'I want all your tickets.'
'All the tickets?' The cashier raises his head.
'Yes.'
'The special rates for group bookings do not apply to morning shows. Are you bringing a group from some boys' hostel?'
'No, I want all the tickets only for the purpose of destroying them.'
'What?'
'You heard me correctly. I want to destroy your tickets. Aren't you ashamed of yourself, showing such filth, spoiling the morals of the youth of this country?'
'Hey mister, don't talk to me about all this. Go talk to the manager. Next, please.'
'Please call the manager. I refuse to leave till the manager meets me,' Mohan says firmly.
The cashier glowers at him, before getting up from his stool and disappearing through a green door. Presently a short, corpulent man enters the room.
'Yes, what is it? I am the manager.'
'I want to talk to you,' says Mohan.
'Then please come to my office. It is the first room to your right when you come up the stairs.'
The manager's room is larger, with a faded green sofa and a wooden desk which is totally bare except for a black telephone. Framed posters of bygone films adorn the walls.
The manager hears out Mohan Kumar patiently. Then he asks him, 'Do you know who owns this cinema?'
'No,' says Mohan.
'It is Jagdamba Pal, the local MLA. I am sure you don't want to tangle with him.'
'And do you know who I am?'
'No.'
'I am Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi.'
The manager breaks into hysterical fits of laughter. 'Arrey bhai, that Munnabhai film with Gandhi has come and gone. Your dialogues are one year too late.'
'Laugh, Mr Manager, but I would like to see your face when you see your own son entering through the turnstiles. I believe that the reckless indulgence of passions promoted by the films you screen encourages unrestrained licence and corruption amongst our youth. I am afraid I cannot turn a blind eye to this entirely avoidable calamity.'
The manager sighs. 'You are a decent man, but also a foolish one. If you insist on going ahead with your protest, be prepared to face the consequences. Don't blame me if the MLA sets his goons on you.'
'A true satyagrahi does not fear danger. From tomorrow I am going to sit outside and fast until you agree to stop showing these filthy films.'
'Be my guest,' the manager says and picks up the phone.
The next morning Mohan Kumar arrives at the theatre clad in his Gandhi dress – a white dhoti and kurta with a cap on his head. He picks a spot directly in front of the ticket window and sits down on the ground, propping up a simple placard which declares, 'WATCHING THIS FILM IS A SIN'.
The men in the queue look at him curiously. Some bow before him, some drop coins at his feet, but not one drops out of the line. By nine fifty, the ticket window is closed and a 'House Full' board is placed in front of it.
Shanti arrives a little later. 'Why don't you come home now?' she asks anxiously. 'The film has already started.'
He gives her a dry smile. 'Another film will start soon. I am sure someone will listen to me. If I am able to convince even one man that what he is doing is wrong, I will feel that I have succeeded in my mission.'
'But how will you succeed, when no one even knows that you are fasting?'
'My fast is a matter between God and myself, Ba. But you don't worry. I am sure others will join me in this crusade in due course.'
'Then at least drink this juice I brought for you.' Shanti offers him a flask.
'When a man fasts, it is not the gallons of water he drinks that sustains him, but God, Ba. You go home now.'
With a final forlorn look at him, Shanti leaves with Brijlal. Mohan continues to sit on the ground, watching the ebb and flow in Connaught Place, the harried-looking office executives in jackets and ties, the young women with happy glistening faces out for a shopping spree, the hawkers selling belts, sunglasses and pirated books. The roar of traffic is deafening.
When Shanti returns two hours later to check on him, she is amazed to discover Mohan sitting on a wooden platform with another man, their backs resting against foam cushions. A crowd of nearly two hundred people is standing around them, waving placards and shouting slogans: 'PORN IS FILTH', 'GANDHI BABA ZINDABAD', 'DOWN WITH JAGDAMBA PAL'.
Mohan looks smug and content. 'How did this happen?' Shanti wants to know.
Mohan points to the middle-aged man sitting next to him in white kurta pyjamas. He has an oval face, a narrow nose, a sharp jawline and shifty eyes. Shanti takes an instant dislike to him. 'This is Mr Awadhesh Bihari. He met me by chance an hour ago and immediately decided to support my cause. It is he who has organized this group and arranged for all the banners and placards.'
