Vikas Swarup - Six Suspects

'Your fiancée sounds like a real nice Indian girl,' he said.

'Would you like to see some of her pictures?' I asked him.

'Yeah. Sure.'

I took out my bag and carefully removed the brown folder full of large colour glossies of Sapna in a whole lot of dresses. I watched Biddy's face as he flipped through the photos. His eyes seemed to pop out, just as I expected.

'This is Sapna Singh, you said?' he asked me after a long time.

'Yeah.'

'And you've actually met her?'

'No. But she'll be waiting for me at New Delhi airport.'

'She took five thousand dollars off you for the wedding?'

'Yeah. It was necessary. She's not from a rich family.'

'And you think you're going to marry this girl?'

'Of course. Two weeks from today, on 15 October. All preparations have been made, including a nice white horse! I tell you, Biddy, I just can't believe my luck.'

He twisted his lips. 'I'm sorry to say, dude, but you've been had.'

'What do you mean?'

'I mean this girl whose glossies you showed me is not Sapna Singh, cannot be Sapna Singh.'

'But why?' I asked, perplexed. 'Do you know her?'

'Every Indian knows her. These photos are of the famous actress Shabnam Saxena. I even have her poster in my dorm.'

'No, no. This is my fiancée. That chick Shabnam probably looks like Sapna.'

Biddy gave me the look Johnny Scarface gives me when I ask for a raise.

'There… there must be some mistake,' I tried again.

'There is no mistake,' Biddy said firmly. 'These photos are of Shabnam Saxena. In fact I'm certain that one of the photos is a still from International Moll, a big hit starring Shabnam. Don't mind my using one of our Indian proverbs, Larry, but as we say: Nai na dekhunu langala. You shouldn't get ready to take a bath before seeing the river.'

The plane suddenly felt like it was diving straight to the ground. I became dizzy and gripped the armrest tightly.

I snatched the folder back from Biddy. 'What you've been telling me is just a bunch of bunk. You're more full of shit than a constipated elephant!' I declared and didn't talk to him for the rest of the flight.

Deep inside me, I felt like crying.

MOHAN KUMAR 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.'