Six Suspects (48 page)

'HOWDY! I'm Rick Myers,' I introduced myself, feeling as
uncomfortable in the Armani suit I had bought from
Connaught Place as an elephant in underpants.

The host, dressed in an equally smart dark suit and purple tie,
clasped me in a bear hug as though he was my long-lost brother. I
got worried he might start fingering the Glock in the inside pocket
of my jacket. 'Welcome to Number Six,' he said. 'Lizzie told me
you were coming.' Squinting at me, he tapped his chin. 'Haven't
we met somewhere, Mr Myers?'

I had recognized him immediately from the scar running down
the left side of his face. He was the hombre who had fired me
from the call centre. 'I doubt it,' I said. 'I got this name just
yesterday.'

'Yesterday? What do you mean?'

I corrected myself. 'I mean I arrived in your country just
yesterday. So the chances of us having met are slim to none, and
slim just got up and left.'

'I really like your sense of humour, Mr Myers. I am in the same
line as you – film production. Perhaps we can do business
together.' He pointed to the man standing next to him. 'Let me
introduce you to my father, Mr Jagannath Rai, Home Minister of
Uttar Pradesh.'

The pop was a heavy-set, hairy man, with a round face and a
thick, curled-up moustache. He folded his hands in greeting, looking
greasy as fried lard.

I stepped into the garden and was awestruck at how huge and
beautiful the farmhouse was. The three-storey house was made
entirely of marble, there was a lawn the size of three baseball
pitches, a swimming pool as big as Lake Waco, a temple, and a
gazebo lit up like the fourth of July. Far in the distance I could
even make out a jungle. The place was bigger than the Governor's
mansion in Austin, but I couldn't figure out why it was called a
farmhouse. I could see neither any animals nor any farmers on the
property.

There were more people on the lawn than you could shake a
stick at. And they all looked like big guns in their expensive
threads. Music played from large loudspeakers. Waiters hovered
around with all kinds of goodies. I remembered Lizzie's warning
and decided to check first if any of those Al Qaeda dudes were
snooping around. I peered into the forest, looked behind all the
trees and that's when I saw a man in a blue suit sneaking across
the lawn, close to the boundary wall, with a packet in his hands.
Suddenly I felt like a real FBI officer. I began following him, like
Mel Gibson tracked those baddies in
Lethal Weapon
. I was hoping
to confront him with my gun, when he entered the little temple
in the corner of the lawn. I saw him fold his hands and bow his
head before the Indian gods. It seemed he had only come to offer
prayers.

Disappointed, I decided to get a drink and began moving
towards the gazebo where the bar was set up. Near the pool a
bunch of journalists armed with cameras and flash guns were
hanging around, snapping pictures of some pretty young things
who were posing like film stars on the red carpet. I immediately
started searching for Shabnam. A lanky man with a camera in one
hand and a twitch in one eye goggled at me. 'Excuse me, are you
Michael J. Fox?'

'No,' I said. 'I'm Rick Myers, Hollywood producer.'

The moment I said this, the girls were all over me. They began
peppering me with questions.

'Are you making a film in India?'

'Can you please get me a role?'

'Will you take me with you to Hollywood?'

The last time I was surrounded by so many girls was in Third
Grade when they were all taking a good look at my willie. Mizz
Henrietta Loretta had given us a new kind of exam called an IQ
test and I foolishly bet Betsy Walton that I would score more than
her. We were both pretty much bottom of the class but I thought
I was smarter than her. As it turned out, I did score as high as 48
on that test, but she still beat me by getting a 50. So I had to take
off my shorts in front of the whole class in what still remains the
most embarrassing experience of my life.

Even as I was trying to figure out how to get rid of all these
crazy chicks, I heard a ruckus at the bar. A waiter had dropped a
whole tray of drinks and a tall man wearing an Indian dress was
having a hissy fit, staggering around like a blind horse in a
pumpkin patch. Ten seconds later I saw him running across the
lawn like a scalded dog.

A young girl, who looked like her belly button wasn't dry yet,
tapped me on the arm. 'Do you know any Hollywood stars?' she
pouted.

'Yeah,' I replied. 'Arnie Schwarzenegger is my best buddy.'

She almost swooned. Another girl kissed me on the cheek
without any warning and whispered, 'Can I meet you in your
hotel room?'

I hadn't even put on my deodorant spray, yet these girls were
becoming hornier than four-balled tomcats. So I excused myself
and headed straight for the house, hoping to find Shabnam there.
I walked through a door into a large round hall which had marble
flooring smoother than a baby's ass. The sofas had been pushed
into the corners and there were large windows on either side of
the room, one opening on to the lawn and the other on to the
driveway. There were plenty of people in the hall, talking and
drinking at a wooden bar stacked with bottles. I looked around for
Shabnam, but she wasn't there. So I went back into the garden and
picked a quiet spot far from those batty girls.

