Six Suspects Read Online Free Page B

'Yes, let's go,' he says
abstractedly to Rita, who can no longer be seen. But before his lips
have closed, the foreign object has insinuated itself into his mouth
at lightning speed. He gulps and senses it sliding down his throat,
leaving a bitter residue on his tongue, like the uncomfortable
aftertaste of swallowing an insect. He spits a couple of times, trying
to get rid of the bitterness in his mouth. There is a mild flutter
in his heart, a tremor of protest, and suddenly his body is on fire.
A pulsing, throbbing energy crackles through him, from his brain
all the way to his feet. Whether it is coming from outside or inside,
from above or below, he doesn't know. It has no fixed centre, yet
it sweeps everything into a vortex, boring deeper and deeper to
the very core of his being. He convulses violently, as though in the
grip of a frenzy. And then the pain begins. He experiences a heavy
blow on his head, a blunt needle being plunged into his heart, and
large hands groping his chest, mangling his guts. The pain is so
excruciating, he thinks he will die. He screams in agony and terror,
but the sound is washed out by the din in the hall. A blur of
motion is all he sees, as people scream and fall, tripping over each
other. And then he blacks out.
    When he opens his eyes, the hall is silent and empty. Aghori Baba's
lifeless body is slumped over the straw mat, looking like a hilly
outcrop in a sea of blood. The wooden floor is littered with shoes,
sneakers, sandals and high heels, and someone is tapping his
shoulder. He turns around to see a policeman with a stick looking
at him intently.
    'Hey mister, what are you doing here? Haven't you seen what
has happened?' the constable barks.
    The Bureaucrat 23
    He stares at him blankly.
    'Are you dumb? Who are you? What is your name?'
    He opens his mouth, but finds it difficult to speak. 'My . . .my
. . . my . . . na . . . name . . . is . . .'
    'Yes, what is your name? Tell me,' the policeman repeats
impatiently.
    He wants to say 'Mohan Kumar' but the words refuse to come
out. He feels fingers squeezing his larynx, remoulding his vocal
cords, shackling his words. They twist inside his gullet, are mashed
around and made someone else's. 'My name is Mohan . . .
Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi,' he hears himself say.
    The constable raises his baton. 'You look like a decent man.
This is no time for jokes. I'll ask you once again. What is your
name?'
    'I told you. I am Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi.' The words
come more easily this time, more confident and self-assured.
    'Bastard, are you trying to fool me? If you are Mahatma
Gandhi, then I am Hitler's father.' The policeman grunts as his
stick arcs down and Mohan Kumar's shoulder explodes in pain.
The last thing he hears before losing consciousness again is the
wail of a police siren.

3
The Actress
    26 March
    It's tough being a celluloid goddess. For one, you have to
look gorgeous all the time. You cannot fart, you cannot spit
and you dare not yawn. Otherwise the next thing you
know, your big fat wide-open mouth will be staring at you
from the glossy pages of Maxim or Stardust . Then, you
cannot go anywhere without a horde at your heels. But the
worst thing about being a famous actress is that you get
conned into answering the most incredible questions.
    Take, for example, what happened yesterday on the
return flight from London. I had just entered the first-class
cabin of the Air India 777, wearing my latest bottle-green
Versace jacket over denim jeans with a studded belt and
dark Dior glasses. I settled down in my seat – 1A, as always
– and draped my Louis Vuitton crocodile-skin handbag on
the seat next to me – 1B, vacant as usual. Ever since that
unfortunate incident on the flight to Dubai with the
drunken passenger who tried to paw me, I get my producers
to reserve and pay for two first-class seats, one for me and
the other for my privacy. I kicked off my Blahniks, took out
my iPod, adjusted the ear plugs and relaxed. I have
discovered that