Six Suspects (49 page)

EKETI CROUCHED behind a
kadam
tree and waited for the alarm
to ring. The forested area was quiet, but the sound of laughter
drifted across the brightly lit lawn. He had no sense of how much
time had passed, but he was patient. A lot had happened since he
had entered the farmhouse through that rear gate. He had killed a
snake and successfully performed a ritual exorcism, something
which even the great Nokai would have been proud of. And best
of all, now he didn't need to depend on Ashok to return to his
island. He had enough money to buy tickets for himself and
Champi.

Thinking of Champi brought a smile to his face and an ache to
his heart. He was waiting to rush back to her with the sacred rock.
Tomorrow they would travel to Kolkata to board the ship for
Little Andaman, where they would receive a hero's welcome. He
patted the canvas bag by his side. It was his only remaining link
to the island. The clay, the bones, the pellets all brought to his
mind the scents and sensations of Gaubolambe, which loomed
larger in his imagination with every passing day.

Suddenly little beeps began emanating from the canvas bag.
Eketi stood up with a start and switched off the alarm. He dusted
down his black trousers, slung the bag over his shoulder and set off
on his mission.

He reached the cobbled pathway that led to the garages and
paused. In the middle of the path a small tent had been erected,
inside which an army of cooks was busy frying, peeling and
chopping. Large aluminium pots simmered on gas stoves. A
perspiring man in a vest was bent over a clay
tandoor
, spearing
freshly made
rotis
with a long metal skewer.

Eketi skirted the tent from the rear and proceeded down the
path. He reached the garages without any difficulty. There was an
empty plastic chair and immediately above it, embedded in the
wall between the two garages, was a metal cabinet, painted blue.
He was about to open the cabinet door when a hand fell on his
shoulder. 'Hold it!' a stern voice boomed behind him.

He whirled around to find a dark man dressed in a white shirt
and grey trousers glaring at him. There was a hockey stick in his
right hand.

'Who are you?' the man demanded brusquely.

'I am Mr Sharma's driver,' he replied, swallowing hard.

'Then what are you doing traipsing around here? All the
drivers are supposed to eat in the outside tent. Go over there.' He
pointed towards the gate.

'Yes,' he said and half ran, half walked towards the gate.
Rounding the corner, he leaned against the wall, his body still limp
with shock.

He saw that he had reached the front driveway, where a row
of cars was lined up, but none of the drivers was around. They
were all having dinner inside a tent erected just behind the left
entrance gate. The deathly silence in the portico was a sharp
contrast to the music and laughter emanating from the garden at
the back.

Hiding behind a marble column, Eketi peeked back at the
cobbled pathway. The man in the grey trousers was now sitting on
the plastic chair directly below the switchboard, wiping his neck
with a handkerchief, the hockey stick leaning against his left leg.
He did not appear to be a regular guard, but it was evident that
he was stationed there specifically to ensure that no one tampered
with the switchboard. Eketi wondered what to do. Should he go
back to the Bhole Nath Temple and ask Ashok? Should he just
make a dash for the
ingetayi
, light or no light? A whizzing sound
came from above and he looked up to see a great green flower
burst in the sky. The fireworks had started on the rear lawn.

He edged inside the portico and came across an open casement
window. Peeping in, he saw a large hall full of people talking
and drinking. The bass whine of a speaker suddenly split the air
and a tall man wearing a dark suit and purple tie walked towards
a mike positioned just behind the open window. The man turned
to face the crowd, tapped the mike a couple of times and began
speaking. 'Friends, we are gathered here today to celebrate
my acquittal,' Eketi heard him say. 'All along I maintained my
innocence. I am glad the court also recognized it. I am thankful to
all of you whose support kept me afloat through those dark days
and nights when I didn't know whether I would be spending the
rest of my life in a dingy cell. So this is to say thank you. But
the person I need to thank the most is my father, the one man
responsible for making me what I am today. Dad, can you please
come up here and say a few words?'

An older, heavy-set man, wearing white
kurta
pyjamas, walked
up to the mike and embraced the man in the suit, who clung to
him as if it was their last meeting. Eketi even detected a tear
coursing down the suited man's cheek. Then the older man began
speaking.

'It is always a mistake to give a politician a mike,' he said and
there was mild tittering. 'But I am standing here today not as the
Home Minister of Uttar Pradesh but as a father. And nothing gives
a father greater happiness than to see his children prosper and
flourish. Nothing pains a father more than to see his son being
implicated in a totally fabricated case. I am glad that the long dark
night is over and my son can now live like a free man. This is a
victory for all those who have faith in the judiciary and in justice.
To my son I wish a very long life. May Lord Shiva bless all of
you.'