Around eleven o'clock there was a sudden buzz on the lawn
and everyone started moving towards the house. 'What's happening?'
I asked a waiter. 'They say Shabnam Saxena is here,' he
replied, and quick as a hiccup I was back in the hall. Five minutes
later, in walked the woman of my dreams, looking even more
beautiful than her photograph. She was wearing a tight-fitting
dress and carried a moccasin handbag. I could smell her perfume
from fifty feet away.

Shabnam took an empty sofa and Vicky Rai sat down beside
her. From the way Shabnam cringed when his hand grazed her
arm, I knew she didn't fancy him. I felt like drawing my Glock and
blowing out his brains. They spoke in low voices and I saw
Shabnam shake her head several times. A waiter with a thick black
beard brought in a trayful of drinks. Shabnam took an orange
juice; Vicky Rai asked for tequila. I hovered near them, hoping to
catch Shabnam's eye. Fifteen minutes passed by, but Vicky Rai
didn't budge from the sofa. Just when I was beginning to wonder
if his backside was coated with superglue, his pop came in and
told him to get up. 'Iqbal Mian has come. He wants to meet you.'
Vicky made a face and stood up reluctantly. Sensing my opportunity,
I plonked myself on the sofa faster than the Undertaker
does a choke slam on his opponent.

Shabnam looked at me like a warehouse inspector checking
out new merchandise. I extended my hand. 'Hi! I'm Rick Myers,
Hollywood producer. I've been fixin' to meet you for ages,

Shabnam. Just saw your film
Love in Canada
on the telly.'

She shook my hand warmly. 'What are you doing in India, Mr
Myers?'

'Believe it or not, I came just to see you.'

'To offer me a role in an American film?'

'Yeah.'

'What's it going to be called?'

'Er . . . I was thinking of
Love in Waco
.'

She smiled. I inched closer to her on the sofa and dropped my
voice to a whisper. 'Listen, Shabnam, I know you are in a whole
lot of trouble.'

She became more nervous than a fly in a glue pot. 'What do
you mean?'

'I mean I know all about Sapna.'

The moment I said 'Sapna' she crumpled; the fight went out
of her body like gas from a hot-air balloon.

'How did you find out?'

'A PI by the name of Mr Gupta tipped me off. I tell you, that
guy is smarter than a tree full of owls.'

'I am indeed in great difficulty,' she said, wringing her hands.

'I came to Vicky Rai for help from his father. But he asks a high
price.'

'I wouldn't go partners on a butcher's knife with him,' I said.
'He's more slippery than a pig on ice.'

'Then what should I do?'

'Take my help. I'm the guy for you.'

'What can a Hollywood producer do to help me?'

I took a quick look around and then leaned closer. 'I'm not
really a Hollywood producer. I'm a forklift operator at Walmart.
But I've been drafted into the FBI's Witness Protection
Programme.'

She raised her eyebrows. 'And why exactly would the FBI offer
you such a programme?'

'Coz I closed the contract on some real scumbags over in
Pakistan. The FBI gave me fifteen million dollars as a reward and
the President wrote me a very nice letter.'

Shabnam flicked her fingers across her face. 'Come on now,
you're just pulling my leg.'

'You don't believe me? You want to see proof ?'
She nodded and I took out the letter from the President from
my suit pocket.

She read it and looked at me. 'But this is addressed to Larry
Page.' She frowned. 'Now where have I heard that name?'

'Larry Page used to be my real name. But now the FBI have
given me this new name – Rick Myers. I still haven't cottoned on
to it.'

Shabnam wasn't even listening to me. She snapped her fingers.
'Larry Page . . . You're the American who has been writing me all
those letters, aren't you?'

'Yeah. That's me,' I said and looked her in the eye. 'I'm madly
in love with you!'

That went down like a pregnant pole-vaulter. Shabnam got up
from the sofa faster than a striped-assed ape and wagged a finger
at me. 'Please keep away from me, Mr Page. I want nothing to do
with you.'

She turned her back on me and began talking to a tall dude
with a black beard.

I felt as mad as a one-legged man at a butt-kicking contest.

'H
ELLO
, T
RIPURARI
?'

'Yes, Bhaiyyaji. Where are you calling from? Aren't
you supposed to be at Vicky's party?'

'Yes, yes. I am calling from Number Six. Tell me, have
you been in touch with Mukhtar?'

'Mukhtar? No, Bhaiyyaji. I haven't spoken to him for
over two weeks. What's the matter? You sound tense.'

