Six Suspects (8 page)

'Never judge a man's actions until you know his motives.'

Anonymous

M
OHAN
K
UMAR
emerges from Siri Fort Auditorium at eleven
p.m. with a sore shoulder and a splitting headache. He steps
into the courtyard and blinks in astonishment at his surroundings.
The venue for the Gandhi séance resembles a war zone. Wooden
desks and chairs lie splintered like firewood. The ground is strewn
with clothes, shoes, socks, bags and loops of naked wire. There is
an eerie silence all around. The television cameras and protesting
hordes have been replaced by police cordons and grim-faced
constables, who wave him through the tall iron gates which have
themselves been ripped off their hinges.

He walks unsteadily towards the car park, where his silver
Hyundai Sonata is the lone private car, surrounded by a phalanx
of police jeeps with red and blue beacons.

A thin, gaunt man with a pencil moustache runs towards him.
'Sahib, you have come!' he cries with obvious relief. 'They said a
murder has taken place inside. You should have seen the way
people were running out. Two died in the stampede. Are you OK,
Sahib?'

'Of course I am OK, Brijlal,' Mohan Kumar replies tersely.
'Where is Rita madam?'

'I saw her leaving with another lady in a black Mercedes.'

'That's odd.' He purses his lips. 'She should have waited for
me. Anyway, let's go.'

The chauffeur hurriedly opens the left rear door of the car.
Mohan Kumar is about to get in when he notices something just
below the handle. 'What is this, Brijlal?' he demands. 'How did
this big scratch come here?'

Brijlal inspects the door panel with a puzzled look. 'One of the
constables must have grazed this with his stick. I am sorry, Sahib.
I left the car to look for you. Please excuse me.' He lowers his
gaze.

'How many times will I excuse you, Brijlal?' Mohan Kumar
asks harshly. 'You are becoming more and more negligent in your
work. I should take the cost of repairing the door from your salary
– then you might learn your lesson.'

Brijlal does not say anything. He is well acquainted with
Sahib's foul temper, which is famous throughout Uttar Pradesh.

He has been with Mohan Kumar for twenty-seven years and
treats him with the same mixture of deference and devotion
that he accords Lord Hanuman. In his universe, Mohan Kumar is
no less than God, a powerful patron who holds the key to his
happiness and well-being. It was Sahib, after all, who got him his
first job at the State Electricity Board. Sahib then got him
upgraded to a permanent job as peon in the State Sugarcane
Cooperative. It was Sahib too who had encouraged him to learn
to drive, thanks to which he had been employed as a chauffeur
in the Secretariat office in Lucknow, a job which carried not
only a higher pay-packet but even overtime. For twenty years, he
had driven Mohan Kumar's official white Ambassador. When
Mohan retired six months ago, Brijlal still had three years of
service left, but he, too, took voluntary retirement and joined
Mohan Kumar as his personal chauffeur, in the ultimate act of
devotion to his Sahib.

In taking premature retirement Brijlal believes he has made a
tactical move. He is convinced that there is much Sahib can still
do for him and his family. There is one final favour, in particular,
he wants from Sahib – a government job for his son Rupesh.
Brijlal is of the firm belief that government service, with its
security of employment, is the panacea for all the problems of the
poor. It is his dream to get Rupesh employed as a driver in the
Delhi government. Mohan Kumar has promised to do just that,
once Rupesh obtains a driving licence. A government job for
Rupesh and a suitable groom for his nineteen-year-old daughter
Ranno is all Brijlal wants, the sum total of his dreams and desires.
In pursuit of these goals, he will happily suffer insult and abuse
from his Sahib.

'Now are you going to just stand there cooling your heels like
a fool or will you take me home?' Mohan Kumar demands as he
slides into the back seat.

Brijlal closes the rear door and takes his position behind the
wheel. Before starting the car, he switches off his mobile phone.
He knows how irritated Sahib becomes if it rings while he is
driving.

