Six Suspects Read online

  At least I still have Rita, he reasons, as he knots his tie and gazes at her naked body, her black hair spread out like a fan on the pillow.

  She is a divorcée, with no children, and a well-paying job which requires her to go to the office only three times a week. There is a gap of twenty-seven years between them, but no difference in their tastes and temperaments. At times, he feels as if she is a mirror image of him, that they are kindred souls separated only by their sex. Still, there are things about her he doesn't like. She is too demanding, nagging him constantly for gifts of diamonds and gold. She complains about everything, from her house to the weather. And she has a ferocious temper, having famously slapped a former boss who was trying to get fresh with her. But she more than makes up for these deficiencies with her performance in bed. He likes to believe that he is an equally good lover. At sixty, he is still virile. With his height, fair skin and full head of hair which he dyes diligently every fortnight, he knows he is not unattractive to women. Still, he wonders how long Rita will stay with him, at what point his occasional gifts of perfume and pearls will prove insufficient to prevent her from falling for a younger, richer, more powerful man. Till that happens, he is content with these stolen afternoons twice a week.

  Rita fumbles underneath the pillow and retrieves a pack of Virginia Slims and a lighter. She lights up a cigarette expertly and draws on it, releasing a ring of smoke which is immediately sucked in by the A-C. 'Did you get tickets for Tuesday's show?' she asks.

  'Which show?'

  'The one in which they will make contact with the spirit of Mahatma Gandhi on his birthday.'

  Mohan looks at her curiously. 'Since when did you start believing in this mumbo-jumbo?'

  'Séances are not mumbo-jumbo.'

  'They are to me. I don't believe in ghosts and spirits.'

  'You don't believe in God either.'

  'No, I am an atheist. Haven't visited a temple in thirty years.'

  'Well, neither have I, but at least I believe in God. And they say Aghori Baba is a great psychic. He can really talk to spirits.'

  'Humph!' Mohan Kumar sneers. 'The baba is no psychic. He is just a cheap tantric who probably feasts on human flesh. And Gandhi is no international pop star. He is the Father of the Nation, for heaven's sake. He deserves more respect.'

  'What's disrespectful in contacting his spirit? I'm glad an Indian company is doing it, before some foreign corporation trademarks Gandhi, like basmati rice. Let's go on Tuesday, darling.'

  He looks her in the eye. 'How will it look for a former Chief Secretary to be seen attending something as outlandish as a séance? I have to think about my reputation.'

  Rita sends another ring of smoke spinning towards the ceiling and gives a shrewd laugh. 'Well, if you find nothing wrong in having these afternoon trysts with me, despite having a wife and a grown-up son, I don't see why you cannot come to the show.'

  She says it lightly, but it stings him. He knows she wouldn't have said this six months ago when he was still Chief Secretary. And he realizes that his mistress, too, has changed. Even the sex was different now, as if Rita was holding something back, knowing that his power to mould things in her favour had diminished, if not disappeared.

  'Look, Rita, I am definitely not going,' he says with injured pride as he puts on his jacket. 'But if you insist on going to the séance, I will get you a pass.'

  'Why do you keep calling it a séance? Think of it as just another show. Like a movie premiere. All my friends are going. They say it will be a page-three event. I've even bought a new chiffon sari to wear that evening. Come on, be a sport, darling.' She pouts.

  He knows Rita is nothing if not persistent. Once she sets her heart on something, it is difficult to dissuade her, as he discovered to his cost with the Tanzanite pendant she demanded on her thirty-second birthday.

  He gives in gracefully. 'OK. I will arrange two passes. But don't blame me if Aghori Baba makes you retch.'

  'I won't!' Rita jumps up and kisses him.

  *

  So it is that at seven twenty-five p.m. on 2 October, Mohan Kumar finds himself alighting reluctantly from his chauffeured Hyundai Sonata at Siri Fort Auditorium.

