Vikas Swarup - Six Suspects

'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.'

'What is that, Bibiji?' Rupesh calls out in alarm, pointing his finger at the first-floor window from which black smoke is billowing out.

Shanti looks up and the box of sweetmeats drops from her hand. 'Hey Ishwar, that looks like a fire in Mohan's bedroom. And he is sleeping inside. Run, save your Sahib,' she screams as she begins running towards the house.

Gopi, Brijlal, Rupesh and Shanti rush up the stairs to Mohan's bedroom and find it locked from inside. 'Open up, Sahib,' Brijlal hollers, banging at the door, but there is no response from Mohan.

'Oh God, he must already have fainted from the fumes,' Shanti quavers.

'Let's break down the door,' Gopi suggests.

'Get back… get back,' Rupesh cries. He rears back and is about to crash his shoulder into the door when it opens suddenly, hitting him with a blast of heat. Mohan Kumar staggers out. His face is bright red and there is black ash on his clothes and hands.

While Gopi, Brijlal and Rupesh run into the bedroom and try to douse the fire, Shanti tends to her husband, who is choking and wheezing.

'Aah… aah.' He opens his mouth, taking in gulps of air.

Rupesh emerges from the bedroom with black soot all over his face. 'We managed to put out the fire, Bibiji,' he declares. 'Luckily, it had not spread beyond the curtains.'

'Thank God you woke up in time,' Shanti says to Mohan.

He blinks repeatedly. 'What is happening?'

'There was a fire in your room.'

'Fire? Who could have done that?' He looks around suspiciously.

'Must have been the handiwork of one of the street kids in the garden,' Gopi avers.

'Street kids? What the hell are street kids doing in my house?' Mohan demands.

Gopi and Brijlal look at each other quizzically.

A little while later, Mohan comes down to the dining room in fresh clothes. 'I am hungry. Where is my dinner, Gopi?' he asks the cook.

'It is ready, Sahib, exactly as per your instructions,' says Gopi as he lays a dish on the dining table accompanied by a casserole containing freshly made rotis.

Mohan takes a morsel and immediately spits it out. 'This is not meatball curry,' he says, curling his lips in distaste. 'What kind of nonsense food is this?'