Six Suspects (11 page)

'Demons exist only in films. And films are not real, Mr Kumar.'

'Then am I going mad?'

'No, not at all. Even perfectly sane people can act a bit
differently at times.'

'You don't understand, Doctor. The malady is extremely
serious. It makes me do crazy things, like wearing
khadi
and that
ridiculous Gandhi cap. Like breaking all the bottles in my whisky
collection. Like becoming vegetarian and blowing twenty lakhs of
my hard-earned money on the Missionaries of Charity.'

'I see. Now when exactly do these episodes happen?'

'I don't really know. I . . . I mean one minute I am myself and
the next minute I have become this other person, blabbering some
nonsense about God and religion.'

'And you have full memory of what you did as this other
person when you revert to your real self ?'

'At first I had no recollection. There was simply a gap in my
memory. But now, I am slowly beginning to decipher the stupid
things I do as Gandhi.'

Dr Diwan interrogates him for another half-hour before
making his diagnosis. 'I believe you are suffering from what we call
Dissociative Identity Disorder. In films they call this a split
personality.'

'You mean my personality has split into two – Mohan Kumar
and Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi?'

'More or less. In DID, the usual integrity of the personality
breaks down and two or more independent personalities emerge.
A person with the illness is consciously aware of one aspect of his
personality or self while being totally unaware of, or dissociated
from, other aspects of it. Would you mind submitting yourself to
a clinical hypnosis session?'

'And what will you do?'

'We will explore your unconscious with a view to understanding
whether past events and experiences are associated with your
present problem.'

'Will you ask very personal questions?' he asks with a worried
look.

'We will have to. The whole idea of hypnosis is to bypass the
critical censor of the conscious mind.'

'No. I will not submit to a hypnosis session,' he says firmly.

Dr Diwan sighs. 'You will have to be candid with me, Mr
Kumar, if I am to treat you. Tell me, were you abused as a child?'

Mohan Kumar sits up and stares at Dr Diwan irritably. 'Let's
cut out all this Freudian bullshit. Just tell me how I can avoid turning
into Mahatma Gandhi.'

Dr Diwan smiles. 'There are many individuals in the world, Mr
Kumar, who would do anything to turn into Mahatma Gandhi.'

'Then they are stupid, Doctor. You must understand, people
didn't like Gandhi, they feared him. He appealed to an instinct
they wanted to keep buried. He advised against sex, drink, wealth.
I mean what is the fun of living if you cannot have any of these
things?'

'There are more important things in life, Mr Kumar.'

'Look, I have not come here for a debate on Gandhian
philosophy.' Mohan begins tying his shoelaces. 'But you will have
earned your fee if you can tell me what triggers my sudden
transition to this Gandhi character.'

'Well, there's no evidence to suggest any biological cause for
Dissociative Identity Disorders. In almost all the cases that I have
seen, the transition from one personality to another is usually
triggered by a stressful event.'

'So if I were to avoid stress, I can prevent the transition?'

'In theory, yes. But I must warn you that the alternate personality
can take control of the individual's behaviour at any time.
And, what is even more important, over time one personality
tends to dominate the others.'

'I assure you, Doctor, I won't let Mahatma Gandhi dominate
me.' He stands up. 'Thank you for your time.'

'It was interesting meeting you, Mr Kumar,' Dr Diwan replies.

'Although we didn't quite see eye to eye on the treatment, I hope
you now have more clarity about your illness.'

'An eye for an eye ends up making the whole world blind,
Doctor,' Kumar says gravely and gently pats the doctor's arm.

'Oh my God!' Dr Diwan exclaims.

Mohan chuckles. 'Just kidding. But that is exactly the kind of
thing I say when I switch to Gandhi. That will not happen any
more. Good bye, Doc,' he says and saunters out of the clinic.

Dr Diwan watches his receding figure with a puzzled
expression.