  The venue for the séance resembles a fortress under siege. A large contingent of police in full riot gear are trying their best to control an unruly mob of protestors shouting angry slogans and holding up a variety of placards: 'THE FATHER OF THE NATION IS NOT FOR SALE', 'AGHORI BABA IS A FRAUD', 'BOYCOTT UNITED ENTERTAINMENT', 'GLOBALIZATION IS EVIL'. On the other side of the road, a battery of TV cameras are lined up, filming sombrelooking anchors making breathless live broadcasts.

  Mohan Kumar pushes through the mêlée, one hand guarding the wallet in the inside pocket of his off-white linen suit. Rita, looking svelte in a black chiffon sari and corset blouse, follows him in stiletto heels.

  He recognizes India's best known TV journalist, Barkha Das, standing directly in front of the wrought-iron entrance gate. 'The most revered name in the pantheon of Indian leaders is that of Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi, or Bapu as he is fondly known to millions of Indians,' she announces into a hand-held mike. 'United Entertainment's plans to make contact with his spirit on the solemn occasion of his birth anniversary have drawn ire across the country. The family of Mahatma Gandhi has termed it a national disgrace. But with the Supreme Court refusing to intervene, it appears that even this most sacred of names will be sacrificed today on the altar of commercial greed. This distasteful séance will take place after all.' She purses her lips and makes a grimace familiar to her prime-time audience.

  Mohan Kumar nods his head in silent agreement as he inches closer to the gate. Suddenly the journalist's bulbous mike is thrust in his face. 'Excuse me, Sir, do you believe in spirits?'

  A cameraman standing discreetly to the reporter's left immediately swings in his direction, training a Sony Betacam on him.

  'Shit!' Mohan Kumar swears under his breath as he flinches instinctively from being filmed on national television. Rita preens by his side, hoping to catch the camera's viewfinder.

  'Do you believe in spirits, Sir?' Barkha Das repeats.

  'Only of the drinking kind,' he replies wryly, striding past the entrance to join the long queue of ticket-holders snaking through a door-frame metal detector.

  'Great answer!' Rita beams and gently squeezes his arm.

  Looking at the eager, expectant faces milling around him, Mohan feels vaguely distressed. The inexhaustible capacity of the gullible to be cheated has never ceased to amaze him. He frets at the slow progress of the queue, not having stood in one for the last thirty-seven years.

  After an interminable wait, during which he has his ticket scrutinized by three different checkers, his body scanned for guns and metal and his mobile phone confiscated for later return, Mohan Kumar is finally permitted to enter the brightly lit foyer of the auditorium. Liveried waiters hover, serving soft drinks and vegetarian canapés. In the far corner, a group of singers sitting cross-legged on a raised platform sing 'Vaishnav Janato', Mahatma Gandhi's favourite bhajan, to the accompaniment of tabla and harmonium. He brightens as he spots several well-known personalities mingling in the crowd – the Auditor General, a Deputy Commissioner of Police, five or six Members of Parliament, an excricketer, the President of the Golf Club and quite a few journalists, businessmen and bureaucrats. Rita breaks away from him to join a group of her socialite friends, who greet each other with little whoops of fake delight and feigned surprise.

  The middle-aged owner of a textile mill, from whom Mohan Kumar had once extracted a hefty bribe, walks past him, studiously avoiding eye contact. Six months ago the man would have fawned on me, he thinks bitterly.

  It is another quarter of an hour before the doors of the auditorium open and an usher directs him to the front. He has obtained the very best seats, right in the centre of the first row, courtesy of an IT company on whose board of directors he is now serving. Rita looks suitably impressed.

  The hall fills up quickly
with Delhi's glitterati. Mohan glances at the people around him. The ladies look vulgar in their brocaded silks and permed curls, the men faintly ridiculous in their Fabindia kurtas and Nagra jutis.

  'You see, darling, I told you everyone who is anyone would come.' Rita winks at Mohan.

  The audience coughs and fidgets and waits for the show to begin, but the velvet curtain draped over the stage refuses to budge.

  At eight thirty p.m., an hour behind schedule, the lights begin to dim. Soon the hall is plunged into spooky darkness. Simultaneously, strains of the sitar fill the air and the curtain begins to rise. A single spotlight illuminates the stage, which is bare save for a straw mat on the floor. Arrayed in front of the mat are a number of items – a hand-driven spinning wheel, a pair of spectacles, a walking stick and a bundle of letters. A simple banner at the rear is emblazoned with the blue-and-white logo of United Entertainment.