The auditorium blurs in the rear-view mirror as the car moves
away. Mohan Kumar has his gaze fixed resolutely outside the
window. A ghostly moon hangs in the distance, casting a pale light
on the tops of buildings. The traffic has thinned out by now, with
even the DTC bus service winding down. They reach the house in
just under twenty minutes. As the car enters the wrought-iron
gates of 54C Aurangzeb Road, Brijlal's heart fills with pride.
Mohan Kumar's residence is an imposing two-storey neocolonial
villa, with a white marble façde, a covered latticed
portico and a magnificent lawn containing a gazebo. It has an outhouse
with three servant quarters which are occupied by Brijlal
and his family, Gopi, the cook, and Bishnu, the gardener. But what
thrills Brijlal the most is the rent, rumoured to be in the region of
four hundred thousand rupees a month. He gets goosebumps just
thinking about this amount. To him, it represents the pinnacle of
achievement and forms the practical bedrock of his exhortations
to Rupesh. 'Work hard, my son, and you might one day become
like Sahib. Then you, too, could have a house whose monthly rent
costs what your father took eight years to earn.'

Mohan Kumar's wife, Shanti, is waiting in the portico wearing
a red cotton sari. She is a small, middle-aged woman with greying
hair which makes her look older than she is. Her normally
pleasant face is etched with worry lines. 'Thank God you have
come,' she cries as soon as the car draws to a halt. 'Brijlal had me
worried sick when he called to say you were inside that hall.'

Mohan casts an angry glance at his driver. 'I have told you
repeatedly, Brijlal, not to broadcast my programme to all and
sundry. Why did you have to call Shanti?'

'I am sorry, Sahib.' Brijlal lowers his eyes again. 'I was really
worried about you. I thought I should let Bibiji know.'

'You do that again and I will take your hide off.' He slams the
car door shut and strides into the house. Shanti hurries after him.

'Why did you have to go to that horrible séance?' she asks.

'None of your business,' he replies brusquely.

'It is all the doing of that
chhinar
,' Shanti mutters. 'I don't
know how that witch has put you under her spell.'

'Look, Shanti.' He raises his index finger. 'We have had this
argument many times. You will get nothing by agonizing over it.
Has Gopi put ice and soda in my bedroom?'

'Yes,' she sighs in resigned acceptance of an imperfect
marriage. 'If you are determined to finish your liver, what can we
do? Go and drink as much as you want.'

'I will,' he says and begins climbing the stairs to the first
floor.

Nearly three weeks pass. The incident in the auditorium becomes
a distant memory for Mohan Kumar. He immerses himself in his
former routine, attending board meetings, examining projects,
advising clients. He accepts the offer of yet another consultancy
on behalf of a corporate house; puts in a round of golf on Sundays
at the Delhi Golf Club and spends two afternoons a week at his
mistress's house. He wills himself to believe that everything is
normal, but cannot shake off a nagging doubt at the back of his
mind. It is like a hazy picture trying to acquire definite shape, a
finger of memory attempting to push its way into his consciousness.
He tosses and turns at night, finding it difficult to sleep. He
wakes up on the floor one morning, in the bathroom on another,
without any recollection of how he got there. He pauses in
mid-sentence during board meetings, sensing words and phrases
fluttering at the tip of his tongue but remaining maddeningly inarticulate.
Lying in bed with Rita, he suddenly feels like an old,
large animal and loses all desire. He knows something is wrong,
but cannot pinpoint what.

He goes to his doctor for a check-up, but Dr Soni, his family
physician, is unable to find anything wrong. 'All your vital signs are
good, Mohan. The MRI scan is perfectly normal. I believe it is
simply a case of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.'

'What's that?'

'When someone suffers a traumatic event, like seeing a murder
in front of his eyes, the brain tries to cope with the psychological
stress. This can lead to symptoms such as nightmares, flashbacks
and insomnia. I am going to prescribe some sleeping pills. You
should be fine in a week's time.'

Four days later, while Mohan is having his breakfast, Brijlal enters
the kitchen where Shanti is busy whipping yoghurt. He touches
her feet. 'Bibiji, I need your blessings. A boy came to see my
daughter yesterday.'

'Oh, so Ranno is getting married?' Shanti asks in pleasant
surprise.

'Yes, Bibiji. The boy is also from Delhi, belongs to our caste
and, most importantly, is a class four government employee, working
as a peon in the Railway Department. His father is also a peon.
I only hope they don't demand too much dowry. I have made
them my best offer. Let's see if they accept.'

'I am sure things will work out all right,' says Shanti. Taking a
quick peek to see if Mohan is still sitting at the dining table, she
whispers to Brijlal, 'Today your Sahib will be visiting that witch
Rita, won't he?'

'Yes, Bibiji,' Brijlal replies with a nervous grimace, feeling half
guilty himself.

'Just keep a watchful eye on Sahib. See that he eats and drinks
properly. I am worried about his health. He has not been himself
lately.'

