Vikas Swarup - Six Suspects

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.