Six Suspects

14 Restoration

MOHAN KUMAR 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.

15 Acquisition

'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.

16 Sacrifice

'HELLO, TRIPURARI?'

'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.)

17 Revenge

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?

18 Redemption

EKETI CROUCHED behind a kadam tree and waited for the alarm to ring. The forested area was quiet, but the sound of laughter drifted across the brightly lit lawn. He had no sense of how much time had passed, but he was patient. A lot had happened since he had entered the farmhouse through that rear gate. He had killed a snake and successfully performed a ritual exorcism, something which even the great Nokai would have been proud of. And best of all, now he didn't need to depend on Ashok to return to his island. He had enough money to buy tickets for himself and Champi.

Thinking of Champi brought a smile to his face and an ache to his heart. He was waiting to rush back to her with the sacred rock. Tomorrow they would travel to Kolkata to board the ship for Little Andaman, where they would receive a hero's welcome. He patted the canvas bag by his side. It was his only remaining link to the island. The clay, the bones, the pellets all brought to his mind the scents and sensations of Gaubolambe, which loomed larger in his imagination with every passing day.

Suddenly little beeps began emanating from the canvas bag. Eketi stood up with a start and switched off the alarm. He dusted down his black trousers, slung the bag over his shoulder and set off on his mission.

He reached the cobbled pathway that led to the garages and paused. In the middle of the path a small tent had been erected, inside which an army of cooks was busy frying, peeling and chopping. Large aluminium pots simmered on gas stoves. A perspiring man in a vest was bent over a clay tandoor, spearing freshly made rotis with a long metal skewer.

Eketi skirted the tent from the rear and proceeded down the path. He reached the garages without any difficulty. There was an empty plastic chair and immediately above it, embedded in the wall between the two garages, was a metal cabinet, painted blue. He was about to open the cabinet door when a hand fell on his shoulder. 'Hold it!' a stern voice boomed behind him.

He whirled around to find a dark man dressed in a white shirt and grey trousers glaring at him. There was a hockey stick in his right hand.

'Who are you?' the man demanded brusquely.

'I am Mr Sharma's driver,' he replied, swallowing hard.

'Then what are you doing traipsing around here? All the drivers are supposed to eat in the outside tent. Go over there.' He pointed towards the gate.

'Yes,' he said and half ran, half walked towards the gate. Rounding the corner, he leaned against the wall, his body still limp with shock.

He saw that he had reached the front driveway, where a row of cars was lined up, but none of the drivers was around. They were all having dinner inside a tent erected just behind the left entrance gate. The deathly silence in the portico was a sharp contrast to the music and laughter emanating from the garden at the back.

Hiding behind a marble column, Eketi peeked back at the cobbled pathway. The man in the grey trousers was now sitting on the plastic chair directly below the switchboard, wiping his neck with a handkerchief, the hockey stick leaning against his left leg. He did not appear to be a regular guard, but it was evident that he was stationed there specifically to ensure that no one tampered with the switchboard. Eketi wondered what to do. Should he go back to the Bhole Nath Temple and ask Ashok? Should he just make a dash for the ingetayi, light or no light? A whizzing sound came from above and he looked up to see a great green flower burst in the sky. The fireworks had started on the rear lawn.

He edged inside the portico and came across an open casement window. Peeping in, he saw a large hall full of people talking and drinking. The bass whine of a speaker suddenly split the air and a tall man wearing a dark suit and purple tie walked towards a mike positioned just behind the open window. The man turned to face the crowd, tapped the mike a couple of times and began speaking. 'Friends, we are gathered here today to celebrate my acquittal,' Eketi heard him say. 'All along I maintained my innocence. I am glad the court also recognized it. I am thankful to all of you whose support kept me afloat through those dark days and nights when I didn't know whether I would be spending the rest of my life in a dingy cell. So this is to say thank you. But the person I need to thank the most is my father, the one man responsible for making me what I am today. Dad, can you please come up here and say a few words?'

An older, heavy-set man, wearing white kurta pyjamas, walked up to the mike and embraced the man in the suit, who clung to him as if it was their last meeting. Eketi even detected a tear coursing down the suited man's cheek. Then the older man began speaking.

'It is always a mistake to give a politician a mike,' he said and there was mild tittering. 'But I am standing here today not as the Home Minister of Uttar Pradesh but as a father. And nothing gives a father greater happiness than to see his children prosper and flourish. Nothing pains a father more than to see his son being implicated in a totally fabricated case. I am glad that the long dark night is over and my son can now live like a free man. This is a victory for all those who have faith in the judiciary and in justice. To my son I wish a very long life. May Lord Shiva bless all of you.'

