Vikas Swarup - Six Suspects

'Don't worry, Guruji. The day I become Chief Minister, that very day Swami Brahmdeo will have an arrest warrant against his name. Jai Shambhu.'

'Jai Shambhu.'

'Mukhtar?'

'Yes, Boss?'

'Are you in Lucknow?'

'Yes, Boss.'

'Tell me, Mukhtar, are you a devout Muslim?'

'Not really, Boss. But I try to attend the namaz at least every Friday.'

'Still, you must be familiar with the concept of sacrifice. Have you heard of Abraham?'

'Every Muslim has. He was a great man who was prepared to sacrifice his son to please Allah.'

'It must have been very difficult for him. And the job I am going to give you now is equally difficult for me.'

'Hukum. I am ready. Just tell me what the job is.'

'I cannot talk on phone. Can you come to the house right now?'

'I am in coming, Boss. Khuda hafiz.'

'Khuda hafiz.'

THE UNITED AIRLINES plane touched down at New Delhi Airport bang on time at three ten p.m. All the other passengers seemed to be in a mad rush to get out, as though free candies were being distributed outside. I took my time stuffing the nice airline magazine and the card about all the safety precautions into my bag, even using the toilet when the other passengers had gone.

There was a long queue at the passport counter when I arrived and the man at my desk was slower than a three-legged turtle. Every ten minutes or so he would push off to have a cup of tea or chat with his friends. I was chomping at the bit by the time my turn came.

'Good day, Sir,' he said, flipping open my passport. He looked at me and checked my photo in the passport, then looked at me again. 'Is this your passport?'

'Yeah,' I said.

'Well, you look different from your photo.'

'That's coz Mom said send in your best picture. So I sent in my best picture. And that happens to be when I was in High School.'

'Please wait here,' the officer said and went out to consult with his foreman. He came back after ten minutes. 'Sorry, we cannot allow you to enter India. We suspect you have a forged passport. You will have to be deported back to the United States.' He handed the passport back to me and pointed to a corner. 'Just sit down on that bench.'

'What?' I cried. 'No, you can't be serious. Are you pulling my leg? I got a wedding to attend here.'

He shook his head. 'There's nothing I can do.'

'Please don't say that. I've come all the way from Waco just to meet my fiancée. I am sure you can pull some strings for me,' I pleaded.

'Well…' He looked around to see if anyone else was listening. 'I might be able to help you, if you can help me.'

'I'll do anything you say.'

'I collect foreign-currency notes,' he whispered. 'I have all the notes from America except the hundred-dollar bill. Can you give me a hundred-dollar note? Just put it inside your passport and slide it over.'

I thanked the Lord that he didn't have a thousand-dollar bill missing from his collection, coz I hadn't seen one either, and immediately peeled off a hundred-dollar note from my wallet. I put it inside my passport and handed it to the officer, who quickly stamped the passport and returned it to me. 'Have a nice stay, Mr Page,' he smiled at me. I opened the passport. The greenback had disappeared.

It took me twenty minutes to get my Delsey from the baggage merry-go-round and another ten to convert some dollars into Indian rupees. Then, nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs, I walked out of the terminal building. India welcomed me with a blast of warm air. It was hotter than a well-digger's ass in August. There was a whole bunch of people shouting and waving; car horns were blaring, uniformed chauffeurs were running around with placards, and brown-shirted men were asking everyone, 'Taxi? Taxi?'

I began hunting for Sapna in the crowd. Although there were plenty of girls at the airport, no one looked like her.

I waited for three hours at the kerb, but my bride-to-be didn't arrive. All the other passengers left. The airport became halfempty. I wandered out towards the taxi stand, wondering if she was waiting outside, and that's when I saw her. She stood in a red sari, her hands folded in namaste, her neck loaded with jewellery, a big smile plastered on her face. Next to her picture, the huge billboard said in big blue letters, 'WELCOME TO INDIA.'

I'm not a weepy sort of guy. The last time I really cried was way back in 1998 when Mankind (a.k.a. Mick Foley) lost to the Undertaker in the famous Hell in a Cell match on WWF. But at that moment I felt all choked up. I just wanted to rush into Mom's lap and cry my heart out. I wished the officer had sent me back on that plane. I wished I had never come to India. But when you make your bed, you got to lie in it. It was getting dark now and I needed a place to stay. Slowly, I walked towards a yellow-andblack taxi.

The taxi-driver was a turbaned fellow with a thick black moustache and beard. 'Can you take me to some cheap hotel?' I asked the gentleman.

'Of course, Sir. I am knowing just the right place for you. Which country are you coming from?'

' America,' I said.

'I like Americans.' He nodded his head. 'Half my village is living in New Jersey. First time in New Delhi?'

'Very first time in India,' I replied.

'Then get in, Sir.' He opened the rear door for me and put my suitcase and bag in the trunk.

The taxi had torn seats and a strange, greasy kind of smell. The dashboard was decorated with pictures of old people with long white beards. The driver pushed down the meter and started the car.

New Delhi seemed bigger than Waco and the traffic was quite amazing. Apart from cars, there were buses, cycles, motorcycles, scooters, and strange contraptions which the driver said were called auto-rickshaws, all moving together side by side without crashing into each other or killing the people walking on the road. Suddenly I saw a huge grey elephant lumbering towards us from the opposite direction.

'Hey, has this fellow escaped from the zoo?' I asked in astonishment.

'No, Sir,' the driver laughed. 'Here we don't need zoos. You can see all the animals you are wanting in the city itself. There,' he pointed in the distance, 'you can see some nice buffaloes and cows, too.'

We drove like crazy for almost two hours. At one point it seemed to me that we had returned to the airport. I started getting worried, but the driver laughed. 'The city is being very far from the airport, almost one hundred miles, Sir. But not to be worrying, we will get there. In India you must be learning to be patient.'

Eventually, he took me into a market lit up with yellow light bulbs and white tube lights. I saw narrow lanes teeming with people and cows. Dusty men pulled wooden carts loaded to the brim with sacks of stuff. Fat ladies rode in rickety rickshaws. Autorickshaws zipped around like toy cars. Cyclists weaved in and out, tinkling their tinny bells. The market was full of small shops selling fruit, groceries, televisions and books. Signboards were plastered on every space – advertising everything from ceiling fans to perfume oils. Tilted at various angles, they seemed like any minute they would crash down on the people below.

The driver stopped in front of a crumbling yellow building which bore the sign 'Ruby Guest House, Paharganj'. Below that it said, 'Decent Laxury Higenic backpaker accomodation.'

'This is your hotel, Sir. Very good and very reasonable,' the driver said, and charged me a thousand rupees.

As I was about to step into the hotel, a big fat cow stopped right in front of me.

'Shoo,' I told the animal, but it shook its head at me. I pushed my bag at her and the next thing I knew I was flying in the air. I landed with a thud, crashing headlong into a parked cycle. The cow was on me again, snorting and digging its heels into the ground. I looked around for help, but the people around me simply laughed. I got up slowly, dusting my pants, and made another attempt to enter the hotel, but the cow refused to let me pass. It had taken to me like a buzzard takes to guts.