'I gave Mukhtar a job a week ago, on 17 March. Did he
come to get money from you, by any chance?'

'No, Bhaiyyaji. And what is this job you gave Mukhtar?
You never mentioned anything to me.'

'I'll tell you later. For the moment, try and find him for
me. Ask him to give me a call. I've been trying to call him
for the past three days but it looks like his mobile is
switched off.'

'He must be lying drunk somewhere with a girl.'

'Wherever he is, just find him for me, OK? And then let
me know.'

'I will, Bhaiyyaji.'

(
Disconnect
.)

THE RICH may live very differently from the poor, but they
don't die differently. A bullet does not discriminate between
a king and a pauper, a tycoon and his worker. Standing in front of
the wrought-iron gates of Number Six, looking at the glittering
lights of the farmhouse, watching expensive imported cars enter
the elegant driveway, I envy the conceit of the gun. One bullet is
all it will take to end Vicky Rai's pomp and show. One bullet and
khallas
!

I see policemen with walkie-talkies standing behind a
barricade and quicken my steps. There is a big crowd of curious
onlookers on the road, straining to catch a glimpse of the celebrity
guests. There is a rumour going around that Shabnam Saxena is
expected any minute.

I turn left into the side lane and lurk by the service entrance,
waiting for Ritu to come out. Compared to the hustle and bustle
on the main road, the side lane is peaceful and quiet, though it is
full of parked cars.

At five to eleven the metal gate creaks ajar and Ritu emerges,
clad in a red
salwar kameez
and lugging a blue bag. Her injuries
have still not healed fully, and her eyes are red and swollen. It
seems she has been crying. We embrace silently. I take the precaution
of keeping my left hand hidden inside the Benetton jacket
I am wearing.

'Let's go, Munna.' She clutches my arm and begins to pull me
towards the main road when I gently stop her.

'I have to tell you something, Ritu.'

'Whatever you have to say, you can tell me at the railway
station. We don't have time to lose.'

'I am not going to the railway station.'

'What?'

'That is what I came to tell you. I am not going to Mumbai.'

'Why?'

'Let's go inside the farmhouse and I will tell you.'

She gives me a baffled look and retraces her steps to the
service gate. She peeks in furtively before pushing it open and
pulling me inside.

I see a manicured lawn in the distance with people laughing
and chatting. There is even a swimming pool in which some girls
are frolicking. Waiters in red-and-black uniforms hover around a
gazebo.

Ritu propels me behind a huge
jamun
tree, its leafy foliage acting
as a natural screen from the people on the lawn. Further to our
right is a makeshift tent where the cooks are busy cooking.

'You'd better have a good explanation, Munna, for this aboutface.
You have no idea of the risk I took in sneaking out of the
house,' she upbraids me. 'If Vicky finds out, he will kill me.'

I am prepared for her outburst. 'I know, Ritu. I have come to
liberate you from fear.'

'What do you mean?'

'You will find out soon enough.'

'You have started speaking in riddles again. Tell me clearly why
you are refusing to come to Mumbai. Is something wrong?'

'Everything is wrong, Ritu.' I look down at my feet, unable to
look her in the eye. 'I have found another girl. I am going to marry
her.'

She gives me a stricken look. 'Why are you saying this, Munna?
Don't I have enough troubles already?'

'Every word of what I am saying is true.'

'So now you tell me that you don't love me any more?'

'Yes.' I nod and launch into my parting monologue. '
Bole toh
,
love is a real bitch. It shows people like us dreams which can never
become real. Perhaps the poor shouldn't even be allowed the right
to love. I now realize that you were right, our love is a prohibited
one. We can run away from here, but we cannot run away from
that reality. So forget that you ever met me, Ritu. From this
moment, erase me from your life for ever.'

She listens to me quietly and when I have finished, flashes me
an accusing look. 'So this is it, eh? You think I can just erase you
from my life like a teacher erases chalk marks from a blackboard?
As if nothing has happened between us?' She draws closer to me.
'Do you know, Munna, why love is considered the greatest gift?
Because it makes two people into one. They become joined in
body and soul. I have become you and you have become me. And
now I know you better than you know yourself. I can say from the
bottom of my heart that what you are telling me is not true.'

I try to evade her eyes again. 'You and I can never be one.
There is too big a chasm between us.'

'You are still lying. Look into my eyes, Munna, and swear on
my life that you don't love me,' she says with sudden vehemence.
When I don't reply she pulls my left hand from inside my jacket.
In the process the plaster on my wrist gets exposed.

'What is this?' She immediately becomes concerned. 'How did
you get hurt?'

