it is really a case of
possession. I need an exorcist, not a psychotherapist. Do you know
how to take a spirit out?'

'Yes. I am half a
torale
. I can get rid of the shadow.'

'Then do so. I want my life back. In return I'll give you whatever
you want.'

'Can you give me some money?'

'How much?'

'Two times nine thousand.'

'That's eighteen thousand. That's a lot of money. What do you
want it for?'

'To buy tickets to go back to my village.'

'Let's do a deal. If you can cure me, the money is yours.'

'Then lie down.'

'Here, on the ground?'

'Yes. And take off your shirt. I need to put some red clay on
your chest and face.'

'Now that you've saved my life, how can I refuse your
instructions?' He strips off his
kurta
and vest and lies down on the
hard ground, unmindful of the ants which are crawling over his
legs and the twigs digging into his back.

The tribal unzips his black canvas bag and takes out a lump of
red clay, which he mixes with pig fat. He then draws a fine
herringbone design on Mohan Kumar's chest and daubs a few
horizontal lines on his face.

'What are you doing?' Mohan worries.

'I am summoning the spirits, who will draw away the
embekte
.
Now close your eyes and don't speak.'

The tribal takes out a charm necklace made of bones and
drapes it around Mohan's neck. Then, putting his left hand on
Kumar's head, and holding a small white bone in his right, he
begins chanting, swaying back and forth in a circular motion,
faster and faster.

Mohan feels an excruciating pain, as though a corkscrew is
being twisted inside his brain. He groans in agony, feeling his skin
being peeled off. And then he passes out.

When he opens his eyes, the tribal is still sitting by his side, gazing
at him intently.

'Is it done?' Mohan asks.

'Yes. I took the
embekte
out of your body.'

Mohan presses his temples and finds that the pain has gone.
He feels cleansed, whole. He sits up and begins putting on his
clothes. 'You have done something which no one else could do.
That spirit was causing me a lot of trouble, even though it was that
of a very famous man.'

'Man?'

'Yes, the spirit which possessed me was that of Mohandas
Karamchand Gandhi. Surely you have heard of Mahatma
Gandhi?'

'No, you are mistaken. It was not a man who possessed you, it
was a woman.'

'Woman? How do you know?'

'I talked to it. It was very stubborn.'

'What was her name?'

'Ruby Gill.'

'Ruby Gill!' Mohan exclaims. He feels the bulk of the pistol in
his
kurta
pocket and becomes thoughtful. 'So all along it was Ruby
Gill leading me on, pretending to be Mahatma Gandhi . . . It's
beginning to make sense now.'

The tribal tugs at his sleeve. 'Will you give me the money?'

'Yes, yes, of course.' He opens a black leather wallet and takes
out a wad of thousand-rupee notes. 'You asked for eighteen; I am
giving you twenty. This can buy you a ticket even to London!'

The tribal accepts the money and bows in gratitude. 'You are
very kind.'

Mohan Kumar scrubs his face with a handkerchief, removing
traces of the red clay. Standing up, he dusts his
dhoti
. 'This is the
last time I am wearing this silly dress.'

He steps out from the thicket on to the lawn and looks at his
watch. It is a quarter past eleven. The party appears to be in full
swing. There are at least half a dozen girls in the pool and the bar
area is thronged with guests. He strides quickly towards the
gazebo.

'Do you have Chivas?' he asks the bartender, who nods. 'Then
give me a large Scotch, neat.'

He gulps down the whisky in one shot, wipes his mouth with
the sleeve of his
kurta
and asks for a refill. Spotting the CEO of
Rai Textile Mill, he pats him jovially on the back. 'So, Raha, how
are things?'

Raha turns around, adjusts his steel-rimmed glasses, and is
surprised to see Mohan Kumar. 'I didn't expect to see you at this
party, Mr Kumar,' he says coldly.

'Let bygones be bygones, Raha. I was suffering from a medical
disorder, but I am fully cured now. In fact, I will explain it all to
Vicky. Have you seen him?'

'He has just gone inside the house with Shabnam Saxena.'

Mohan drains his second glass and starts walking towards the
house. The blonde model who had tried to kiss him is standing in
the way, sipping what looks like a strawberry daiquiri. 'Ooh,
Ghandi Baba, you are back,' she coos.

He smiles at her. 'Yes, I am back. And I am keen for some
experiments in untruth. When do you want to begin?'

She comes within kissing distance of him. 'How about right
now?'

'I need to sort out a few issues first. But good things come to
those who wait.' He winks and pinches her bottom.

She squeals.