Six Suspects (13 page)

'I am a politician belonging to the Moral Regeneration Party. I
stood against Jagdamba Pal in the last election. The public was
solidly behind me, but he rigged the election and won.' He
grimaces.

'So are you doing this just to settle political scores?'

'What are you saying, Bhabhiji?' He appears shocked. 'It is our
sacred duty to protect our children from being corrupted. We in
the MRP look upon ourselves as custodians of Indian culture. You
may remember our protest against that lesbian film
Girlfriends
a
few years ago. We tore down all the posters and prevented its
screening, despite a court order against us. These sleazy films are
an affront to our culture. We are with your husband now, come
hell or high water. He will do the fasting; we will provide the
back-up.'

'And what if the cinema owner doesn't respond?'

'How will he not respond? We will compel him to respond.
But first we need to raise awareness. I have phoned some TV
channels to cover our protest.'

Shanti touches her hand to Mohan's forehead, checking to see
if he has a fever. 'I am really worried for you. How long can you
last without food?'

'We shall both find out,' Mohan smiles. 'Don't worry,
Awadhesh here will take care of me.'

In this fashion, bolstered by Shanti's concern and Bihari's
assurances, Mohan Kumar passes two days without food. By the
third day of the fast, his condition has deteriorated considerably.
Doctor Soni checks his pulse and blood pressure and looks
concerned. Shanti is beside herself. But there is still no sign of the
cinema owner.

That afternoon a van pulls up outside the cinema and a
woman dressed in jeans gets out. She has a hard face and cold,
calculating eyes. She is trailed by a tall man with a heavy video
camera.

Awadhesh Bihari quickly stands up, dusting his
kurta
.
The reporter greets the politician. 'So, Awadhesh Bihariji, will
there be some action this time? Your last protest was quite tame.'

The politician gives a shrewd smile. 'You just watch, Nikita.
This time we have even lined up Gandhi Baba. Jagdamba Pal will
be humiliated in his own den.'

The reporter looks at Mohan Kumar lying on the platform and
nods at Bihari. 'I like the Gandhi Baba angle. We might cover it in
the evening bulletin.' Lowering her voice to a whisper she tells
him, 'If he dies, we will make it the lead story.'

Bihari nods.

'Lobo, I want you to start taking shots,' she instructs the
cameraman.

'G
ANDHI BABA
C
RITICAL
' is the headline in all the newspapers
the next morning. At ten o'clock the MLA arrives in a Scorpio,
flashing a blue beacon. Four commandos with Sten guns accompany
him. The MLA is a giant, square-headed man with jet-black
hair and mean dark eyes. Sitting down on the platform next to
Mohan Kumar, he whispers to him, 'Gandhi Baba Sahib, why are
you doing this?'

'To stop this perversion,' Mohan replies, his voice still strong.

'What you call perversion is a natural human drive. However
much you may try to hide it, sex will surface in some form or
other.'

'I am not protesting against sex. I am protesting against the
perversion of sex, this commodification of women.'

'But my films contain nothing objectionable at all. They are
cleared by the Censor Board,' he says. 'If you want to see the
commodification of women then go five hundred metres to
the underground Palika Bazaar. There you can buy all the triple-X
films you want for just a hundred rupees each. Go ten kilometres
to GB Road and for a hundred rupees you can actually buy a
young girl. Why don't you try and stop these evils instead of
picketing our hall?'

'A perversion doesn't cease to be a perversion just because it is
perverse to a lesser degree. My fast will be a mortal blow against
all purveyors of sin in society.'

'Look, Gandhi Baba, we don't want unnecessary trouble. I am
a politician. Your protest is damaging my reputation. On behalf of
the Distributors Association of North India, I have been
authorized to offer you twenty thousand rupees if you call off
your protest.'

Mohan Kumar laughs. 'My fight is not for money. You cannot
buy me with four pieces of silver.'

'OK, how about twenty-five thousand, then?'

Mohan Kumar shakes his head. 'Mr Pal, once I have taken a
vow, no power on earth can stop me from following it.'

The MLA is beginning to lose his temper. 'Who the hell do
you think you are? Here I am, speaking to you so politely and you
are behaving as if you are really Mahatma Gandhi. Come now,
enough of this drama. I want you to vacate this spot immediately
or I will have you forcibly removed.'

