Six Suspects (6 page)

Not that I am too much into that sort of thing. The
mohalla
girls who work as maids and babysitters are just cheap lays. Dark
and coarse, they are good only for fulfilling a physical need. What
I really crave are the rich chicks, the memsahibs with their English
accents and low-slung jeans. I admire their flawless complexions
and fair skin. I gape in amazement at the sleek curve of their
waists and the delicate bones of their made-up faces. I inhale the
expensive perfume on their bodies, watch the seductive roll of
their hips and feel dizzy. But I know they are good only for my
dreams. For someone like me, they are almost as unattainable as
Shabnam Saxena. Still, I was hopeful of at least ensnaring the
middle-class daughter of a chief engineer who was a regular visitor
to the temple, when my fledgling career as a mobile-phone thief
was abruptly cut short by tragedy.

We had nicked a Samsung from a Mercedes stopped near
Qutub Minar. I had managed my getaway with the mobile quite
smoothly, but Lallan couldn't disappear fast enough. He was
chased by the driver, nabbed and hauled up to the police station,
where he was personally interrogated by Sub-Inspector Vijay
Singh Yadav, known throughout the area as the Butcher of
Mehrauli.

Lallan and I had grown up together. I lived with Mother in the
temple premises; he stayed with his family in the sprawling Sanjay
Gandhi slum just outside. We played football and cricket on the
roadside, went to the same municipal school, which Lallan
dropped out of in Class Six while I continued right through to
Intermediate. He was my partner in everything, from hustling
shoes from the temple to teasing the neighbourhood girls. I called
him my best friend, but in reality he was closer than a brother to
me. A lesser person would have blurted out the truth when
confronted by the Butcher of Mehrauli, but Lallan stuck to his
code of loyalty, adamantly refusing to confess.

What happened subsequently in the police lock-up is a dark
memory which still gives me nightmares. Lallan was stripped,
strung up by a rope, and then kicked, caned and flogged for three
consecutive nights while his aged father pleaded and begged and
cried and grovelled in front of the police station. But Lallan still
refused to squeal on me.

On the fourth day, he disappeared. The police claimed they
had released him. We searched for him everywhere, even as far
afield as AIIMS and Saket, but found no clue to his whereabouts.

We discovered his bloated, mangled body three days later,
lying in a shallow ditch near Andheria Bagh. Flies were buzzing
over the sores on his chest and maggots were crawling out of his
pus-filled eyes as though he was a common slum dog.

Lallan's death was my wake-up call. It brought home to me the
stark fact that I couldn't even take life for granted. So I gave up
stealing mobile phones and resolved to make something of myself.
But what you make of your life is a function of who you are. If I
had a family pedigree and political connections, my university
degree would have landed me a cushy job in some air-conditioned
office, or at least made me a peon in a government department. But
when your mother is a lowly sweeper earning 1,200 rupees per
month and you are an ex-thief, your career options are limited. For
a brief while I worked as a book-keeper at a grocery store, then as
fleet supervisor at a transport company, and finally as a servant for
the Bhusiyas. I was a failure in all three. The easy life as a mobilephone
thief had spoiled me. I couldn't see myself counting cartons,
sniffing diesel or serving tea for a living.

So I have decided to go back to the only job I do well – stealing
mobiles.

Stealing a mobile phone is not as easy as it seems. It really is a
fine art. Just as a pickpocket takes your wallet from right under
your nose, the mobile thief makes away with your phone. Far from
a crude snatch-and-grab operation, it is more like a disappearance
trick, a sleight of hand. One moment you have the mobile in front
of you and the next moment it is gone. Like magic.

It is also an art which you never lose. A cricketer can be off
form, but not a thief. I know it is only a question of time before I
nick another mobile and score a century.

Today is 26 January, Republic Day. And I am hiding behind the
HP petrol pump on the Mehrauli–Badarpur Road and breathing
heavily. I have just stolen my first mobile phone in a year.