Immediately after returning from Dr Diwan's clinic, Mohan
Kumar becomes more careful than an accountant with tax
inspectors on his tail. He tiptoes through the house like a ballet
dancer, smooth and light-footed, avoiding collision with doors and
walls and keeping clear of the temple room by at least twenty feet.
He bans all crackers from the house and issues strict instructions
to Brijlal to drive at no more than forty kilometres per hour and
to avoid sudden braking. He examines each and every book in his
library and incinerates every title which might have even a
semblance of a connection to Gandhi, in the process destroying
such rare volumes as a first edition of
India of My Dreams
and a
biography of Martin Luther King with the tag-line 'American
Gandhi'. He increases his alcohol intake to three shots a night and,
to ensure that Gandhi doesn't intrude even in his dreams, starts
taking Valium tablets just before sleeping.

Shanti accepts Mohan's reversion to his old, difficult self with
the robust fortitude of a martyr. Gopi goes back to preparing meat
dishes and putting ice and soda in Sahib's room at night.

Mohan is in his bedroom with his second glass of whisky, examining
the papers pertaining to Rai Textile Mill, while outside the
window an unseasonable thunderstorm rages. The rain comes
down in sheets and thunder shakes the roof. He hears the phone
ring and picks it up.

'Hello?'

'Hello, Kumar.'

A tiny prick of resentment stabs at his heart every time Vicky
Rai addresses him by his surname, but, like a pragmatic
bureaucrat, he has learnt to swallow his pride.

'Yes, Sir,' he replies.

'I am just calling to remind you about the board meeting
tomorrow.'

'Oh yes, Sir. I received Raha's report today. In fact, I was going
over it right now,' he says.

'We will be banking on you to push through the retrenchment
proposals. The job cuts are essential, you know, to restructure the
textile company.'

'Without doubt, Sir. We need to cut a hundred and fifty jobs
at least. Don't worry, I will ensure that the restructuring proposal
is passed without any difficulty. Of course, it won't be unanimous.
The unions will oppose the lay-offs tooth and nail. Dutta, as usual,
will indulge in some theatrics. But what can one union guy do
against five from the management? We will steam-roll him into
submission.'

'I am sure you can take care of that bastard. Good night,
Kumar.'

As Mohan puts the phone down, there is a knock on the door.
At first he doesn't hear it, so heavy is the rain outside. But the
knock is insistent. With an irritated frown he gets to his feet, puts
on his slippers and opens the door.

Brijlal stands in front of him, his eyes bloodshot, his clothes
completely drenched.

'What are you doing here?' Mohan demands.

'It is all over . . . It is all over,' Brijlal mumbles, shivering
slightly.

Mohan wrinkles his nose. 'You are reeking like a pig. Are you
drunk?'

'Yes, Sahib, I am drunk.' The driver gives a hollow laugh. 'What
do you expect from country hooch? It will smell. But it gives a
kick which your expensive imported whisky can never give.' He
lurches into the room.

'Out . . . out,' Mohan gestures, as if reprimanding a dog. 'You
are spoiling the carpet.'

Brijlal doesn't heed the instruction and advances towards the
bed. 'I am only spoiling your carpet, Sahib, but you have spoilt my
life. Do you know what day it is today?' He speaks in a slurred,
off-key voice.

'Yes. Today is Sunday, the second of December. What's so
special about it?'

'Today my Ranno was to get married. Today I should have
been listening to the sound of
shehnai
. My house should
have been ringing with laughter and happiness, but instead I have
been listening to the sobs of my wife and daughter. All because of
you.'

'Me? What did I do?'

'You are the one who had me accosted like a common thief
and paraded before the whole of Khan Market. You are the one
who demanded the return of the money. So I had to take the
dowry back from the groom's family. I have never been more
humiliated in my life. And what was my fault? The bottles were
going to be destroyed in any case. If I made some money from
them, what harm did I cause anyone? You big sahibs cheat your
wives and have affairs with other women. You booze and gamble
and don't even pay tax. But it is poor people like me who get
insulted and arrested.'

'Enough, Brijlal. You have lost your senses,' Mohan says
sternly.

The driver continues as if he has not heard him. 'The relationship
between master and servant is a very delicate one, separated
by a
lakshman rekha
. You crossed the line, Sahib. The groom's
family has called off the wedding completely. Now you tell me
what should I do? Allow my Ranno to remain a spinster all her
life? How can I face my wife, who slaved day and night in
preparation for the wedding?'

'I am warning you, Brijlal. You are really exceeding your limit.'