'A
satyagrahi
has infinite patience, abundant faith in others,
and ample hope. According to the code of the
satyagrahi
, there is
no such thing as surrender to brute force.'

'You petty bastard.' Jagdamba Pal lunges at Mohan Kumar. A
former boxer, he makes unerring contact with Mohan Kumar's
face and a fountain of blood gushes from the bureaucrat's nose.

'Hey Ram!' Mohan cries and falls down. Shanti screams in
horror. Jagdamba Pal stands for a moment, amazed at what he has
done, then scrambles back to his vehicle.

'Gandhi Baba has been hit!' The cry goes through the crowd
like bush fire.

'Kill the bastard!' Awadhesh Bihari screams. His followers
immediately charge after the MLA, who is already driving away.
'Burn down the cinema!' Awadhesh Bihari shrills and the mob
races into the hall.

'Wait . . .wait . . .' Mohan shouts, but his cries fall on deaf ears.
Within seconds, the surging crowd has broken down the foyer
door and rushed into the hall. Ten minutes later, black smoke is
billowing from the cinema, the audience is running out in a panic
and the air is reverberating with the sirens of ambulances and fire
engines.

A police van screeches to a halt in front of the cinema.
Constables spring out like rabbits and train their carbines on
Mohan Kumar. An Inspector approaches him, accompanied by the
cinema manager. 'Is this the man?' he asks, pointing a finger at
Mohan.

'Yes, Sir,' the manager cries. 'This is Gandhi Baba. He is
responsible for destroying the cinema.'

The Inspector taps his cane on his palm. 'You are under arrest,
Gandhi Baba.'

'Arrest? What for?' Mohan asks, a handkerchief pressed on his
nose to stop the flow of blood.

'Section 307: attempt to murder, Section 425: mischief resulting
in damage to property, Section 337: endangering personal
safety of others, Section 153: provocation to riot. Come on, we
have had enough of your antics.'

'But my name is not Gandhi Baba. It is Mohan Kumar. I am an
ex-IAS officer,' he says haughtily, drawing himself to his full height.

'Doesn't matter what you call yourself. You are under arrest.'
He gestures to his constables. 'Take him away.'

Tihar Jail is a series of seven prison blocks in west Delhi. Originally
built for seven thousand inmates, it now houses thirteen thousand
prisoners, nine thousand of whom are awaiting trial.

The warden is a fleshy man with heavy jowls and greying hair.
Mohan stands before him in his prison uniform, bristling with
restrained anger. The warden gives him a greasy smile. 'Welcome,
Sir. It is very rare that we have the privilege of hosting senior civil
servants.'

'You know that I shouldn't be here at all,' Mohan fumes.
'That magistrate who remanded me to judicial custody for four
months deserves to have his head examined. Anyway, I hope
you have received a call from my batchmate, the Police
Commissioner?'

Yes, Sir,' the warden nods. 'Police Commisssioner Sahib has
already instructed us to take good care of you. So I have put you
in a high-security cell with Babloo Tiwari.'

'Babloo Tiwari? The notorious gangster?'

The warden nods.

'And how is that a favour?'

'You will see, Sir. In Tihar, nothing is as it seems. Come, let me
show you to your cell.'

He escorts Mohan along long narrow corridors, a fat bunch of
keys jingling in his hand. The jail seems clean and well maintained,
but with a cloying odour, a cross between the astringent smell of
a hospital and the bilious smell of a butchery. They pass through
a courtyard where prisoners stand in line, doing exercises. 'Here at
Tihar, we try our best to reform the prisoners. We have introduced
programmes such as vipassana and yoga. We also have an excellent
library and reading room,' the warden says proudly.

The cell is located at the southern end of the jail. 'All our cells
are seven by ten feet,' the warden says as he unlocks the thick iron
grille door. 'This one is the largest, two cells combined into one,
actually. And see what it has.' They step inside and Mohan blinks
in astonishment. The cell has wall-to-wall beige carpeting, a small
colour TV, and even a minibar. There is a bunk bed, with a man in
prison uniform sleeping on the lower berth, wrapped in a brown
blanket.

'Welcome to jail, VIP style,' the warden grins.

'I should be grateful for small mercies.' Mohan permits himself
half a smile. 'But I would have preferred to be alone. Why don't
you transfer this fellow Tiwari to another cell?'