  A familiar baritone booms from the large black speakers on either side of the stage. 'Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I am your host for the evening, Veer Bedi. Yes, the same Veer Bedi who meets you on the silver screen. You cannot see me in front of you, but you know that I am very much here, behind the scenes. Spirits are similar. You cannot see them, but they are all around us.

  'In a few minutes from now, we are going to make contact with the most famous spirit of them all, the man who singlehandedly changed the course of the twentieth century. The man of whom Einstein said "Generations to come will scarce believe that such a one as this walked the earth in flesh and blood." Yes, I am talking about none other than Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi, our beloved Bapu, who was born on this very day in the year 1869.

  'Bapu attained martyrdom nearly six decades ago, no more than a few kilometres from here, but today he will come alive again. With your own ears you will hear Mahatma Gandhi speak through the medium of Baba Aghori Prasad Mishra, an internationally renowned psychic. Aghori Baba possesses the siddhi, the divine energy acquired through yoga which enables one to pierce the veil between this world and the next, and talk to spirits.

  'I know there are some sceptics in the audience who think this encounter with Bapu is a hoax. I used to be a non-believer too. But no longer. Let me share something personal with all of you.' Veer Bedi's voice modulates to a conspirational tone. 'Five years ago, I lost my sister in a car accident. We were very close and I missed her terribly. Two months ago, Baba Aghori Prasad Mishra made contact with her. Through him, I spoke to my sister, learnt about her journey to the afterlife. It was the most amazing, transformative experience of my life. And that is why I am here to vouch personally for Aghori Baba. I can guarantee that what you are going to witness today is a once-in-a-lifetime experience, something that will change you for ever.'

  There are murmurs of agreement from the audience.

  'As you all know, we very much wanted Mahatma Gandhi's family to join us today, but they have chosen to distance themselves from this momentous event. Nevertheless, we have been helped by powerful benefactors who knew the Mahatma intimately. They have lent us items belonging to him which you can see arranged in the centre of the stage. There is the wooden charkha, the spinning wheel with which he spun the khadi cotton cloth which he always wore. Next to it lies his favourite walking stick. There is his pair of trademark round spectacles, and that bundle contains some letters written personally by the Great Mahatma.

  'Before I invite Baba Aghori Prasad Mishra to come on to the stage, let me remind you of the etiquette for the séance. When the spirit enters the medium it is a critical and delicate moment. There should be no noise, no disturbance of any kind. That is why your mobile phones have not been allowed inside. Please maintain absolute silence throughout the show. On behalf of United Entertainment I would also like to thank our sponsors this evening – Solid Toothpaste, for solid white teeth, and Yamachi Motorcycles, way to go! I also thank our media partners, City Television, who are beaming this event live to millions of viewers in India and across the globe. We'll take a very short commercial break here, but don't go anywhere, because when we return, Baba Aghori Prasad Mishra will be on stage.'

  A babble rises in the hall. Someone says loudly, 'I see dead people,' which leads to considerable tittering. The mirth lingers for a while before fading under the weight of nervous anticipation.

  Veer Bedi's voice returns after exactly five minutes. 'Welcome back to United Entertainment's An Encounter with Bapu. The time has now come, ladies and gentlemen, for which you have been waiting breathlessly. Hold on to your hearts, because you are about to witness the most amazing spectacle in the history of mankind. I am now going to invite on stage Baba Aghori Prasad Mishra.'

  A machine sprays dry ice across the stage, adding to the eeriness of the atmosphere. Through the mist appears a shadowy figure, clad in a white dhoti and saffron kurta. Baba Aghori Prasad Mishra turns out to be slim and of average height. He seems to be in his late forties, with dark knotted hair piled high on top of his head, a dense black beard and piercing brown eyes. He looks like a man who has seen the world, who has conquered his fears.