There were murmurs of approval from the people in the
room. A cracker burst loudly and the sky was lit up by a brilliant
orange pumpkin.

Eketi went back to his vantage point against the wall. He
peeked at the garages again, hoping that the man in the grey
trousers might have gone. But he was still there, except now he
was standing up and looking left and right, as if checking that the
coast was clear. As Eketi watched, the man turned towards
the switchboard, opened the cabinet and fiddled briefly. Instantly,
darkness descended over the entire farmhouse.

The tribal quivered with excitement. This was his cue. He raced
down the cobbled pathway soundlessly and ran on to the lawn,
which was also in pitch darkness. He was halfway across the
grounds when his foot struck a wooden table and he went sprawling
on to the grass. A loud bang came from inside the house, as
though an engine had backfired, and he sensed a dark figure rush
out on to the lawn. Eketi's left leg was hurting badly, but ignoring
the pain he bounded the last few steps to the temple, his eyes
accustomed by now to the darkness. Dropping his canvas bag to
the floor, he began feeling his way around the walls, which had
recessed alcoves containing idols of various deities. It took him
half a minute to locate the one with the
ingetayi
. He touched it,
felt its smooth surface, the markings on top, and his fingers began
throbbing on their own. All else became a blur as he picked up the
sea-rock. It lifted off its base easily. Slipping it into the canvas bag,
he swung the bag across his shoulder and began running down the
lawn, his heart singing. He was going home. To Champi. To
Gaubolambe.

He had almost reached the edge of the wood when the lights
came back on. 'Stop!' someone shouted behind him. He turned
around and saw a constable with a raised baton speeding across
the lawn towards him.

He tried to make a dash for the safety of the thicket, but at
that very moment his injured left leg gave up on him. He fell
down in a heap and within seconds the cop was upon him.

'What have you just done, bastard?' the constable wheezed,
breathing deeply.

'Nothing,' said Eketi, his face distorted with pain.

'Give me your bag,' the constable said, whacking him on the
legs with his
lathi
.

With a startled cry, Eketi let go of the bag. The constable lifted
it and was surprised by its weight. 'What have you got inside?
Let's take a look,' he muttered as he unzipped the bag. One by
one he started taking out its contents – the small lumps of red and
white clay, the pouch of pig fat, the bone necklace, and finally the
sacred rock. 'Oh, this looks like a
shivling
! Where did you steal it
from?' Before Eketi could reply, the constable groped in the bag
one final time. His fingers touched something hard and metallic
and his eyebrows rose as he drew out a silver-coloured gun. It was
a locally made improvised revolver, a
katta
.

'And what is this, motherfucker?'

'I don't know. That is not mine,' Eketi replied, completely
taken aback.

'Then how come it is inside your bag?'

'I don't know how it got there.'

'Don't worry, we will find out,' said the constable as he took
out a pair of handcuffs. 'Come on, blackie, you are under arrest.'

24 March

I have been arrested. For murdering Vicky Rai.

These aren't the opening lines of a film script or a novel.
I am writing them sitting on a wobbly bench inside the
record room of Mehrauli police station, where I have been
detained along with five other suspects. It is a large room,
full of files piled high on metal shelves fifteen feet tall.
Cobwebs festoon every corner and an ancient fan hangs
from the wooden ceiling. The room has the musty smell of
a library intermingled with the fetid stench of a morgue.
The occasional gust of air blowing in from the small
window with an iron grille is therefore a relief. I can hear
the faint pitter-patter of raindrops. It has been raining
steadily for the past two hours.

I had made a fashionably late entrance at the party,
arriving at the farmhouse just after eleven. The lawn was
packed with people. It seemed the Who's Who of Delhi had
come to celebrate Vicky's acquittal. Jagannath Rai was there
too, with an army of hangers-on in starched white
kurta
pyjamas. I was sickened by this vulgar display of political
muscle, this affront to justice. But I was even more sickened
by Vicky Rai. Having seen him up close – the scaly scar
running down his left cheek, the way spit dribbled out of
his mouth when he became excited – I felt disgusted at my
decision to seek his help. I was going to pay a very high
price indeed for saving my sister.

And then I met the weirdest American in the whole
world. He was cute, with a strong resemblance to Michael J.
Fox; he was rich, having just received fifteen million dollars;
and he was madly in love with me. But he turned out to be
the psycho Rosie had warned me about. So I got rid of Mr
Larry Page, a.k.a. Rick Myers, faster than he could say
'Howdy'.

