Vikas Swarup - Six Suspects

Babloo Tiwari looks at him curiously. 'Aren't you the guy they are calling Gandhi Baba?'

Mohan remains silent, but the warden nods his head. 'Exactly, Tiwariji. It is our privilege to host such a distinguished personality in our jail.'

'I hope he doesn't start trying to reform me,' Babloo grumbles. 'By the way, Jailer Sahib, did you get me the new SIM card for my mobile?'

'Shhh,' the warden whispers, looking left and right. 'Even walls have ears. I will have it sent tomorrow.'

The iron door clangs shut, creating vibrations which rattle in Mohan's head long after the warden has gone. Babloo Tiwari sniffles and extends his right hand. 'How do you do?' Mohan sees an arm tattooed with anchors and snakes, but he also notices a grid of broken veins and puncture marks on the shrivelled skin. Curling up his lip, he makes no effort to shake the gangster's hand.

'Suit yourself,' Babloo says and takes out a Nokia from his front pocket. He dials a number and, with one leg propped over the other, his free hand scratching his scrotum, begins speaking softly.

Mohan reluctantly climbs up to the top bunk. The sheet is covered in stains and the thin mattress is lumpy. There is dampness in the room which seems to seep in through the walls. A cold draft blows in through the door, forcing him to pull up the blanket. But it is badly frayed and makes him itch. He suppresses an urge to burst into tears.

Lunch is served at noon on a steel plate; it consists of four thick rotis, vegetable stew and a bowl of watery dhal. Mohan finds the food bland and unappetizing and pushes away the plate after eating just one roti. Below him, Babloo Tiwari doesn't even touch the food.

Mohan lies in bed, pretending to read a magazine, while hunger gnaws at his belly. At some point he falls asleep, dreaming of butter chicken and whisky. When he opens his eyes there is a glassful of golden liquid floating before him. A disembodied head materializes alongside the glass. It is Babloo Tiwari, peeking up from below. 'Would you care for a glass of this?'

'What is it?' he condescends to ask.

'Scotch. Twenty-five years old.'

Almost involuntarily, his tongue flicks over his dry lips. 'Well, I wouldn't mind a sip,' he admits, ashamed of his own weakness.

'Cheers, then,' says Babloo. 'You can keep your gandhigiri for outside the cell.'

They clink glasses and break the ice.

The cell is unlocked again at four p.m. 'Come,' Babloo says. 'Let's go for some fresh air.'

They walk into a courtyard, half the size of a football pitch, where nearly fifty prisoners are milling around. They are of all ages and sizes: some are wizened old men with flowing beards and some look as young as fifteen. There is a group playing volleyball, another gathered around a radio set and a few men just sitting and chatting. The deferential way in which the other prisoners greet Babloo Tiwari clearly establishes him as their leader. Only a group of three men sitting huddled together in a corner takes no notice of him.

'Who are they?' Mohan asks.

'Don't talk to them. Don't even go near them. They are foreigners belonging to the dreaded Lashkar-e-Shahadat who were involved in last year's attempted bombing of the Red Fort.

'Shouldn't they be put in a separate area, if they are high-risk terrorists?'

Babloo smiles. 'Arrey bhai, even you are now in the high-risk category.'

Mohan nods. His gaze falls on a striking, middle-aged man, sitting alone on the steps. He has Einstein's hair and Hitler's moustache.

'Who is that cartoon?' he nudges Babloo.

'Oh him, he is our chief source of entertainment,' Babloo says. 'Let me show you. Hey, you,' he calls out. 'Come here.'

The man shuffles towards them. He is tall and reed-thin, and has a furtive look about him.

'We have a new visitor. Won't you welcome him?' Babloo asks in Hindi.

'Welcome to the Gulag Archipelago,' the man announces in perfect English, holding both hands together.

'What is your name?'

'My name is Red.'

'What are you in jail for?'

'Atonement.'

'And what do you think will be your punishment?'

'One hundred years of solitude.'

'Who is your best friend here?'

The Possession of Mohan Kumar 127

'The boy in the striped pyjamas.'

'Thank you. You can go now.'

'So long, see you tomorrow,' the man says. He tilts his head, stretches his arms and begins running towards the centre of the field like an aeroplane in flight.

Mohan is intrigued. 'Is his name really Red?'

'No,' Babloo grins. 'His name is L. K. Varshney. He used to be a Professor of English Literature at Delhi University. One day he discovered his wife in bed with his best student. So he killed his wife and is now in jail, pending trial. He will probably be sentenced to life. They say he used to be half mad when he was a professor. Tihar has made him completely mad. Now he always speaks in this funny kind of way.'

'And what are you in jail for?'

'For everything. I have committed almost every crime in the Indian Penal Code and all my cases are awaiting trial. But they won't be able to prove anything. I stay in Tihar because I prefer to stay here. It is safer than being outside.'

As Babloo wanders off to chat to a couple of tough-looking inmates, a young boy with a dusty face and short hair comes up to Mohan and touches his feet. He smells of dirt.

'Arrey, who are you?' Mohan shrinks back.

'They say you are Gandhi Baba,' the youth says hesitatingly. 'I came to pay my respects and ask for a favour. My name is Guddu.'

'What are you in for?' Mohan asks.

'I stole a loaf of bread from a bakery. Now I have been here five years. They beat me every day, make me clean the toilets. I want to see my mother. I miss her very much. I know only you can get me out,' he says and starts sobbing.

'Hato. Hato.' Mohan tries to wave him away. 'Look, there is nothing I can do. I am a prisoner too, like you. I have to get out myself before I can think of others. And don't spread this nonsense about my being Gandhi Baba, OK?'

He moves to the other side of the field and is almost immediately accosted by an old man with an aquiline nose and twinkling grey eyes.

'Yada yada hi dharmasya glanirbhavati bharata,' the man intones in Sanskrit, and then translates for Mohan's benefit. 'Whenever there is a fall of righteousness, you arrive to destroy the forces of evil. I bow to you, O great Mahatma. Only you can save this country.'

'And who might you be?' Mohan asks wearily.

'Dr D. K. Tirumurti at your service, Sir. Sanskrit scholar from Madurai.'

'Also professional cheat, you forgot to mention,' Babloo speaks up from behind.

'Let's go, Babloo, I've had enough fresh air.' Mohan tugs at the gangster's sleeve. 'There is one chap who wants me to save him, another who wants me to save the country. Is this a jail or a lunatic asylum?'

Babloo chuckles. 'Actually there is very little difference between the two. Stick with me if you don't want to join the loony brigade.'

The food at dinner time is the same bland fare. But by now Mohan is so famished, he polishes off all four rotis and slurps up the cold vegetable stew. Babloo, he notices, eats very little, sniffling most of the time.

'How do you manage on so little food?' he asks the gangster.

Babloo gives a crafty smile. Wiping his runny nose with the sleeve of his kurta, he lifts the mattress and brings out a hypodermic syringe. 'My food is this.' He tests the syringe before plunging it into his arm.

Mohan winces. 'So you are a drug addict?'

'No. Not an addict,' Babloo says with sudden vehemence. 'I control the cocaine. The cocaine doesn't control me.' He completes the injection and exhales. 'Ahh… this is paradise. I tell you, nothing can beat the rush of crack. Want to try? It will make you forget Scotch.'