I had gone to visit a friend who lives in the tenements behind
the Star Multiplex and was walking back to the bus stop. It was
late evening and the neon lights of the street lamps were shrouded
in the hazy glow of winter. While I was waiting at a red light,
rubbing my hands to keep them warm, a red Maruti Esteem
pulled up in front of me. The driver was a wiry man with curly
hair and a square jaw. What struck me about him was the way he
gripped the steering wheel, as if it would come unstuck any
minute. In the peak of winter he was sweating like a pig. The man
radiated tension like a blower radiates heat. There was a mobile
phone on the dashboard and the window was open halfway. Pure
habit took over from there. Just as the light changed to green, my
hand darted inside with the speed of a bullet. The driver stared
ahead unblinkingly, his knuckles turning white. He engaged the
gear and the car surged forward, leaving me standing on the pavement
with a very stylish mobile phone in my hands. It was a
brand-new Nokia E61, so new that the cellophane had not even
been removed from the display window. I knew it would fetch me
a lot of money on the black market.

I think a woman in a Ford Ikon immediately behind the
Esteem saw me take the mobile. She glared at me as she drove
past. Before she could raise the alarm, I decamped from the scene,
criss-crossing streets for almost two kilometres till I reached the
safety of the petrol pump.

As I stand under the grey awning, panting from exertion, the
stolen mobile rings. The caller ID says 'Private number'.

I am not sure what to do. Mechanically I press the green 'talk'
button.

'Hello, Brijesh? I am going to give you the pick-up location.
Are you listening?'

It is a harsh, guttural voice. A voice with authority. A voice
which cannot be ignored. Which has to be answered.

'Yes,' I say in an equally guttural voice. A monosyllabic answer
which reveals nothing about the person answering.

'Go to the alley next to Goenka Public School on Ramoji
Road. The
maal
has been left in a black briefcase inside the
municipal dustbin. Collect it within the next half-hour. OK?'

'
Haan
,' I say again.

'Good. We shall talk again after your pick-up. Bye.'

Maal
. The word keeps ringing inside my brain like an alarm
clock.
Maal
can mean any number of things. Literally, it means
'goods'. In old Hindi films, gangsters used to refer to contraband
consignments of drugs and bullion as
maal
which would be
offloaded from ships on Mumbai's Versova Beach. A beautiful girl
is also
maal
, but unlikely to be packed inside a briefcase. For that
matter, even groceries from a provision store can be
maal
. There
is only one thing to do. I have to find out what the
maal
is.

I try and get my bearings. Ramoji Road is just a five-minute
drive from the petrol pump, twenty minutes on foot. I walk.

The Goenka Public School is one of the premier private schools
in Mehrauli. In the morning when the children begin their classes
and in the afternoon when they leave, there is a mini traffic jam in
the area, caused by all the cars of the rich businessmen whose children
study here. However, at eight p.m. it is completely deserted.
Only a couple of guards stand in front of its imposing gates, warming
their hands over a fire. I pass the school and enter the narrow
alley. It is deserted. I find the dustbin almost immediately. It stands
unobtrusively at the back of the alley, illuminated by the yellow
glare of a lamppost. There is a dog sleeping next to it. 'Shoo!' I say
and the dog pricks up his ears and slinks off into the shadows. I
push open the lid of the bin to find it brimming with rubbish. I
feel around with my hand but my fingers scrape only bulging plastic
bags, glass bottles and metal cans. So I begin emptying the bin,
removing the plastic bags and stacking them up against the side.
The stench of rotting food makes me gag. The dank recesses of the
dustbin yield various kinds of rubbish, even a few soiled nappies
and a broken transistor. And at the very bottom is a briefcase,
wrapped in a white plastic sheet. I have to lean right in to pull it
out. It is an expensive black VIP attaché case with a hard top. I rip
off the plastic sheet, and press the two side latches. The briefcase
clicks open and my eyes are dazzled by stacks of thousand-rupee
notes lining the inside. It looks like a lottery advertisement. How
could I forget that cash is the ultimate
maal
! I hastily close the
briefcase. I do not need to count the wads of notes to know that
it contains more money than I have seen in my life.

I take a good look around. Not a soul appears to be in the
vicinity. I put all the plastic bags back into the bin. As I am about
to leave, the stolen mobile trills again. Its incessant ringing almost
paralyses me. With trembling fingers I switch it off and push it
deep inside the dustbin. Then, with my heart thumping madly, I
pick up the briefcase and hasten towards the main road.

'Hello. Is this the Spiritual Meditation Centre in
Mathura?'