There were murmurs of approval from the people in the room. A cracker burst loudly and the sky was lit up by a brilliant orange pumpkin.

Eketi went back to his vantage point against the wall. He peeked at the garages again, hoping that the man in the grey trousers might have gone. But he was still there, except now he was standing up and looking left and right, as if checking that the coast was clear. As Eketi watched, the man turned towards the switchboard, opened the cabinet and fiddled briefly. Instantly, darkness descended over the entire farmhouse.

The tribal quivered with excitement. This was his cue. He raced down the cobbled pathway soundlessly and ran on to the lawn, which was also in pitch darkness. He was halfway across the grounds when his foot struck a wooden table and he went sprawling on to the grass. A loud bang came from inside the house, as though an engine had backfired, and he sensed a dark figure rush out on to the lawn. Eketi's left leg was hurting badly, but ignoring the pain he bounded the last few steps to the temple, his eyes accustomed by now to the darkness. Dropping his canvas bag to the floor, he began feeling his way around the walls, which had recessed alcoves containing idols of various deities. It took him half a minute to locate the one with the ingetayi. He touched it, felt its smooth surface, the markings on top, and his fingers began throbbing on their own. All else became a blur as he picked up the sea-rock. It lifted off its base easily. Slipping it into the canvas bag, he swung the bag across his shoulder and began running down the lawn, his heart singing. He was going home. To Champi. To Gaubolambe.

He had almost reached the edge of the wood when the lights came back on. 'Stop!' someone shouted behind him. He turned around and saw a constable with a raised baton speeding across the lawn towards him.

He tried to make a dash for the safety of the thicket, but at that very moment his injured left leg gave up on him. He fell down in a heap and within seconds the cop was upon him.

'What have you just done, bastard?' the constable wheezed, breathing deeply.

'Nothing,' said Eketi, his face distorted with pain.

'Give me your bag,' the constable said, whacking him on the legs with his lathi.

With a startled cry, Eketi let go of the bag. The constable lifted it and was surprised by its weight. 'What have you got inside? Let's take a look,' he muttered as he unzipped the bag. One by one he started taking out its contents – the small lumps of red and white clay, the pouch of pig fat, the bone necklace, and finally the sacred rock. 'Oh, this looks like a shivling! Where did you steal it from?' Before Eketi could reply, the constable groped in the bag one final time. His fingers touched something hard and metallic and his eyebrows rose as he drew out a silver-coloured gun. It was a locally made improvised revolver, a katta.

'And what is this, motherfucker?'

'I don't know. That is not mine,' Eketi replied, completely taken aback.

'Then how come it is inside your bag?'

'I don't know how it got there.'

'Don't worry, we will find out,' said the constable as he took out a pair of handcuffs. 'Come on, blackie, you are under arrest.'

19 Evacuation

24 March

I have been arrested. For murdering Vicky Rai.

These aren't the opening lines of a film script or a novel. I am writing them sitting on a wobbly bench inside the record room of Mehrauli police station, where I have been detained along with five other suspects. It is a large room, full of files piled high on metal shelves fifteen feet tall. Cobwebs festoon every corner and an ancient fan hangs from the wooden ceiling. The room has the musty smell of a library intermingled with the fetid stench of a morgue. The occasional gust of air blowing in from the small window with an iron grille is therefore a relief. I can hear the faint pitter-patter of raindrops. It has been raining steadily for the past two hours.

I had made a fashionably late entrance at the party, arriving at the farmhouse just after eleven. The lawn was packed with people. It seemed the Who's Who of Delhi had come to celebrate Vicky's acquittal. Jagannath Rai was there too, with an army of hangers-on in starched white kurta pyjamas. I was sickened by this vulgar display of political muscle, this affront to justice. But I was even more sickened by Vicky Rai. Having seen him up close – the scaly scar running down his left cheek, the way spit dribbled out of his mouth when he became excited – I felt disgusted at my decision to seek his help. I was going to pay a very high price indeed for saving my sister.

And then I met the weirdest American in the whole world. He was cute, with a strong resemblance to Michael J. Fox; he was rich, having just received fifteen million dollars; and he was madly in love with me. But he turned out to be the psycho Rosie had warned me about. So I got rid of Mr Larry Page, a.k.a. Rick Myers, faster than he could say 'Howdy'.