'Welcome, Bhabhiji,' Bihari says with the smoothness of a conartist. 'It is a privilege to meet someone as great as your husband. I was telling him how evil this man Jagdamba Pal is. He owns this sleazy cinema and also several brothels.'
'And what do you do?' Shanti asks him.
'I am a politician belonging to the Moral Regeneration Party. I stood against Jagdamba Pal in the last election. The public was solidly behind me, but he rigged the election and won.' He grimaces.
'So are you doing this just to settle political scores?'
'What are you saying, Bhabhiji?' He appears shocked. 'It is our sacred duty to protect our children from being corrupted. We in the MRP look upon ourselves as custodians of Indian culture. You may remember our protest against that lesbian film Girlfriends a few years ago. We tore down all the posters and prevented its screening, despite a court order against us. These sleazy films are an affront to our culture. We are with your husband now, come hell or high water. He will do the fasting; we will provide the back-up.'
'And what if the cinema owner doesn't respond?'
'How will he not respond? We will compel him to respond. But first we need to raise awareness. I have phoned some TV channels to cover our protest.'
Shanti touches her hand to Mohan's forehead, checking to see if he has a fever. 'I am really worried for you. How long can you last without food?'
'We shall both find out,' Mohan smiles. 'Don't worry, Awadhesh here will take care of me.'
In this fashion, bolstered by Shanti's concern and Bihari's assurances, Mohan Kumar passes two days without food. By the third day of the fast, his condition has deteriorated considerably. Doctor Soni checks his pulse and blood pressure and looks concerned. Shanti is beside herself. But there is still no sign of the cinema owner.
That afternoon a van pulls up outside the cinema and a woman dressed in jeans gets out. She has a hard face and cold, calculating eyes. She is trailed by a tall man with a heavy video camera.
Awadhesh Bihari quickly stands up, dusting his kurta. The reporter greets the politician. 'So, Awadhesh Bihariji, will there be some action this time? Your last protest was quite tame.'
The politician gives a shrewd smile. 'You just watch, Nikita. This time we have even lined up Gandhi Baba. Jagdamba Pal will be humiliated in his own den.'
The reporter looks at Mohan Kumar lying on the platform and nods at Bihari. 'I like the Gandhi Baba angle. We might cover it in the evening bulletin.' Lowering her voice to a whisper she tells him, 'If he dies, we will make it the lead story.'
Bihari nods.
'Lobo, I want you to start taking shots,' she instructs the cameraman.
'GANDHI BABA CRITICAL' is the headline in all the newspapers the next morning. At ten o'clock the MLA arrives in a Scorpio, flashing a blue beacon. Four commandos with Sten guns accompany him. The MLA is a giant, square-headed man with jet-black hair and mean dark eyes. Sitting down on the platform next to Mohan Kumar, he whispers to him, 'Gandhi Baba Sahib, why are you doing this?'
'To stop this perversion,' Mohan replies, his voice still strong.
'What you call perversion is a natural human drive. However much you may try to hide it, sex will surface in some form or other.'
'I am not protesting against sex. I am protesting against the perversion of sex, this commodification of women.'
'But my films contain nothing objectionable at all. They are cleared by the Censor Board,' he says. 'If you want to see the commodification of women then go five hundred metres to the underground Palika Bazaar. There you can buy all the triple-X films you want for just a hundred rupees each. Go ten kilometres to GB Road and for a hundred rupees you can actually buy a young girl. Why don't you try and stop these evils instead of picketing our hall?'
'A perversion doesn't cease to be a perversion just because it is perverse to a lesser degree. My fast will be a mortal blow against all purveyors of sin in society.'
'Look, Gandhi Baba, we don't want unnecessary trouble. I am a politician. Your protest is damaging my reputation. On behalf of the Distributors Association of North India, I have been authorized to offer you twenty thousand rupees if you call off your protest.'
Mohan Kumar laughs. 'My fight is not for money. You cannot buy me with four pieces of silver.'
'OK, how about twenty-five thousand, then?'
Mohan Kumar shakes his head. 'Mr Pal, once I have taken a vow, no power on earth can stop me from following it.'