At the stroke of midnight fireworks began in the garden
and speeches began in the marble drawing room. Vicky Rai
and his father spoke as if they were members of a mutual
admiration society. Their corny panegyrics made me cringe.
Then Vicky went to the bar and began mixing a drink. That
is when the lights went out and the entire house was
plunged into darkness. Living in Mumbai, I had almost
forgotten the power cuts which used to plague Azamgarh.
But somehow the lights going off at Number Six did not
seem to fit the pattern of an unscheduled load-shedding. It
smacked more of deliberate mischief.

'
Arrey
, what happened?' I exclaimed.

'Switch on the generator,' someone shouted.

And then a shot rang out. 'Nooooooo!' Jagannath Rai
screamed. Another cracker burst outside, but it was so loud
it seemed as if it had burst inside the room, almost
shattering my eardrums.

There was complete confusion and pandemonium for
the three minutes or so that the house remained in pitch
darkness. Then the lights came on, blinding my eyes with
their sudden dazzle. The first thing I saw was Vicky Rai's
body, slumped below the window, next to the bar. Blood
had seeped into his white shirt, turning it crimson. I heard
another high-pitched scream and realized it was mine.
At that moment ten police constables barged into the hall,
led by an Inspector with a curled-up moustache.

'Freeze! Nobody move,' the Inspector bawled, as though
this was an episode of
C.I.D
. He saw Vicky Rai's body and
bent down to examine it. He felt the wrist and lifted the
eyelids. 'He is finished,' he pronounced, before fixing his
gaze on the guests in the room. 'I know one of you has done
it. So I have cordoned off the entire farmhouse. Now the
police will check each and every one of you. No one will be
allowed to leave Number Six till our search is over. Preetam
Singh, begin frisking the guests.'

I heard this and my hands started turning cold. The
American was standing close to me and became the first
guest to be searched. A constable asked him to spread his
arms and legs. He stood grinning like a scarecrow while the
policeman patted him down, and shockingly a sleek black
Glock equipped with a silencer emerged from inside his
suit. 'What is this?' the constable cried as he dangled the
pistol from his index finger.

'Well, dip me in shit and call me stinky!' Larry
exclaimed. 'I have no idea how that gun got there. I don't
even know how to fire that damn thing.'
'Take him in for questioning,' the Inspector directed the
constable and turned his attention to me. 'Shabnamji, if you
don't mind, I need to check your purse.' Before I could
mouth a suitable protest, he snatched the moccasin bag
from my hand. Snapping it open, he sifted through it with
the dexterity of a Customs officer. Out came the Beretta.
'Oh! You have a gun too?' he said in the surprised tone of a
priest discovering a nun in a brothel.

I detected a sly gleam in the Inspector's eyes as he
examined the gun. 'Can I ask you, Miss Shabnam, why you
brought this gun to the party?'

'I carry it for self-protection,' I replied icily, hoping he
couldn't hear the thudding of my heart as clearly as I
could.

He ejected the magazine, examined it and then smelt it.
'Hmmm . . . one bullet has been fired. Are you sure you
didn't use it on Vicky Rai?'

'Of course not,' I snapped, adopting the contemptuous
tone I use to put down underlings who try to get fresh with
me.

'Still, you will have to come to the police station.
Meeta –' he gestured to a frumpy-looking lady constable,
'take her away.'

As Meeta was leading me out, I came across Mr Mohan
Kumar, now more famous as Gandhi Baba, appearing to
have an epileptic fit. He was foaming at the lips and trying
desperately to eject something from his mouth. A constable
stood next to him with a gleaming Walther PPK, which
appeared to have come out of his
kurta
pocket. I wondered
how the apostle of non-violence would explain what he was
doing with a gun inside the farmhouse. What new version of
gandhigiri
was he trying out?

It seemed that Mr Jagannath Rai was having similar
difficulties. 'I am telling you, this is a licensed Webley &
Scott which I have been keeping with me for the last
twenty years,' he was explaining to a constable who was
busy reading the markings on a grey revolver with a wooden
butt. Finding that his plea was falling on deaf ears,
Jagannath Rai turned to the Inspector. 'Someone has killed
my only son. Instead of trying to catch the murderer, you
are trying to blame me, the father? I am the Home Minister
of Uttar Pradesh. I will have all of you arrested.'

'Look, Mr Rai.' The Inspector glowered at him. 'This is
not Uttar Pradesh, where you can do as you please. This
is Delhi and here you will do as we please. Every person
who has a gun on these premises is a murder suspect. And
that includes you. Preetam Singh, take him into custody.'