At the stroke of midnight fireworks began in the garden and speeches began in the marble drawing room. Vicky Rai and his father spoke as if they were members of a mutual admiration society. Their corny panegyrics made me cringe. Then Vicky went to the bar and began mixing a drink. That is when the lights went out and the entire house was plunged into darkness. Living in Mumbai, I had almost forgotten the power cuts which used to plague Azamgarh. But somehow the lights going off at Number Six did not seem to fit the pattern of an unscheduled load-shedding. It smacked more of deliberate mischief.

'Arrey, what happened?' I exclaimed.

'Switch on the generator,' someone shouted.

And then a shot rang out. 'Nooooooo!' Jagannath Rai screamed. Another cracker burst outside, but it was so loud it seemed as if it had burst inside the room, almost shattering my eardrums.

There was complete confusion and pandemonium for the three minutes or so that the house remained in pitch darkness. Then the lights came on, blinding my eyes with their sudden dazzle. The first thing I saw was Vicky Rai's body, slumped below the window, next to the bar. Blood had seeped into his white shirt, turning it crimson. I heard another high-pitched scream and realized it was mine. At that moment ten police constables barged into the hall, led by an Inspector with a curled-up moustache.

'Freeze! Nobody move,' the Inspector bawled, as though this was an episode of C.I.D. He saw Vicky Rai's body and bent down to examine it. He felt the wrist and lifted the eyelids. 'He is finished,' he pronounced, before fixing his gaze on the guests in the room. 'I know one of you has done it. So I have cordoned off the entire farmhouse. Now the police will check each and every one of you. No one will be allowed to leave Number Six till our search is over. Preetam Singh, begin frisking the guests.'

I heard this and my hands started turning cold. The American was standing close to me and became the first guest to be searched. A constable asked him to spread his arms and legs. He stood grinning like a scarecrow while the policeman patted him down, and shockingly a sleek black Glock equipped with a silencer emerged from inside his suit. 'What is this?' the constable cried as he dangled the pistol from his index finger.

'Well, dip me in shit and call me stinky!' Larry exclaimed. 'I have no idea how that gun got there. I don't even know how to fire that damn thing.' 'Take him in for questioning,' the Inspector directed the constable and turned his attention to me. 'Shabnamji, if you don't mind, I need to check your purse.' Before I could mouth a suitable protest, he snatched the moccasin bag from my hand. Snapping it open, he sifted through it with the dexterity of a Customs officer. Out came the Beretta. 'Oh! You have a gun too?' he said in the surprised tone of a priest discovering a nun in a brothel.

I detected a sly gleam in the Inspector's eyes as he examined the gun. 'Can I ask you, Miss Shabnam, why you brought this gun to the party?'

'I carry it for self-protection,' I replied icily, hoping he couldn't hear the thudding of my heart as clearly as I could.

He ejected the magazine, examined it and then smelt it. 'Hmmm… one bullet has been fired. Are you sure you didn't use it on Vicky Rai?'

'Of course not,' I snapped, adopting the contemptuous tone I use to put down underlings who try to get fresh with me.

'Still, you will have to come to the police station. Meeta -' he gestured to a frumpy-looking lady constable, 'take her away.'

As Meeta was leading me out, I came across Mr Mohan Kumar, now more famous as Gandhi Baba, appearing to have an epileptic fit. He was foaming at the lips and trying desperately to eject something from his mouth. A constable stood next to him with a gleaming Walther PPK, which appeared to have come out of his kurta pocket. I wondered how the apostle of non-violence would explain what he was doing with a gun inside the farmhouse. What new version of gandhigiri was he trying out?

It seemed that Mr Jagannath Rai was having similar difficulties. 'I am telling you, this is a licensed Webley & Scott which I have been keeping with me for the last twenty years,' he was explaining to a constable who was busy reading the markings on a grey revolver with a wooden butt. Finding that his plea was falling on deaf ears, Jagannath Rai turned to the Inspector. 'Someone has killed my only son. Instead of trying to catch the murderer, you are trying to blame me, the father? I am the Home Minister of Uttar Pradesh. I will have all of you arrested.'

'Look, Mr Rai.' The Inspector glowered at him. 'This is not Uttar Pradesh, where you can do as you please. This is Delhi and here you will do as we please. Every person who has a gun on these premises is a murder suspect. And that includes you. Preetam Singh, take him into custody.'

