Vikas Swarup - Six Suspects

'But I have always maintained that where there is only a choice between cowardice and violence, I prefer violence. Far better to kill a murderer than allow him to kill again. A person who suffers injustice willingly is as guilty as the person who perpetrates the injustice. So will you do one last job for me?'

'For you I am ready to lay down my life, Gandhi Baba. Just tell me.'

'I want you to kill Vicky Rai.'

'Kill Vicky Rai?' Babloo Tiwari shakes his head slowly. 'There are many causes I am prepared to die for, but none I am prepared to kill for, Gandhi Baba.'

'Don't repeat my own line to me, Babloo.'

'It is not a line. I really believe in it. You have changed me, Bapu.'

'If you can't do it, I will have to do it myself.'

'You cannot be serious.'

'I am deadly serious. Can you teach me how to use a gun?'

'Not a problem. I'll not only teach you, I'll also get you a good gun when you finish your term and get out of Tihar. But won't your anger cool in two months' time?'

'I have no intention of remaining in Tihar till then.'

'What? Don't tell me you are planning to escape. Have you been digging a tunnel at night?'

'No. I don't need tunnels to escape. I will go out through the main gate.'

'So what's your plan, Gandhi Baba?'

'You will see, Babloo, you will see. But first I need you to convene a meeting for me with all the inmates.'

Seven days later, a massive non-cooperation movement starts in Tihar. The inmates refuse to cook, to clean, to bathe, demanding better prison conditions, just treatment and an end to extortion by jail officials.

The warden is not amused. 'What is this you have started, Mr Kumar?' he asks Mohan.

'Civil disobedience becomes a sacred duty when the State becomes lawless or corrupt,' Mohan answers.

The warden tries strong-arm tactics but the prisoners refuse to be cowed. The strike enters its tenth day. The garden begins to wilt and the bathrooms stink. Dirt gathers in the courtyard and dust gathers in the classrooms.

Urgent consultations are held between the jail authorities and their superiors. A week later, Mohan Kumar is released from Tihar prematurely. Shanti is waiting for him outside the jail with hundreds of supporters chanting 'Long Live Gandhi Baba!' He is escorted home by a joyous convoy of cars, buses and bicycles, horns blaring, bells tinkling. On reaching his house he delivers a long monologue on the imperative of fighting injustice.

A few days later, a one-eyed man comes to meet him, bearing a parcel. 'Babloo Tiwari has sent me. Can we talk in private?' the stranger asks Mohan.

They go into the garden. The one-eyed man opens the packet and takes out a gleaming pistol. 'It is a Walther PPK.32, top of the line, brand new. Same gun that James Bond uses.'

'How much?'

'Babloo Bhai said I cannot charge you for this. It is a gift from him.'

'And the bullets?'

'The magazine is fully loaded.'

Mohan takes the gun in his right hand and feels its weight. 'Can I try?'

The man looks around. 'Here, in the garden?' he asks doubtfully.

'Why not?' Mohan removes the safety catch and aims at an empty Coke bottle standing on the wooden railing of the gazebo. He presses the trigger and with a deafening blast the glass bottle shatters and disintegrates. He nods his head approvingly, blows at the smoking barrel, and tucks the gun inside his kurta pyjamas.

Shanti races screaming into the garden. 'What happened? I heard a gunshot. I thought someone had-'

'Shanti, you imagine too much,' Mohan says calmly. 'Death is blessed at any time, but it is twice blessed for a warrior who dies for his cause – that is, truth.'

That same evening a gilt-edged card arrives bearing a commissioned artwork by M. F. Husain on the cover. 'Vicky Rai invites you to a celebratory dinner on 23 March at Number Six' it says inside in cursive black letters.

He reads it and his lips curve into a cunning smile.

THERE ARE only three ways of becoming instantly rich – inheriting a family fortune, robbing a bank or receiving an unexpected windfall. Some receive it in the form of a winning lottery ticket, some as an unbeatable card combination at a poker game. I found mine two days ago in a dustbin.

After retrieving the briefcase from the rubbish bin I caught a bus and headed home to the temple. Mother was in the kitchen and Champi was listening to the TV. I entered my room and tried to find a suitable hiding place for the briefcase. But a small kholi does not afford too many locations for concealment. Eventually I had to push the briefcase underneath the mattress, where it formed a rather bulky outcrop.

Later that night, after Mother and Champi had gone to sleep, I took out the briefcase and began counting the money with the help of a torch held between my legs. There were twenty wads of notes in denominations of one thousand and five hundred. The notes were brand new, fresh from a bank. I opened the first wad and began adding up. One thousand… two thousand… ten thousand… fifteen thousand… fifty thousand. My head started spinning with all the zeroes I had never used. By the time I reached the twelfth wad, my fingers had begun to ache, the saliva in my mouth had run dry and my eyes were losing focus. To put it crudely, there was more money inside the briefcase than I could count.

A wave of happiness swept over my body, providing me with a more exhilarating rush than high-grade smack. I had more money in my possession than seven generations of my family would have seen. But even as I was rejoicing at my good fortune, the first doubts crept into my mind. What if someone had seen me take the briefcase and reported it to the police? What if a robber came into our hut and stole the briefcase? Desperate men know no bounds. The adjoining Sanjay Gandhi slum has plenty of hired killers willing to slit a man's throat for just five grand. To get their grubby hands on my briefcase, they would stop at nothing. The rich can sleep easy because they have money in the bank and round-the-clock guards and alarms in the house. But how can a poor man protect his stash of cash? I fretted, I sweated, I stayed up all night.

This is the strange thing about money – too much of it can be as problematic as too little.

When I was studying in the government school, we had a teacher called Hari Prasad Saini who liked to play mind games with the students. Once he asked us, 'What would you do if you suddenly got a hundred thousand rupees each?' I remember Lallan said he would buy an entire toyshop. Another boy said he would spend it all on chocolates. I said that I would give the money to my mother. But now, when I actually have much more than a hundred thousand rupees, the last thing I am going to do is tell Mother. She is quite capable of dragging me to a police station and making a public announcement: 'Inspector Sahib, please find out where my son has stolen all this money from!'

I had intended to keep the news of my fortune even from Champi, but within two days I knew that was impossible. I never keep secrets from her, and I have to tell someone. So when Mother goes to the temple for her daily chores, I call Champi to my side of the room.

'I have got money for your operation,' I tell her.

'How much?'

'Much more than we need to pay the doctor.'

'I don't want any operation,' Champi says. 'I am happy as I am.'

I know she is lying. She wouldn't mind the operation, if not for her sake then for Mother, who worries constantly about her marriage. 'Who will marry my Champi, the way she looks?' she frets all the time.

Mother is right. Who will marry Champi? She is a walking disaster. The nicest girl in the world, she is also the ugliest. She has a harelip which makes the lower half of her face a grotesque caricature. Her left arm is completely wasted, and she has pockmarks all over her cheeks. The good thing is she cannot see her ugliness. She is as blind as a bat. Yet she is more famous than anyone in our locality. They often put her picture in magazines and newspapers and she has even been featured on CNN.