Six Suspects Read Free Page A

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