'Yes, Bibiji.' Brijlal nods in agreement. 'Even I find his
behaviour rather strange at times.'

'If only he had not met Rita,' Shanti says bitterly. 'Sometimes
I feel like going to her house and asking her why is she so intent
on destroying my family.'

'Don't demean yourself by talking to her, Bibiji,' Brijlal
counsels. 'In God's kingdom, justice may be delayed, but is never
denied. You will see, she will be punished eventually.'

'I hope you are right, Brijlal.' Shanti looks briefly towards the
ceiling and resumes her whisking.

Mohan's office is a depressingly grey building in Bhikaji Cama
Place, a chaotic warren of offices and shops. Finding an empty
parking slot is a daily headache for Brijlal. Today he is forced
to park in the narrow alley behind the Passport Office. After
securing the car, he loiters, chatting with the other drivers, playing
a game of rummy, sharing his discontent at rising prices, falling
morals. At lunchtime he receives a call on his mobile phone. It is
the boy's father, saying that he approves of Ranno, and demanding
an extra twenty-five thousand rupees as dowry. 'I accept,' Brijlal
says and rushes to a nearby temple.

Mohan comes out of the office promptly at three p.m. for the
afternoon tryst with his mistress. As soon as he gets into the car,
Brijlal offers him a box of
laddoos
.

'What are the sweets for, Brijlal?' he smiles.

'As a result of your blessings, Sahib, I have managed to get an
excellent groom for my daughter Ranno.'

'That's good. Shanti told me that you were looking for a boy.'

'He is a government servant, Sahib. But there is only one
problem.'

'Yes?' Mohan responds warily.

'They want an extra thirty thousand as dowry. I was wondering,
Sahib, if you could lend the money to me.'
He shakes his head. 'Brijlal, I've already given you fifteen
thousand as advance pay. There is no way I can spare any more.'

'God has given you so much, Sahib. I am asking for very little.'

'Giving you any more would be to your own detriment. Why
do you people need to spend so much on weddings anyway?
There is nothing to eat in your houses, yet you want to ape the
rich when it comes to marrying your daughters. Now don't disturb
me. I have to read this report.' He opens his briefcase and takes
out a ring-bound manila folder. Brijlal's face falls.

Near Vasant Vihar, the car is briefly held up by a small
wedding procession crossing the road. A rag-tag band leads the
party, tuneless trumpets blaring a
filmi
tune. The twenty-odd
guests are dressed rather drably, with some even sporting slippers.
An anaemic-looking groom dressed in a gaudy
sherwani
sits astride
an equally anaemic-looking horse. Brijlal looks at the procession
with the peculiar contempt the poor have for the poorer. His own
daughter's wedding will be a lavish affair, he imagines. He will
somehow manage to raise the twenty-five thousand and then he
will get Sahib to book the Officers' Club on Curzon Road as the
marriage venue. There will be a uniformed brass band as well as a
live singer. A row of orderlies will carry Petromax lanterns lighting
up the night. He can already see the groom's wedding procession
walking in through the hallowed gates of the Officers' Club. The
hall is glittering like a palace. The melodious sound of
shehnai
pours into the night. Inside, the elegant pavilion is loaded with
sweet-smelling jasmine and marigolds. The guests enter the venue
and look around in wonderment at the finery and luxury. The
groom's father shakes his head. 'Where have you brought us,
Brijlal? Is this the right address?' 'Yes,' he says. 'This is the right
address. This where my Ranno is getting married to your son. All
thanks to the blessings of my Sahib. There he is.' He points out
Mohan Kumar, looking regal in a cream
sherwani
suit and a pink
turban. As if on cue, the band begins playing a song, but for some
reason Sahib is screaming at him: 'Look where you are going, you
idiot . . . Stoppppp!' and he finds the big brass trumpet almost
blaring in his face, shattering his ear drum and knocking him
down.

By the time he wakes up from his reverie, it is too late. His
head is lying on the steering wheel and the car is up against a
The Possession of Mohan Kumar
91
lamppost which is now bent at an impossible angle. There is a
small spidery crack in the left corner of the windscreen. His
fingers touch something sticky on the steering wheel. He raises his
face, looks in the rear-view mirror and discovers blood oozing
from the corner of his mouth. He has cut his lip. He shakes his
head vigorously, as if to clear it, and steps out of the car to inspect
the damage. The front of the Hyundai has taken the brunt of the
collision. There is a deep dent in the front fender where the metal
has been scrunched up. He suspects the radiator may also have
been hit.