Vikas Swarup - Six Suspects

All of a sudden, an image flashes through my mind. It is of Lallan strung upside-down in the police lock-up and being tortured by the Butcher of Mehrauli. I had been unable to save him either. But if he was closer than a brother to me, then Champi is closer than a sister. Ties of the mind are stronger than ties of blood.

Like a wounded soldier making his last stand, I muster every ounce of my remaining strength and lash out with my right leg at Natu, catching him at the knee. He is startled into releasing Champi, who tumbles down with a piercing scream. Natu snarls at me and takes out a bicycle chain from his trouser pocket, wraps it around his fist and swings it hard at my face. I try to duck and the metal crashes into the back of my skull. I imagine the door bursting open before I sink into that deep oblivion which is black and fathomless and very, very welcome.

When I come to my senses I find myself in a hospital room. My left hand is in plaster and there is a throbbing pain in the back of my head. I feel it gingerly, expecting to touch sticky blood. But my fingers graze soft fabric. They must have bandaged it. I see Mother lying in the bed next to me, being tended to by Champi, who is wearing a black amulet around her neck.

'What… what happened?' I ask Champi groggily.

'A miracle,' she replies cryptically.

A doctor comes in and tells me that I am lucky to be alive. 'You have suffered severe concussion. All five fingers of your left hand are broken. You will need to keep them immobilized in plaster for at least six weeks before they can heal.'

'Is my mother OK?' I ask him.

'She will live,' he says and begins examining a chart attached to the side of the bed.

'How long have I been in hospital?'

'Two days.'

'How much do I need to pay you?'

'Nothing,' he smiles. 'This is a charitable hospital where everything is free, including the MRI scan, the X-rays and the medicines.'

'Thank you,' I say. 'Can I go now?'

I walk back from the Dayawati Hospital to the temple, ignoring the doctor's warnings and the searing pain in my head. My room looks like it has been visited by a hurricane. Even the wooden desk is in pieces. I take the two first-class train tickets from the pocket of my Benetton jacket and proceed to the railway booking office to cancel them. I am not going to Mumbai any longer. Like Delhi, it too is a show-off city, flaunting its Mercedes and mansions. And it belongs only to the rich. There is no place for the poor in our metropolises. Doesn't matter how honestly you earn a living; you can still get accused of thieving and thrown into a cell simply because you are poor and powerless. As long as I had the briefcase full of money I had power. I knew I could take care of Ritu, fulfil my dreams. With the briefcase gone, so have my grand dreams.

Life suddenly seems brittle and pointless. Surprisingly, I don't feel much anger towards my tormentors, the people who took away the briefcase. It wasn't mine to start with. My rage is directed instead at Vicky Rai. The man who dared to hurt Ritu. The man who took my father's life. Love can make you blind, but despair can make you reckless. I decide to buy a gun.

The biggest criminal gang in our area is the one run by Birju Pehelwan. I know several gang members who swagger through the Sanjay Gandhi slum, flaunting their revolvers like fashion accessories. It is Pappu, a recent entrant to the gang, who directs me to Girdhari, an illicit arms-dealer in Mangolpuri.

The arms-dealer does not display his wares in an airconditioned showroom. I have to go to a smelly alley and climb three flights of stairs to a dim and dingy cubicle, where he sits in front of a massive steel safe. 'I need a cheap gun,' I tell him. He nods and takes out a desi katta, a locally made improvised pistol with just one round. 'This costs only eleven hundred rupees,' he grins.

'I want something better,' I tell him.

'How much have you got?' he asks and I produce the 4,200 rupees returned to me by the railway clerk.

He opens the safe and takes out something wrapped in a white cloth. He carefully opens the cloth to reveal a black gun inside. 'This is also a katta, but a very good one. Looks just like a Chinese Black Star pistol, but costs only four thousand. Try it.' He hands me the gun, butt first.

I hold the gun in my hand, feel its weight, its raised edges, its long, smooth barrel. It gives me goose bumps. I am fascinated by its promise of violent, instant death. 'I'll take it,' I say.

'Unfortunately I have run out of bullets,' the dealer says regretfully. 'At the moment I have only five cartridges for this gun. Can you come again tomorrow?'

'No, I am happy with five bullets. Actually, I'll need just one.'

'Hello?'

'Hello.'

'Is this the residence of the Home Secretary?'

'Yes.'

'Is he there? Home Minister Jagannath Rai will speak to him.'

'One second, Sir. I will pass the line to Home Secretary Sahib.'

(Music.)

'Hello. Baglay speaking.'

'One second, Sir. Minister Sahib will come on the line.' Beep. Beep. Beep.

'Hello. Gopal?'

'Good afternoon, Sir. I am sorry, Sir, I couldn't call you in the morning. My fax wasn't working. But now I have the data. Since yesterday we have had seven cases of murder. Two dacoities have been reported from Hardoi and Moradabad. There have been four rape cases in Azamgarh, Bahra-'

'I am not interested in your daily crime report, Gopal. I am calling you about something much more important. Tell me, have you heard of an American film called Donchi?'

'Donchi?'

'Maybe Vinchi… Vinchiko?'

'Do you mean The Da Vinci Code, Sir?'

'Yes, yes. That is the film. Have you seen it?'

'Yes, Sir. It's rather good.'

'I want you to immediately ban this film in Uttar Pradesh.'

'Ban it? But, Sir, this film is quite old. It has already completed its run.'

'Doesn't matter. Just ban it. I am told that it has offended the Christian community in the State. It makes all kinds of wild allegations, like Jesus was having an affair with some prostitute. How can we allow such films to be screened?'

'Don't you think you should see the film, Sir, before we ban it?'

'Since when has it become necessary to watch a film before banning it? Don't we ban books all the time without reading them?'

'But Sir, there are other issues, such as freedom of speech. Article 19 of the Constitution-'

'The Constitution be damned, Gopal. Hardly anybody reads in this State. Who has time to read the Constitution? Have you read the full Constitution?'

'Er… No, Sir. May I ask, Sir, who mentioned this film to you?'

'It was Father Sebastian. He is a good man. I like Christians. They are such nice, docile people. Always dressed immaculately and they speak such wonderful English. He told me that if I ban the film our party will get some Christian votes in the local elections. That can do us no harm. But I don't want to lose other votes into the bargain. So tell me, if we ban this film will the Hindus in the State be unhappy?'

'I don't think so, Sir.'

'Will the Muslims be unhappy?'

'Unlikely, Sir.'

'Will the Sikhs be unhappy?'

'No, Sir.'

'Then there is no problem at all. Just ban the wretched film. It is my order.'

'As you say, Sir. I will have the gazette notification issued today.'

'And Gopal?'

'Yes, Sir.'

'I believe you have still not carried out my instructions regarding that Superintendent of Police Navneet Brar. As long as I am the Home Minister he is not to be given any medals or awards.'

'Sir, I wanted to discuss this with you. Navneet Brar is a very meritorious officer. He has single-handedly liquidated two major Naxalite outfits operating on the India-Nepal border. If we remove his name from the State Republic Day Gallantry Award winners, it might demoralize the police force and-'