The MLA is beginning to lose his temper. 'Who the hell do you think you are? Here I am, speaking to you so politely and you are behaving as if you are really Mahatma Gandhi. Come now, enough of this drama. I want you to vacate this spot immediately or I will have you forcibly removed.'
'A satyagrahi has infinite patience, abundant faith in others, and ample hope. According to the code of the satyagrahi, there is no such thing as surrender to brute force.'
'You petty bastard.' Jagdamba Pal lunges at Mohan Kumar. A former boxer, he makes unerring contact with Mohan Kumar's face and a fountain of blood gushes from the bureaucrat's nose.
'Hey Ram!' Mohan cries and falls down. Shanti screams in horror. Jagdamba Pal stands for a moment, amazed at what he has done, then scrambles back to his vehicle.
'Gandhi Baba has been hit!' The cry goes through the crowd like bush fire.
'Kill the bastard!' Awadhesh Bihari screams. His followers immediately charge after the MLA, who is already driving away. 'Burn down the cinema!' Awadhesh Bihari shrills and the mob races into the hall.
'Wait . . .wait . . .' Mohan shouts, but his cries fall on deaf ears. Within seconds, the surging crowd has broken down the foyer door and rushed into the hall. Ten minutes later, black smoke is billowing from the cinema, the audience is running out in a panic and the air is reverberating with the sirens of ambulances and fire engines.
A police van screeches to a halt in front of the cinema. Constables spring out like rabbits and train their carbines on Mohan Kumar. An Inspector approaches him, accompanied by the cinema manager. 'Is this the man?' he asks, pointing a finger at Mohan.
'Yes, Sir,' the manager cries. 'This is Gandhi Baba. He is responsible for destroying the cinema.'
The Inspector taps his cane on his palm. 'You are under arrest, Gandhi Baba.'
'Arrest? What for?' Mohan asks, a handkerchief pressed on his nose to stop the flow of blood.
'Section 307: attempt to murder, Section 425: mischief resulting in damage to property, Section 337: endangering personal safety of others, Section 153: provocation to riot. Come on, we have had enough of your antics.'
'But my name is not Gandhi Baba. It is Mohan Kumar. I am an ex-IAS officer,' he says haughtily, drawing himself to his full height.
'Doesn't matter what you call yourself. You are under arrest.' He gestures to his constables. 'Take him away.'
Tihar Jail is a series of seven prison blocks in west Delhi. Originally built for seven thousand inmates, it now houses thirteen thousand prisoners, nine thousand of whom are awaiting trial.
The warden is a fleshy man with heavy jowls and greying hair. Mohan stands before him in his prison uniform, bristling with restrained anger. The warden gives him a greasy smile. 'Welcome, Sir. It is very rare that we have the privilege of hosting senior civil servants.'
'You know that I shouldn't be here at all,' Mohan fumes. 'That magistrate who remanded me to judicial custody for four months deserves to have his head examined. Anyway, I hope you have received a call from my batchmate, the Police Commissioner?'
Yes, Sir,' the warden nods. 'Police Commisssioner Sahib has already instructed us to take good care of you. So I have put you in a high-security cell with Babloo Tiwari.'
'Babloo Tiwari? The notorious gangster?'
The warden nods.
'And how is that a favour?'
'You will see, Sir. In Tihar, nothing is as it seems. Come, let me show you to your cell.'
He escorts Mohan along long narrow corridors, a fat bunch of keys jingling in his hand. The jail seems clean and well maintained, but with a cloying odour, a cross between the astringent smell of a hospital and the bilious smell of a butchery. They pass through a courtyard where prisoners stand in line, doing exercises. 'Here at Tihar, we try our best to reform the prisoners. We have introduced programmes such as vipassana and yoga. We also have an excellent library and reading room,' the warden says proudly.
The cell is located at the southern end of the jail. 'All our cells are seven by ten feet,' the warden says as he unlocks the thick iron grille door. 'This one is the largest, two cells combined into one, actually. And see what it has.' They step inside and Mohan blinks in astonishment. The cell has wall-to-wall beige carpeting, a small colour TV, and even a minibar. There is a bunk bed, with a man in prison uniform sleeping on the lower berth, wrapped in a brown blanket.
