Six Suspects (9 page)

Brijlal begins shivering. In twenty years of driving, this is the
first time he has made such a mistake. Now he is finished. Sahib
will take his hide off. This is the end of his career as a driver, of his
dream of getting Ranno married, of a government job for Rupesh.

Then he notices Mohan Kumar on the back seat, eyes closed,
looking very still, almost dead. Brijlal's first instinct is to run away,
to collect his wife and Rupesh and Ranno and make a dash for the
railway station. He will board the Lucknow Mail to his ancestral
village, hide out for a few weeks till the matter cools. Then he will
settle down in some other city, get another job, look for another
groom.

By now the entire wedding party is gathered around the car.
The trumpeter touches his arm: '
Kaise hua, bhai?
What
happened?' The groom also dismounts from his horse and begins
inspecting the car. A perspiring constable arrives, parting the
crowd with his stick and cries of 'Move! Move!'

Brijlal edges towards the outer periphery of the circle of
onlookers, but cannot tear his eyes from Mohan Kumar. He sees
the groom open the rear door and sprinkle a few drops of water
on Mohan's face from a mineral-water bottle. Sahib stirs and
makes a grimace of pain.

'Where am I?' Mohan asks in a weak voice.

'You are in your car, near Vasant Vihar Police Station,' the
constable informs him. 'Your car has had an accident. Do you
want me to call an ambulance?'

'Accident?' Mohan asks. He gets to his feet groggily and steps
out of the vehicle. It is too much for Brijlal. He cuts through the
throng and falls at Mohan's feet. 'I am very sorry, Sahib. Please
excuse me, I have caused you grievous harm.' He sobs like a young
boy.

Mohan lifts up the driver by the shoulder. Brijlal closes his eyes
tightly, expecting a hard slap, but finds Mohan gently wiping his
tears with his finger. 'And who are you?'

'I am Brijlal, Sahib. Your driver.'

'Has this fellow lost his memory?' the constable asks the
groom.

'No. My memory is perfectly intact,' Mohan replies. He looks
at the constable intently. 'Aren't you the one who hit me with a
lathi
?'

'Hit you? Are you out of your mind? This is the first time I
have seen you.'

'The use of brute force is not right. Especially from a defender
of the law.'

'Has your Sahib gone completely nuts?' The constable looks
quizzically at Brijlal.

'It is all my fault,' Brijlal wails.

'It is not your fault, Brijlal,' Mohan says. 'There is a divine
purpose behind every physical calamity. Will you now please see
if the car is still in working order or whether we should try and
look for a taxi.'

Brijlal does not know whether to laugh or cry. 'Yes, of course,
Sahib,' he says in between sobs and gets into the driver's seat.
With trembling hands, he inserts the ignition key and is surprised
to find the engine purring smoothly. He reverses the car, brakes
and jumps out. 'It is working, Sahib,' he cries. The onlookers begin
to leave, their interest in the car strictly commensurate with the
damage sustained by it.

Brijlal holds open the rear door, and Mohan gets in. 'Will you
be so kind as to tell me where we were going?'

'To Rita Memsahib's house.'

'And who is she?'

'You will remember everything, Sahib, once you meet her.'

*

Mohan Kumar alights next to Rita's house looking totally lost.
Brijlal directs him to the first-floor flat, presses the doorbell, and
then, feeling awkward, returns to the car.

Rita opens the door, dressed in a pink nightgown, and Mohan
is overpowered by the strong scent of her perfume. 'You are late,
darling,' she drawls, and attempts to kiss him on the lips.

Mohan Kumar draws back as though stung by a bee. 'Don't . . .
don't. Don't touch me, please.'

'What's wrong with you?' Rita raises her eyebrows.

'And who might you be?'

'Ha,' she laughs. 'Now you pretend you don't even know me.'

'I really don't. My driver has brought me here.'

'I see,' Rita says with exaggerated politeness. 'Well, Mr Kumar,
my name is Rita Sethi. I happen to be your mistress and you come
to my house twice a week to have sex with me.'

'Sex with a woman! Oh my God!'

'This is getting tiring, Mohan. Come on, cut it out.'

'You see . . . you see, Miss Sethi, I have taken a vow of
brahmacharya
requiring complete celibacy. I cannot have sex with
any woman.'