'I know I am exceeding my limit, but you, Sahib, have
exceeded all decency. You deserve to be stripped naked, hung
upside-down and then lashed with a whip till you feel the pain
which I am feeling now.'

'Enough, Brijlal,' he bellows. 'I am ordering you to leave right
now.'

'I will go, Sahib, but only after settling the score. You have
wealth and power, but I have this.' He inserts his hand into his
kurta
and draws out an old knife. Its dull steel fails to catch the
chandelier's light.

Mohan Kumar sees the knife and gasps. Brijlal advances
further into the room; Mohan shrinks away till his back collides
with the window overlooking the garden. A bolt of lightning rips
across the sky, causing the window panes to shudder.

'You are drunk, Brijlal,' he appeals again. 'If you take any
foolish action now you might regret it later.'

'I am a desperate man, Sahib. And a desperate man doesn't
care for consequences. My wife and daughter, in any case, will
commit suicide. My son will find a job somewhere or other. As for
me, after I kill you I am going to kill myself.'

The true extent of Brijlal's desperation is slowly becoming
evident to Mohan. 'OK . . . OK . . . Brijlal, I will personally ensure
that Ranno's wedding takes place,' he blabbers. 'You can take my
house, or I can book the ballroom of the Sheraton. And I will give
away Ranno myself. After all, she is just like my daughter.' The
words gush out of his lips in a torrent.

'Ha,' Brijlal snorts. 'A man confronted with death can make
even a donkey his father. No, Sahib, I am not going to fall into your
trap again. I am going to die, but first you are going to die.' He
grips the knife tightly in his right hand and raises his arm. Mohan
shuts his eyes tightly.

The arc of the knife slices through the air and bears down on
Mohan's chest, breaking centuries-old barriers, sweeping aside the
cobwebs of rank and status. But just as it is about to pierce
Mohan's chest, Brijlal falters. He is unable to breach the final
frontier of loyalty. The knife slips out of his grip, his hands drop
limply to his sides, he sinks to the carpet, throws back his head and
lets out a piercing wail, a requiem for his frustrated defiance.

Meanwhile, a slow change is coming over Mohan Kumar. The
tension in his face is dissolving, as if a shadow is lifting. He opens
his eyes and finds Brijlal at his feet.

'
Arrey
, Brijlal, what are you doing here?' He speaks in a slow,
ponderous manner. Then, as if remembering something, he taps
his forehead. 'Of course, you must have come to invite me to your
daughter's wedding. Ah, Ba is here.'
Shanti bursts into the room. 'What happened?' she asks
breathlessly. 'I thought I heard a scream.'

'Scream? What scream? You are imagining things, Ba. I was
just talking to Brijlal about his daughter's wedding. Wasn't it
supposed to be today?'

Shanti looks at Brijlal, who is still on the carpet, sobbing in
short gasps. She wrings her hands. 'I don't know what is wrong
with you. One day you are the saint, and the next day you become
the devil, then you become a saint again. Are you even aware that
Brijlal had to cancel his daughter's wedding?'

'Really? How could that happen, Brijlal? If there has been
some mistake from my side I ask your forgiveness with folded
hands.' He brings his palms together.

Brijlal falls at Mohan's feet. 'Please don't say this, Sahib. I am
the one who should be asking for forgiveness. I came to harm you,
yet you have forgiven me. You are not a man, you are God, Sahib.'

Mohan lifts him up. 'No, Brijlal. God is vast and boundless as
the ocean, and a man like me is but a tiny drop. And what is all
this talk about you trying to harm me? Have you also started
imagining things? Oh! What is this knife doing here?'

The board meeting begins promptly at four o'clock inside the
premises of Rai Textile Mill in Mehrauli.

The boardroom has the metallic smell of fresh polish. Its large
oval table is made of burnished teak with green felt place mats.
The walls are decorated with corporate art.

Mohan Kumar enters the room wearing a white
dhoti kurta
and a white Gandhi cap. Vicky Rai, dressed in a blue pinstripe suit,
greets him at the door. 'Very clever, Kumar,' he whispers. 'This
outfit will fool the unions completely.'

'Where am I sitting?' Mohan Kumar asks him.

'You are my right-hand man, so you sit on my right side.' Vicky
Rai winks at him. 'And next to you I have put Dutta.'