'Welcome to jail, VIP style,' the warden grins.
'I should be grateful for small mercies.' Mohan permits himself half a smile. 'But I would have preferred to be alone. Why don't you transfer this fellow Tiwari to another cell?'
'Look, Sir, this is not a hotel where I can allot rooms at my discretion,' the warden says testily. 'Babloo Tiwari is in this cell because he has even better connections than you.' He gently pats the sleeping prisoner's shoulder. 'Tiwariji, please wake up.'
The prisoner sits up, rubbing his eyes. He is a short man, with a round, clean-shaven face and long, straight hair which falls over his forehead. He stretches his arms and yawns. 'What are you doing here, Jailer Sahib?' he asks in a sleepy voice.
'I have come to introduce you to your new cellmate. Meet Mr Mohan Kumar, IAS.'
Babloo Tiwari looks at him curiously. 'Aren't you the guy they are calling Gandhi Baba?'
Mohan remains silent, but the warden nods his head. 'Exactly, Tiwariji. It is our privilege to host such a distinguished personality in our jail.'
'I hope he doesn't start trying to reform me,' Babloo grumbles. 'By the way, Jailer Sahib, did you get me the new SIM card for my mobile?'
'Shhh,' the warden whispers, looking left and right. 'Even walls have ears. I will have it sent tomorrow.'
The iron door clangs shut, creating vibrations which rattle in Mohan's head long after the warden has gone. Babloo Tiwari sniffles and extends his right hand. 'How do you do?' Mohan sees an arm tattooed with anchors and snakes, but he also notices a grid of broken veins and puncture marks on the shrivelled skin. Curling up his lip, he makes no effort to shake the gangster's hand.
'Suit yourself,' Babloo says and takes out a Nokia from his front pocket. He dials a number and, with one leg propped over the other, his free hand scratching his scrotum, begins speaking softly.
Mohan reluctantly climbs up to the top bunk. The sheet is covered in stains and the thin mattress is lumpy. There is dampness in the room which seems to seep in through the walls. A cold draft blows in through the door, forcing him to pull up the blanket. But it is badly frayed and makes him itch. He suppresses an urge to burst into tears.
Lunch is served at noon on a steel plate; it consists of four thick rotis, vegetable stew and a bowl of watery dhal. Mohan finds the food bland and unappetizing and pushes away the plate after eating just one roti. Below him, Babloo Tiwari doesn
't even touch the food.
Mohan lies in bed, pretending to read a magazine, while hunger gnaws at his belly. At some point he falls asleep, dreaming of butter chicken and whisky. When he opens his eyes there is a glassful of golden liquid floating before him. A disembodied head materializes alongside the glass. It is Babloo Tiwari, peeking up from below. 'Would you care for a glass of this?'
'What is it?' he condescends to ask.
'Scotch. Twenty-five years old.'
Almost involuntarily, his tongue flicks over his dry lips. 'Well, I wouldn't mind a sip,' he admits, ashamed of his own weakness.
'Cheers, then,' says Babloo. 'You can keep your gandhigiri for outside the cell.'
They clink glasses and break the ice.
*
The cell is unlocked again at four p.m. 'Come,' Babloo says. 'Let's go for some fresh air.'
They walk into a courtyard, half the size of a football pitch, where nearly fifty prisoners are milling around. They are of all ages and sizes: some are wizened old men with flowing beards and some look as young as fifteen. There is a group playing volleyball, another gathered around a radio set and a few men just sitting and chatting. The deferential way in which the other prisoners greet Babloo Tiwari clearly establishes him as their leader. Only a group of three men sitting huddled together in a corner takes no notice of him.
'Who are they?' Mohan asks.
'Don't talk to them. Don't even go near them. They are foreigners belonging to the dreaded Lashkar-e-Shahadat who were involved in last year's attempted bombing of the Red Fort.
'Shouldn't they be put in a separate area, if they are high-risk terrorists?'
Babloo smiles. 'Arrey bhai, even you are now in the high-risk category.'
Mohan nods. His gaze falls on a striking, middle-aged man, sitting alone on the steps. He has Einstein's hair and Hitler's moustache.