'Look, Sir, this is not a hotel where I can allot rooms at my
discretion,' the warden says testily. 'Babloo Tiwari is in this cell
because he has even better connections than you.' He gently pats
the sleeping prisoner's shoulder. 'Tiwariji, please wake up.'

The prisoner sits up, rubbing his eyes. He is a short man, with
a round, clean-shaven face and long, straight hair which falls over
his forehead. He stretches his arms and yawns. 'What are you
doing here, Jailer Sahib?' he asks in a sleepy voice.

'I have come to introduce you to your new cellmate. Meet Mr
Mohan Kumar, IAS.'

Babloo Tiwari looks at him curiously. 'Aren't you the guy they
are calling Gandhi Baba?'

Mohan remains silent, but the warden nods his head. 'Exactly,
Tiwariji. It is our privilege to host such a distinguished personality
in our jail.'

'I hope he doesn't start trying to reform me,' Babloo grumbles.
'By the way, Jailer Sahib, did you get me the new SIM card for my
mobile?'

'Shhh,' the warden whispers, looking left and right. 'Even walls
have ears. I will have it sent tomorrow.'

The iron door clangs shut, creating vibrations which rattle in
Mohan's head long after the warden has gone. Babloo Tiwari
sniffles and extends his right hand. 'How do you do?' Mohan sees
an arm tattooed with anchors and snakes, but he also notices a grid
of broken veins and puncture marks on the shrivelled skin.
Curling up his lip, he makes no effort to shake the gangster's hand.

'Suit yourself,' Babloo says and takes out a Nokia from his front
pocket. He dials a number and, with one leg propped over the
other, his free hand scratching his scrotum, begins speaking softly.

Mohan reluctantly climbs up to the top bunk. The sheet is
covered in stains and the thin mattress is lumpy. There is dampness
in the room which seems to seep in through the walls. A cold
draft blows in through the door, forcing him to pull up the
blanket. But it is badly frayed and makes him itch. He suppresses
an urge to burst into tears.

Lunch is served at noon on a steel plate; it consists of four
thick
rotis
, vegetable stew and a bowl of watery
dhal
. Mohan finds
the food bland and unappetizing and pushes away the plate after
eating just one
roti
. Below him, Babloo Tiwari doesn't even touch
the food.

Mohan lies in bed, pretending to read a magazine, while
hunger gnaws at his belly. At some point he falls asleep, dreaming
of butter chicken and whisky. When he opens his eyes there is a
glassful of golden liquid floating before him. A disembodied head
materializes alongside the glass. It is Babloo Tiwari, peeking up
from below. 'Would you care for a glass of this?'

'What is it?' he condescends to ask.

'Scotch. Twenty-five years old.'

Almost involuntarily, his tongue flicks over his dry lips. 'Well,
I wouldn't mind a sip,' he admits, ashamed of his own weakness.

'Cheers, then,' says Babloo. 'You can keep your
gandhigiri
for
outside the cell.'

They clink glasses and break the ice.

*

The cell is unlocked again at four p.m. 'Come,' Babloo says. 'Let's
go for some fresh air.'

They walk into a courtyard, half the size of a football pitch,
where nearly fifty prisoners are milling around. They are of all ages
and sizes: some are wizened old men with flowing beards and some
look as young as fifteen. There is a group playing volleyball, another
gathered around a radio set and a few men just sitting and chatting.
The deferential way in which the other prisoners greet Babloo
Tiwari clearly establishes him as their leader. Only a group of three
men sitting huddled together in a corner takes no notice of him.

'Who are they?' Mohan asks.

'Don't talk to them. Don't even go near them. They are foreigners
belonging to the dreaded Lashkar-e-Shahadat who were
involved in last year's attempted bombing of the Red Fort.

'Shouldn't they be put in a separate area, if they are high-risk
terrorists?'

Babloo smiles. '
Arrey bhai
, even you are now in the high-risk
category.'

Mohan nods. His gaze falls on a striking, middle-aged man, sitting
alone on the steps. He has Einstein's hair and Hitler's moustache.

'Who is that cartoon?' he nudges Babloo.

'Oh him, he is our chief source of entertainment,' Babloo says.
'Let me show you. Hey, you,' he calls out. 'Come here.'

The man shuffles towards them. He is tall and reed-thin, and
has a furtive look about him.

'We have a new visitor. Won't you welcome him?' Babloo asks
in Hindi.