'Have you joined some theatre company?' Rita asks crossly.
'Why are you putting on this act of behaving like Mahatma
Gandhi?'

'But I am Gandhi.'

'Gandhi?' Rita bursts out laughing. 'I wouldn't mind being
called the mistress of Gandhi.'

'Well, then I should have mentioned this to you a long time
ago, but there are seven social sins, Ritaji,' he says, blushing
slightly. 'Politics without Principle, Wealth without Work,
Knowledge without Character, Commerce without Morality,
Science without Humanity, Worship without Sacrifice and
Pleasure without Conscience.' He reels them off on his fingers.
'This last one applies to the relationship between a man and his
mistress. I hope you understand the import of what I am saying.'

'Yes, I understand very well. It means sex without love. You
have simply been using me all this while, without really loving me.
Now you have tired of me and want to leave me, hence all this
drama,' Rita says bitterly. 'Fine. Leave me. You always were a
selfish bastard, concerned only about yourself. I don't know why I
wasted my time with a jerk like you. Out.' She points to the open
door.

'Before leaving, may I proffer another bit of advice?' he says.
'May I request you to maintain chastity? Chastity is one of the
greatest disciplines, without which the mind cannot attain
requisite firmness.'

Rita gapes at him, her face darkening. 'You swine,' she hisses
and delivers a stinging slap to his left cheek.

Mohan Kumar stumbles backwards, his shoulder crashing into
the door frame. 'That was totally unnecessary,' he mutters, nursing
his cheek. 'Nevertheless, if it pleases your fancy, you may exercise
your violent instincts on my right cheek as well.' He turns his face
to the other side.

Rita literally propels him out of the door and on to the staircase.
'Good riddance to you, Mr Mohanbhai Pseudo Gandhi,' she
shouts before slamming the door shut.

'Correction, my dear. It is Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi,'
she hears him say as he tramps down the stairs.

'What happened, Sahib?' Brijlal asks. 'You have come out very
quickly today.'

'We are not coming back here ever again, Brijlal,' he replies.

'Bibiji will be very happy.'

'Who is Bibiji?'

'Your wife.'

'My wife? I have a wife?'

Mohan Kumar wanders through his house like an amnesiac trying
to piece together the jigsaw of his past. The first person he meets
is Shanti, beaming with the exuberant cheerfulness of a newlywed
bride. 'Brijlal tells me you just broke off from that witch Rita. Is it
true?'

'Yes. I am not going back to Miss Rita Sethi.'

'Then just give me a minute,' Shanti says and disappears into
the small room next to the kitchen which has been converted into
a temple. She returns with a small steel plate in her hand. 'Let me
do a little
tika
.' With the ball of her middle finger, she rakes his
forehead with a pinch of vermilion paste.

Mohan appears mystified. 'What is this for?'

She blushes. 'For starting our married life afresh from today.'

He shrinks back. 'Let me tell you, Shanti, that I have taken a
vow of complete celibacy. So please do not have the expectations
of a married man from me.'

'You can sleep in your own room,' she says evenly. 'The lifting
of that witch's shadow from this house is boon enough for me. In
God's court there is some justice, after all.'
He raises his finger like a teacher. 'I will now devote my life to
fighting injustice. I will use truth as my anvil and non-violence as
my hammer.'

'
Arrey
, what's got into you? You are speaking just like
Gandhiji.'

'Then do you mind if I start calling you Ba?'

'You can call me anything. Just don't call that witch ever
again.'

Mohan Kumar commences a rigorous new routine, sitting in the
temple every morning with Shanti, praying and singing
bhajans
.
He gives up his suits and shirts in favour of simple cotton
kurta
pyjamas and develops a penchant for Gandhi caps. He stops dyeing
his hair, eats only vegetarian food, becomes a complete
teetotaller, substitutes sugar with jaggery and insists on having a
litre of goat's milk every day.

He discards his mobile phone, stops going to the office completely
and spends his time reading the
Gita
and other religious books, and
writing letters to the newspaper on issues such as corruption and
immorality, but which are never published because he signs them
'Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi'. His favourite pastime, however, is
to collect each and every piece of information on the Ruby Gill murder
case, which he pastes diligently into a scrapbook.

'Why this sudden interest in Ruby Gill?' Shanti asks him.

'She was my greatest disciple,' he answers. 'She was doing her
doctorate on my teachings before her life was tragically cut short.'