'Yes.'

'Is Swami Haridas there? Bhaiyyaji wants to speak to
him.'

'Bhaiyyaji? Who is Bhaiyyaji?'

'Are you new there? Don't you know that there is only
one leader in Uttar Pradesh who is addressed as Bhaiyyaji
and that is Home Minister Jagannath Rai.'

'Oh! Home Minister Sahib? But Guruji is in the middle
of his discourse. We cannot disturb him.'

'Tell him it is urgent. He never refuses Bhaiyyaji's call.'

'OK. Please hold on. I am going to the lecture hall.'
(
Pause
.)

'I am passing the line to Guruji. Please put Home
Minister Sahib on the line.'
Beep. Beep. Beep.

'Namaskar Guruji. This is Jagannath.'

'
Jai Shambhu!
What is the big emergency, Jagannath,
that you forced me to interrupt my discourse?'

'Guruji, there has been a disturbing development. I need
to consult you urgently.'

'Is it about Vicky? His case is coming up for a verdict,
isn't it?'

'No, Guruji. I have managed Vicky's case. I am more
worried about the case against me.'

'There are so many cases against you. Which one are
you referring to?'

'It is an old murder charge, dating back to 2002.'

'Whom did you kill?'

'It was Mohammad Mustaqeem, a worthless heel who
had dared to challenge me. The prosecution case was very
weak, based only on circumstantial evidence. Now suddenly
a new witness called Pradeep Dubey has come forward,
claiming that he saw me shoot Mustaqeem. The court
hearing is on the fifth of next month. If the judge convicts
me of murder, it could be curtains for my political career.
As you know, Guruji, the Chief Minister is already biased
against me.'

'According to your horoscope, all this is the result of
Saturn sitting in the fifth house. The bad period will last for
another four months. After that all your troubles will
disappear.'

'So what should I do during this period, Guruji?'

(
Laughs
.) 'You know what to do. After all, the entire
police force is under you. But start wearing blue sapphire. It
will counteract the influence of the malefic Saturn.'

'When I talk to you, Guruji, I feel at peace. I really
believe all my troubles will disappear.'

'That is what gurus are for. Can I also trouble you over a
minor matter?'

'Tell me, Guruji, and I will attend to it personally.'

'I bought a small plot in Kanpur, some twenty acres.
Now I am told squatters from a nearby slum have erected
their huts on part of the land. I am leaving very shortly for a
world tour. If they could be evicted before I leave it
would—'

'Say no more, Guruji. Tomorrow I will have the
bulldozers sent in.'

'Good. Give my regards to Vicky. I hope he is
wearing the coral ring I got specially made for him.'

'Of course, Guruji. Till his case is resolved, he dare not
disobey your advice.'

'OK, Jagannath. I have to go now. Richard Gere is here
to meet me.'

'Who is he, Guruji? Some car manufacturer?'

(
Laughs
.) 'No, he is an American actor. Bye now.
Jai
Shambhu
.'

'
Jai Shambhu, Guruji.
'

*

'Tell me, Mr Tripurari Sharan, are you
my
chief sidekick or
am I
your
sidekick?'

'What has prompted such a strange question, Bhaiyyaji?
Have I done something wrong?'

'But of course. Since eight o'clock I have been waiting
patiently for your call to find out if you managed to speak
to the witness, but you did not phone. So I am phoning
you.'

'I was going to call you in the morning, Bhaiyyaji. I
didn't want you to have a disturbed sleep.'

'So the news is bad, eh? What happened? Was Pradeep
Dubey not available?'

'No, I met him. He seems to be an idealistic young man.
I offered him a lot of money to keep his mouth shut, even
went up to ten lakhs. But he refused to budge. Said he will
definitely testify against you. My hunch is that he has been
put up by Lakhan Thakur.'

'Hmm . . . (
Long pause.
) So Lakhan is playing games
again. He has not heeded my warning.'

'Why should he? He fancies himself as the next
Jagannath Rai. Hard to imagine that five years ago he was
just a petty gangster. Ever since he won the assembly
election, his star has been on the ascendant. It is said he
owns half the timber factories in Saharanpur. Now his
ambition is to become a minister, like you.'

