Six Suspects Read Free

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