We were all herded into a blue van with wire-mesh windows and taken to the Mehrauli police station. The record room was the dingiest room in the police station, but it was still better than a lock-up. It was here that I met the two remaining suspects, easily the most intriguing of the lot. One was a short-statured tribal from Jharkhand, with the blackest skin I have ever seen. He took no notice of me, but sat alone on the floor, and appeared to be pining for some girl called Champi. He kept asking every passing constable for news of her. The policemen swore at him and made threatening gestures.

The other suspect was a lanky youth called Munna Mobile with long, curly hair. He was handsome in a rakish kind of way, reminding me of Salim Ilyasi, but there was also a disconcerting cockiness about him. He told me he was out in the garden when the lights went out. But he couldn't explain satisfactorily what he was doing in the garden with a Chinese Black Star pistol in his pocket.

A stream of constables kept entering the record room. They pretended to examine the files but I knew they were interested mainly in ogling me, the biggest celebrity to grace their crummy police station.

Mohan Kumar, a.k.a.Gandhi Baba, wandered around the room like a lost boy before sitting down beside me. He leered at me in an odd way. 'So, Shabnam, have you finally decided to appear in Plan B?'

He sounded so eerily like Vicky Rai that I almost jumped out of my skin. The guy really creeped me out.

I shifted immediately to the next bench, where Larry Page sat brooding. The Master's words came to me: 'Of all men's miseries the bitterest is this: to know so much and to have control over nothing.' For the first time I realized what a prisoner on death row was up against. How powerless he must feel against the might of the State. As the uncouth constables undressed me mentally, a lump of fear formed in my throat. I was convinced that sooner or later they would discover the body in Azamgarh, find out that the gun recovered from me was used to kill him and charge me with murder. I would be at the mercy of these lusty-eyed cops, who were already salivating at the prospect of interrogating me. I would certainly be stripped and quite possibly raped.

And even if I managed to survive the murder rap, I wouldn't be able to avoid bankruptcy. This morning I discovered that Bhola has taken money not only from Jugs Luthra, but from at least four other producers.

Jagannath Rai was standing in a corner, busy speaking to his lawyer. But I knew that I didn't need a lawyer; I needed an escape artist.

In the face of my rapidly shrinking options, I reappraised the American sitting next to me. He claimed to be a humble forklift operator, but after the recovery of that Glock from him my hunch was that he was an undercover agent. To earn a reward of fifteen million dollars and get a commendation letter from the US President, he must be the smartest FBI operative in the business, yet he put on a brilliant act of appearing to be dumb, aping those bumbling detectives of film and fiction. He could be my ticket to safety and sanctuary.

I sidled up to him. 'Larry, you said you were in some kind of Witness Protection Programme. Do you think I might be able to join you?'

He almost fell off the bench. 'Say that again?'

'I was thinking, could I come with you to the States?'

'Now you're reading my mail. I'll find out right now,' he trilled and punched a number on his mobile phone.

Within ten minutes he had an answer. 'I've spoken to Lizzie, the CIA Station Chief. She told me she'll pull some strings and get you included in the Witness Protection Programme. She's already working, as we speak, to get us out of here. A USAF Boeing 757 is standing by to fly us to the States. But there is one hitch.'

'What?'

'Lizzie said you can enter the programme only as my lawfully wedded wife.' He fell to his knees and clasped his hands. 'Tell me, Shabnam, will you marry me?'

I gazed at his lovesick face and stood up from the bench. I walked towards the grille window and looked out. The rain had stopped, but a pale mist hung in the air. The earth was awakening, its fertility rejuvenated. It smelt of mud and grass, fresh and new. The night had ended and the sun was beginning to peek over the horizon, heralding a brand-new day. It touched me with its simple promise and my decision was made.

'Yes.' I let out a deep breath. 'I will marry you, Larry.'

'You've made me happier than a pig in sunshine,' he said, swooning with joy. 'So will you leave films for me?'

I smiled. 'For you, I will even leave the country.' I liked this man. In time I might even come to love him.

Larry did a little jig, then stopped, as if remembering something. 'Lizzie said there was one other thing.'

'What now?'

'You cannot remain Shabnam. Everyone in the Witness Protection Programme has to acquire a whole new ID. You gotta pick a new name and Lizzie will get you a new passport in a jiffy.'

I thought about that new name. Something neat and simple, yet one that would mark a complete break from my filmi past. A name that would be the exact opposite of Shabnam Saxena. And it came to me in a flash. 'I've got my new name.' I snapped my fingers.

'What is it? Tell me, tell me,' Larry clamoured.

'Ram Dulari,' I said triumphantly.