'That bastard will never succeed as long as I am around.
We'll deal with him at an appropriate time. But first tell me
what should we do with this Dubey fellow?'

'Bhaiyyaji, if Dubey squeaks, you are sunk. He has to be
prevented from testifying at all cost.'

'Then we'll ensure he doesn't testify. You tell Mukhtar
to see me.'

'Don't you know about Mukhtar? He got picked up by
the police yesterday in Ghaziabad.'

'What? How could they arrest Mukhtar?'

'I think there is some rape charge. You know Mukhtar,
Bhaiyyaji. He cannot keep his pyjama cord tied. Always
running after young girls.'

'Who is the police officer who has dared to arrest
Mukhtar?'

'There is a new Superintendent in Ghaziabad. Young IPS
chap called Navneet Brar. He is a bit over-zealous. Wants to
stamp out crime from the State. It appears to be his
handiwork.'

'It is actually the handiwork of the stars. They are
aligned in an inauspicious manner. That is what Guruji told
me. But as long as I have his blessings, I can take on any
challenge. You failed with the witness, Tripurari. Now see
how I sort out the police officer. Get me his mobile number
immediately.'

*

'Hello. Navneet Brar speaking.'

'Navneet, this is Home Minister Jagannath Rai speaking.'

'Well, what I can do for you, Sir?'

'I believe you have arrested a man of mine. Mukhtar
Ansari is his name.'

'Yes, Sir. He has been arrested for raping an under-age
girl. It is a non-bailable offence, Sir. Section 376, in
conjunction with 366. No leniency can be shown.'

'I am not requesting you to show leniency. I am
directing you to release him immediately.'

'You cannot issue such an order, Sir. The matter is before
a magistrate. Now Mukhtar can be released only by a court
order.'

'How dare you defy the Home Minister of the State!'

'I am sorry, Sir, but I have been tasked with upholding
the law.'

'It looks as if you are not too bothered about losing your
job.'

'I am more bothered about doing it correctly, Sir.'

'Then do the correct thing. Obey the order of your
superior.'

'I regret to say, Sir, that I cannot obey an illegal order.'

'So you refuse to obey me?'

'I refuse to abet a criminal activity.'

'You are a young officer, Brar, and hot-headed. You are
making the biggest mistake of your career.'

'I am prepared to face the consequences.'
(
Disconnect
.)

*

'Jai Hind.
Director General's residence. Constable Ram
Avtar speaking.'

'Is the DGP there?'

'Yes. Who is calling?'

'Home Minister Sahib wants to talk to him.'

'It is past midnight. DGP Sahib is sleeping.'

'Wake him up, you ass, otherwise together with the
DGP you will lose your job.'

'But DGP Sahib has given strict instructions not to
disturb him.'

'It appears you have not experienced Bhaiyyaji's wrath.
Ram Avtar, if you don't get me DGP in the next ten
seconds, from tomorrow you will be selling bananas in
Hazratganj, understand?'

'Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir. I am putting you through
immediately to DGP Sahib's bedroom.'

'OK.'

Beep. Beep. Beep
.

'Who is the bastard disturbing me at this time?'

'Jagannath Rai, Home Minister, will speak to you. I am
passing the line.'

Beep. Beep. Beep.

'Hello. Maurya?'

'Good evening, Sir. Good evening. Why did you take the
trouble of calling at this hour, Sir? I would have come to your
house.'

'Maurya, tell me how long have you been Director
General of Police?'

'Eight months, Sir.'

'And who made you the DGP?'

'You, Sir.'

'Then why is it that you do things which make me
regret my decision?'

'What . . . what, Sir? What has happened?'

'Your police have picked up Mukhtar Ansari from
Ghaziabad. I think you know very well that Mukhtar is my
right-hand man. How could you allow this to happen?'

'This is the first I have heard about this, Sir. Must have
been a local operation.'

'Your SP in Ghaziabad, a chap called Navneet Brar, is
the man responsible. Now listen to my instructions. I want
Mukhtar released first thing in the morning. And
departmental action should be initiated against Brar for
insulting the Home Minister.'

'Er . . . if I may make a suggestion, Sir, why don't we
just transfer him?'

'OK. Then transfer him to . . . to Bahraich. The good life
in Ghaziabad has gone to his head. Let him cool his heels
for a while in the boondocks!'