  The baba walks up to the edge of the stage and bows before the audience, holding his hands together in a gesture of salutation. 'Namaste,' he says. His voice is soft and soothing. 'My name is Aghori Prasad Mishra. I am going to take you on a journey. A journey of spiritual discovery. Let us begin with what our holiest book, the Gita, says. There are two entities in this world: the perishable and the imperishable. The physical bodies of all beings are perishable, but the atma, the soul, is imperishable. Weapons do not cut this soul, fire does not burn it, water does not make it wet, and the wind does not make it dry. The soul is eternal, all-pervading, unchanging, immovable and immortal.

  'But the most important thing about the soul, and I am quoting the Bhagavad Gita again, is that just as the air takes the aroma from the flower, the soul takes the six sensory faculties The Bureaucrat 19 from the physical body it casts off during death. In other words, it continues to have the faculties of hearing, touch, sight, taste, smell and mind. That is what makes it possible to communicate with a soul.

  'By the grace of the Almighty, I have had the privilege of interacting with several spirits over the years. But none touched me as deeply as the spirit of Mahatma Gandhi. The term "Mahatma" itself means "Great Soul". Bapu has been guiding my personal spiritual evolution for the last five years. I feel his presence every waking minute. So far this has remained a private dialogue between the Mahatma and me. Today I will share his blessings with the entire world. So it is a vital journey that we will undertake today. The journey of the soul. But also a journey of hope. Because at the end of the journey you will know that death is not the end of life, but the beginning of another life. That we are eternal and immortal.

  'I will now commence my meditation. Soon the spirit of Bapu will enter me and speak through me. I request all of you to listen attentively to the message Bapu gives us today. But remember, if the communication is broken midway, immense harm will be done, both to the spirit and to me. So as Veer Bedi sahib has advised you, please, please maintain pin-drop silence.'

  The dry-ice machine goes into action once again, and a thick cloud of vapour obscures the Baba momentarily.

  When the mist dissipates, the Baba is sitting cross-legged on the mat, chanting incantations in a language which resembles, but is not, Sanskrit. The spotlight changes from white to red. The Baba's chanting subsides gradually and he closes his eyes. A serene calmness descends on his face. He becomes perfectly still, as though in a trance.

  All of a sudden there is a burst of light on the stage and a sliver of white smoke sallies forth into the hall. There is a collective intake of breath from the audience.

  'Firecracker powder!' Mohan Kumar snorts.

  Equally suddenly the spinning wheel whirrs into action. It appears to do so without any external agency, with the Baba sitting a good six feet away from it. The audience watches transfixed as the spinning wheel revolves faster and faster.

  'Must
be radio controlled, with the remote in Veer Bedi's hands,' mutters Mohan Kumar, but Rita takes no notice. She is bending forward in rapt attention, her fingers gripping the arm rest.

  As the spinning wheel continues to rotate, the walking stick and pair of spectacles stir into motion and rise from the floor. They ascend higher and higher towards the ceiling in a synchronized gravity-defying supernatural duet. There are gasps of disbelief from the assembly.

  Mohan Kumar feels a prickling sensation in his palms. 'Invisible wires, hooked to the ceiling,' he opines, but his voice lacks conviction. Rita simply gapes.

  As suddenly as it had begun, the spinning wheel abruptly grinds to a halt. The walking stick falls down with a clatter. The spectacles hit the floor and shatter.

  There is a long pause, and for a moment Mohan thinks the Baba has gone to sleep. Then his body begins to shudder uncontrollably as though in the grip of a violent fever.

  'Oh God, I can't see this,' Rita wails. At that very moment comes the sound of a voice unlike anything Mohan Kumar has heard before.

  'I wish to tender my humble apology for the long delay in reaching this place,' the voice says. 'And you will readily accept the apology when I tell you that I am not responsible for the delay nor is any human agency responsible for it.'

  The voice is grating yet oddly affecting, clear, resonant and so androgynous that it is impossible to tell whether it belongs to a man or a woman. It comes from the lips of Aghori Baba yet does not appear to be his.

  A deathly silence falls over the audience. They feel themselves to be in the presence of a superior force, one they can neither see nor fully comprehend.