'It is nothing . . . I fell down,' I dissemble, but Ritu remains
unconvinced. Her hands fly to my face, looking for hidden
injuries, and her fingers graze the bandage at the back of my head.

'Ahhhh!' I cry out in pain.

'Oh my God, what have they done to you?' she cries.

'Believe me, it is not serious. There is nothing to worry about.'

'It was my brother, wasn't it?' she asks. 'He wasn't content
with hitting me. He had to do this to you as well. Now I understand
why you came to break off with me.' I detect a hardening in
her voice. Her sorrow is giving way to anger.

'Don't jump to conclusions, Ritu. I honestly don't know who
they were.'

'But I know very well. And I will never forgive my brother for
hurting you. Now no power on earth can keep me away from
you,' she declares and I see a new look in her eyes, a look of utter
fearlessness. 'Come with me, Munna. In front of this entire
assembly I will announce that I am going to marry you.'

'And you think everyone will applaud you for marrying a
sweeper's son? This is not a film, Ritu, this is life. And life does not
have happy endings like films do.'

'But this is
my
life. And from today I will live it on my terms.
I refuse to be cowed by two criminals who claim to be my father
and brother.'

'Then let us make a pact here and now. Promise me that you
won't do anything rash. And I promise to take you from here as
soon as my injuries have healed.'

'I will wait for that day, Munna.'

A light wind begins blowing across the lawn. It ruffles Ritu's
hair, pushing a few dark strands over her face. At that moment I
feel as if standing in front of me is an angel who has come down
from heaven to bless me and touch my sordid life with her purity
and innocence. And I know that, try as I might, I cannot live without
her. But perhaps I can die for her.

I sense a commotion on the lawn. 'Oh, it looks like Shabnam
Saxena has arrived,' says Ritu.

'Can I see her?'

'Don't be silly. You must leave before someone spots you. Take
good care of yourself, Munna. I love you.' She gives me a quick
kiss on the lips and walks back towards the house. I creep deeper
into the gloom and take out the gun. I need to feel its power once
again, to stiffen my resolve to kill Vicky Rai.

'If I were you, I wouldn't use that gun,' a voice speaks up
behind me.

I am so startled, the gun drops from my hand.

A tall man with a straggly black beard steps forward. He is
dressed in off-white
kurta
pyjamas and has a fawn-coloured shawl
draped over his shoulders.

'Don't worry, my dear fellow, I am not a policeman. But I
couldn't help overhearing your conversation with the lovely Ritu.'

I hastily pick up the gun and put it back into my jacket pocket.

'I have never heard such moving dialogue in my life,' he continues,
fingering his straggly beard. 'You are a born actor. Let me
take another look at you. Can you move a little into the light? Yes,
that's perfect. Oh my God, you are magnificent. I have finally
found my hero.'

'Who are you?'

'I am Jay Chatterjee, the film director. And I have decided to
cast you as the hero in my next film, without any screen test. For
the heroine's role I was thinking of Shabnam Saxena, but she will
look too old against you. Now I think I will have to discover a new
heroine as well.'

'Shabnam Saxena? Hero? What are you talking about? Is this
one of those candid-camera pranks?'

'Jay Chatterjee does not believe in pranks,' the man says
sternly. 'Get ready for instant stardom. Your life is made. But you
will need a new name.'

'Why?'

'A name like Munna won't take you far in our industry. From
today, you shall be known as . . . Chirag. The Lamp. I love it!' He
takes out his wallet and extracts some notes. 'Here's twenty
thousand. Consider this your signing amount, Chirag.'

I accept the money with trembling hands. 'I . . . I still find all
this hard to believe.'

'This is what life is all about. You never know what's round the
corner.'

'But I am just a sweeper's son.'

'So what? Johnny Walker was a bus conductor. Raaj Kumar
was a sub-inspector. Mehmood was a driver. When Lady Luck
knocks, she only sees a door. She doesn't see who's behind it.'

Jay Chatterjee notes down my mobile number and strolls back
to the lawn, his fingers playing an imaginary piano. I remain standing
under the tree for a long time, shivering with excitement.

My brain begins dreaming up new scenarios for me. I see
myself in Mumbai, sitting with Ritu in a Mercedes, surrounded by
thousands of screaming fans, mostly girls. They beg for my autograph
and profess their undying love as the police charge them
with
lathis
. I step out of the car and raise my hand. The policemen
back off. 'Chirag! Chirag! Chirag!' a loud chant goes up and fifteen
rockets scream into the sky all at once.

I open my eyes and discover that I am still in Delhi. But there
are real rockets shooting over my head.

Are they for Vicky Rai, or for me? What do you say?
Kya bole?