'The entire neighbourhood is talking about Sahib's transformation,'
Brijlal confides in Gopi. 'Some people say he has gone mad.
He has started imagining himself to be Mahatma Gandhi. Why
doesn't Bibiji take him to see a good mental doctor?'

'All rich people are slightly mad, Brijlal. Besides, Bibiji prefers
him this way,' the cook replies.

'But madness is a serious illness, Gopi. Today he is calling himself
Mahatma Gandhi, tomorrow he might start calling himself
Emperor Akbar.'

'
Arrey
, what difference does it make what he calls himself,
Brijlal?' Gopi says. 'At least he is doing things which we consider
right. Best of all, he does not trouble us any longer.'

'Yes, that is true. So what should I do?'

'Pretend to be Gandhiji's driver, just as Bibiji pretends to be
Gandhiji's wife.'

It is Diwali, the Festival of Lights. Mohan Kumar's house is lit up
with strings of tiny twinkling bulbs. The night sky is a riot of
colour as brilliant pink and green flowers continue to explode
with abandon. Every few seconds a rocket goes screaming into the
atmosphere. The bursting of crackers reverberates in the air like
thunder.

The garden has been taken over by an army of children,
clapping and whooping with delight.

Seven-year-old Bunty, the son of the neighbourhood sweeper,
is busy lighting a rocket with his eight-year-old friend Ajju,
the cobbler's son. The rocket is placed inside an empty coke
bottle.

'Ey, Ajju, let's see what will happen if we hold the bottle sideways
instead of straight,' Bunty suggests.

'
Arrey
, the rocket will go sideways instead of straight up,'
says Ajju.

'Then let's try sending it sideways, into the gate. I will tilt the
bottle and you light the rocket.'

'OK.'

Bunty holds the glass bottle in his hand, pointed towards the
entrance, while Ajju strikes a match and lights the fuse. With a few
little sparks the rocket streaks towards the gate, leaving a cloud of
smoke inside the bottle. In mid-flight, however, it reverses its
trajectory and heads towards the house. Bunty and Ajju watch in
horror as the rocket dives straight through an open window on the
first floor.

'Oh my God, Bunty, what have you done?' Ajju asks, cupping
his mouth with his palm.

'Shhh!' whispers Bunty. 'Don't tell anyone. Let's grab a couple
of cracker packets and run before they catch us.'

A little while later, Shanti steps into the garden with Gopi in
tow, holding a tray of lighted clay lamps and a box of sweetmeats.
She picks up a
diya
from the tray and places it in the centre of the
decorative pattern she has specially drawn on the concrete floor of
the gazebo.

A cracker bomb bursts with deafening noise in the western
corner of the garden. The cook looks with displeasure at the
crowd of children dancing with delight on the grass. 'Look at these
idiots, Bibiji,' he tells Shanti. 'They are not bursting crackers, they
are burning money. Our money. One bang and a hundred rupees
go up in smoke.'

Shanti rubs her eyes, smarting from the noxious fumes of the
cracker, and coughs briefly. 'I prefer sparklers, Gopi. These
loud crackers are not for old people like me.'

'I don't know why Sahib allowed all these street children into
our house and gave them crackers worth five thousand. See how
they are trashing our garden. Tomorrow I will have to do the
cleaning,' he grumbles.

'
Arrey
, Gopi, have a heart,' Shanti says. 'These poor children
have probably never exploded so many crackers in their life. I am
glad Mohan invited all of them to celebrate Diwali here. This is
the first good thing your Sahib has done in thirty years.'

'Yes, that is true,' Gopi concedes. 'Last year in Lucknow, Sahib
spent his entire Diwali gambling. Today he sat in the temple and
did Laxmi puja with you, and even maintained a fast for the first
time ever. Hard to believe he is the same man.'

'I just hope he remains this way,' Shanti says as she begins
distributing the sweetmeats to the children. 'Come, come, take
this
prasad
,' she calls out.

Brijlal and his son Rupesh are also in the garden. 'So what is
the latest on Ranno's wedding?' Shanti asks the driver.

'With your blessings, Bibiji, Ranno's wedding has been fixed
for Sunday, 2 December,' Brijlal beams. 'I hope you and Sahib will
grace the occasion with your presence.'

'Of course, Brijlal,' Shanti replies. 'Ranno is like our own
daughter.'