We were all herded into a blue van with wire-mesh
windows and taken to the Mehrauli police station. The
record room was the dingiest room in the police station, but
it was still better than a lock-up. It was here that I met the
two remaining suspects, easily the most intriguing of the lot.
One was a short-statured tribal from Jharkhand, with the
blackest skin I have ever seen. He took no notice of me, but
sat alone on the floor, and appeared to be pining for some
girl called Champi. He kept asking every passing constable
for news of her. The policemen swore at him and made
threatening gestures.

The other suspect was a lanky youth called Munna
Mobile with long, curly hair. He was handsome in a rakish
kind of way, reminding me of Salim Ilyasi, but there was
also a disconcerting cockiness about him. He told me
he was out in the garden when the lights went out. But he
couldn't explain satisfactorily what he was doing in the
garden with a Chinese Black Star pistol in his pocket.

A stream of constables kept entering the record room.
They pretended to examine the files but I knew they were
interested mainly in ogling me, the biggest celebrity to grace
their crummy police station.

Mohan Kumar, a.k.a.Gandhi Baba, wandered around the
room like a lost boy before sitting down beside me. He
leered at me in an odd way. 'So, Shabnam, have you finally
decided to appear in
Plan B
?'

He sounded so eerily like Vicky Rai that I almost
jumped out of my skin. The guy really creeped me out.

I shifted immediately to the next bench, where Larry
Page sat brooding. The Master's words came to me: 'Of all
men's miseries the bitterest is this: to know so much and to
have control over nothing.' For the first time I realized what
a prisoner on death row was up against. How powerless he
must feel against the might of the State. As the uncouth
constables undressed me mentally, a lump of fear formed in
my throat. I was convinced that sooner or later they would
discover the body in Azamgarh, find out that the gun
recovered from me was used to kill him and charge me with
murder. I would be at the mercy of these lusty-eyed cops,
who were already salivating at the prospect of interrogating
me. I would certainly be stripped and quite possibly raped.

And even if I managed to survive the murder rap, I
wouldn't be able to avoid bankruptcy. This morning I
discovered that Bhola has taken money not only from Jugs
Luthra, but from at least four other producers.

Jagannath Rai was standing in a corner, busy speaking to
his lawyer. But I knew that I didn't need a lawyer; I needed
an escape artist.

In the face of my rapidly shrinking options, I reappraised
the American sitting next to me. He claimed to be a
humble forklift operator, but after the recovery of that
Glock from him my hunch was that he was an undercover
agent. To earn a reward of fifteen million dollars and get a
commendation letter from the US President, he must be the
smartest FBI operative in the business, yet he put on a
brilliant act of appearing to be dumb, aping those bumbling
detectives of film and fiction. He could be my ticket to
safety and sanctuary.

I sidled up to him. 'Larry, you said you were in some
kind of Witness Protection Programme. Do you think I
might be able to join you?'

He almost fell off the bench. 'Say that again?'

'I was thinking, could I come with you to the States?'

'Now you're reading my mail. I'll find out right now,' he
trilled and punched a number on his mobile phone.

Within ten minutes he had an answer. 'I've spoken to
Lizzie, the CIA Station Chief. She told me she'll pull some
strings and get you included in the Witness Protection
Programme. She's already working, as we speak, to get us
out of here. A USAF Boeing 757 is standing by to fly us to
the States. But there is one hitch.'

'What?'

'Lizzie said you can enter the programme only as my
lawfully wedded wife.' He fell to his knees and clasped his
hands. 'Tell me, Shabnam, will you marry me?'

I gazed at his lovesick face and stood up from the
bench. I walked towards the grille window and looked out.
The rain had stopped, but a pale mist hung in the air. The
earth was awakening, its fertility rejuvenated. It smelt of
mud and grass, fresh and new. The night had ended and the
sun was beginning to peek over the horizon, heralding a
brand-new day. It touched me with its simple promise and
my decision was made.

'Yes.' I let out a deep breath. 'I will marry you, Larry.'

'You've made me happier than a pig in sunshine,' he
said, swooning with joy. 'So will you leave films for me?'

I smiled. 'For you, I will even leave the country.' I liked
this man. In time I might even come to love him.

Larry did a little jig, then stopped, as if remembering
something. 'Lizzie said there was one other thing.'

'What now?'

'You cannot remain Shabnam. Everyone in the Witness
Protection Programme has to acquire a whole new ID. You
gotta pick a new name and Lizzie will get you a new
passport in a jiffy.'

I thought about that new name. Something neat and
simple, yet one that would mark a complete break from my
filmi
past. A name that would be the exact opposite of
Shabnam Saxena. And it came to me in a flash. 'I've got my
new name.' I snapped my fingers.

'What is it? Tell me, tell me,' Larry clamoured.

'Ram Dulari,' I said triumphantly.