'Sir, your instructions will be carried out immediately. '

'Good. I knew I could count on you, Maurya.'

'If you don't mind, Sir, could I also remind you of your
promise to speak to High Command about giving my wife
Nirmala the MLA ticket from Badaun?'

'Yes, I have not forgotten. But there are still two years to
go before the State elections.'

'Still, Sir, preparations have to begin well in advance. I
can assure you Nirmala will be a most loyal party worker.
Actually so am I, Sir, it's just that I cannot say so openly,
being still in uniform.'

'I know, Maurya. Now go back to sleep.'

'Good night, Sir.'

*

'Mukhtar?'

'Boss?
As-salaam alaykum
. Thanks for getting me out so
quickly. Now I am going after that sisterfucker
Superintendent of Police.'

'You will do nothing of the sort. I have already had Brar
transferred to Bahraich.'

'The bastard! He is lucky to be alive.'

'Who was the girl?'

'Nobody you know, Boss. Just a neighbourhood kid.'

'When will you learn, Mukhtar? If all the girls you have
raped delivered babies, half of UP's population will consist
of your illegitimate children.'

'Sorry, Boss. I will be more careful next time.'

'Now listen, Mukhtar.'

'Yes, Boss.'

'There is a man called Pradeep Dubey who is
threatening to testify against me in the Mustaqeem
murder case. He needs to be neutralized. And after you take
care of Dubey, you need to take care of his mentor, Lakhan
Thakur.'

'Lakhan Thakur? The MLA from Saharanpur?'

'Yes. Why? Is the job too big for you?'

'No, Boss. No job is too big for me. It's just that getting
rid of Thakur may be more complicated. He travels with
five bodyguards.'

'So get rid of all of them. Come to the house tomorrow
and get the cash from Tripurari.'

'I will be there.
Khuda hafiz
, Boss.'

'
Khuda hafiz
.'

*

'Hello.'

'Hello. Can I speak to Prem Kalra?'

'This is Prem Kalra speaking.'

'Then listen carefully, motherfucker. This is Jagannath
Rai speaking. And this is my last warning to you. If you
publish one more story against me in the
Daily News
, both
you and your rag will be history.'

'Such language does not behove the Home Minister of
our State.'

'So you think abusing someone is the exclusive preserve
of journalists? I have tolerated your nonsense for a long
time, but enough is enough.'

'At least tell me what has prompted your ire.'

'Your latest piece, alleging that I had Pradeep Dubey
bumped off. When the police have confirmed that he was
killed in a road accident, how can you make such a baseless
allegation? I can sue you for character assassination.'

'But the allegation was not made by me, Jagannathji.
Lakhan Thakur made the allegation on the floor of the
Assembly. I have merely reproduced it.'

'And in the process you have become the mouthpiece of
the opposition. How much is Lakhan Thakur paying you?'

'I don't do this for money. It is a social service that I
render.'

'No one renders greater social service than we
politicians. The least we expect in return is some
appreciation from the media . . .'

'I cannot promise appreciation, Jagannathji, but I can
promise restraint. Goodbye.'

*

'Hello. Home Minister's residence? Chief Minister Sahib
wants to talk to Home Minister Sahib.'

'Put him on.'

'No. You put him on. Chief Minister is senior to Home
Minister.'

'OK, OK, no need to get angry. I will pass to Bhaiyyaji.'
(
Music
.)

'Hello?'

'Hello. Jagannath?'

'Namaskar Chief Minister Sahib.'

'I am under lot of pressure, Jagannath.'

'Now what has happened? The murder case against me
has been dismissed.'

'It's about your son. High Command is saying that
perhaps you should step down because of Vicky's
involvement in the Ruby Gill murder case. If the verdict
goes against him, our party's image will suffer greatly.'

'Why? The party's image did not suffer when the High
Command made me Home Minister, despite the fact that I
have thirty-two criminal cases against me. But have I been
sentenced even in one? No,
na
? Then why are you making
such a big issue over my son's involvement in just one
murder case, when the judgment has not even been
delivered?'

'It is no ordinary case, Jagannath. It has become the
most high-profile murder case in the country. All the
channels are only talking about this case.'