'Who is that cartoon?' he nudges Babloo.
'Oh him, he is our chief source of entertainment,' Babloo says. 'Let me show you. Hey, you,' he calls out. 'Come here.'
The man shuffles towards them. He is tall and reed-thin, and has a furtive look about him.
'We have a new visitor. Won't you welcome him?' Babloo asks in Hindi.
'Welcome to the Gulag Archipelago,' the man announces in perfect English, holding both hands together.
'What is your name?'
'My name is Red.'
'What are you in jail for?'
'Atonement.'
'And what do you think will be your punishment?'
'One hundred years of solitude.'
'Who is your best friend here?'
The Possession of Mohan Kumar 127
'The boy in the striped pyjamas.'
'Thank you. You can go now.'
'So long, see you tomorrow,' the man says. He tilts his head, stretches his arms and begins running towards the centre of the field like an aeroplane in flight.
Mohan is intrigued. 'Is his name really Red?'
'No,' Babloo grins. 'His name is L. K. Varshney. He used to be a Professor of English Literature at Delhi University. One day he discovered his wife in bed with his best student. So he killed his wife and is now in jail, pending trial. He will probably be sentenced to life. They say he used to be half mad when he was a professor. Tihar has made him completely mad. Now he always speaks in this funny kind of way.'
'And what are you in jail for?'
'For everything. I have committed almost every crime in the Indian Penal Code and all my cases are awaiting trial. But they won't be able to prove anything. I stay in Tihar because I prefer to stay here. It is safer than being outside.'
As Babloo wanders off to chat to a couple of tough-looking inmates, a young boy with a dusty face and short hair comes up to Mohan and touches his feet. He smells of dirt.
'Arrey, who are you?' Mohan shrinks back.
'They say you are Gandhi Baba,' the youth says hesitatingly. 'I came to pay my respects and ask for a favour. My name is Guddu.'
'What are you in for?' Mohan asks.
'I stole a loaf of bread from a bakery. Now I have been here five years. They beat me every day, make me clean the toilets. I want to see my mother. I miss her very much. I know only you can get me out,' he says and starts sobbing.
'Hato. Hato.' Mohan tries to wave him away. 'Look, there is nothing I can do. I am a prisoner too, like you. I have to get out myself before I can think of others. And don't spread this nonsense about my being Gandhi Baba, OK?'
He moves to the other side of the field and is almost immediately accosted by an old man with an aquiline nose and twinkling grey eyes.
'Yada yada hi dharmasya glanirbhavati bharata,' the man intones in Sanskrit, and then translates for Mohan's benefit. 'Whenever there is a fall of righteousness, you arrive to destroy the forces of evil. I bow to you, O great Mahatma. Only you can save this country.'
'And who might you be?' Mohan asks wearily.
'Dr D. K. Tirumurti at your service, Sir. Sanskrit scholar from Madurai.'
'Also professional cheat, you forgot to mention,' Babloo speaks up from behind.
'Let's go, Babloo, I've had enough fresh air.' Mohan tugs at the gangster's sleeve. 'There is one chap who wants me to save him, another who wants me to save the country. Is this a jail or a lunatic asylum?'
Babloo chuckles. 'Actually there is very little difference between the two. Stick with me if you don't want to join the loony brigade.'
The food at dinner time is the same bland fare. But by now Mohan is so famished, he polishes off all four rotis and slurps up the cold vegetable stew. Babloo, he notices, eats very little, sniffling most of the time.
'How do you manage on so little food?' he asks the gangster.
Babloo gives a crafty smile. Wiping his runny nose with the sleeve of his kurta, he lifts the mattress and brings out a hypodermic syringe. 'My food is this.' He tests the syringe before plunging it into his arm.
Mohan winces. 'So you are a drug addict?'
'No. Not an addict,' Babloo says with sudden vehemence. 'I control the cocaine. The cocaine doesn't control me.' He completes the injection and exhales. 'Ahh . . . this is paradise. I tell you, nothing can beat the rush of crack. Want to try? It will make you forget Scotch.'
'No thank you.'
'I take only one dose at night. And that keeps me going all through the night and all through the next day.'
'Then how do you sleep?'
'I pop some sleeping tablets.'
'Thankfully I don't need sleeping pills to get to sleep,' Mohan says and pulls the blanket over his head.
'Good night, Sir,' Babloo calls out and for no apparent reason bursts into a fit of laughter.
It takes an immense effort on Mohan's part to begin the slow process of adjusting to jail life. He learns to get up at five thirty a.m. for the head-count of prisoners, to sit on the stinking toilet without holding his nose, to tolerate the insipid tea and inedible rotis, to attend the prayer assemblies and yoga sessions and even watch the soaps on TV, which most inmates are completely addicted to. He becomes acquainted with Punjabi murderers and Gujarati arsonists, Nigerian drug-pushers and Uzbek counterfeiters, South Indian cheats and North Indian rapists. He begins playing chess and carrom. He borrows three books a week from the jail library and starts maintaining a diary of prison life.
Throughout this period, he is sustained by Babloo's largesse with his Scotch whisky, the punctilious delivery of Shanti's tiffin every Wednesday loaded with mutton curry and chicken biryani, and the soothing assurances of his lawyers that he will be out soon.
He develops an uneasy friendship with Babloo Tiwari. He is revolted by the criminal's crassness, his ignorance of world affairs, but also amazed at the power he wields in jail. Babloo is the uncrowned king of Tihar, each and every official having been bribed or bullied into servicing him. He runs his empire from inside the jail, spending half his time talking to his henchmen in low whispers, arranging abductions and demanding ransoms, receiving contraband consignments of liquor, cocaine and SIM cards, doling out rewards to pliable policemen and bribe-taking bureaucrats. He has a shrewd sense of their weaknesses, knowing whom to lure with a call girl and whom with cash. But he reserves his ultimate display of power for New Year's Eve, when he organizes a 'private concert' for the jail staff and his cohorts.
*
In the reading room, the tables and chairs have been pushed to the corners and a makeshift wooden stage erected next to the wall. The central space is covered with white sheets and scattered with foam cushions. Two bottles of Johnny Walker Black Label are placed in the middle and salted nuts in stainless steel bowls are laid out at strategic intervals.
Babloo Tiwari reclines against a bolster, takes a sip of whisky from the glass tumbler in his hand, pops a cashew nut into his mouth and gazes at the fair young woman on the stage. Dressed in a knee-length lehnga and a tight choli, she is busy aping the moves of Shabnam Saxena to a taped medley of her film hits.
On Babloo's left sits the warden and on his right is Mohan. Immediately behind them are the other jail staff, and behind them the fifteen inmates granted the privilege of attending the 'show'. The girl thrusts her ample bosom at the men, who leer at her, address her as 'jaaneman' and 'darling' (Professor Varshney calls her 'Lolita') and make vulgar gestures with their fingers. As the night progresses and the level of inebriation increases, some of the jail staff climb on to the stage and join in the dancing. A constable grinds his hips suggestively while another tries unsuccessfully to catch the girl's flared skirt. Babloo also lurches up to the dancer and showers her with a wad of hundred-rupee notes. The warden looks on benignly, occasionally glancing at the Rolex watch on his wrist which Babloo had given him that morning.
'Fantastic, Babloo Saab! I could never have imagined such a spectacle inside a jail,' Dr Tirumurti compliments the gangster.
'My motto has always been Live and Let Live,' Babloo says smugly and looks at Mohan. 'So Kumar Sahib, what do you think? Is Tihar a bad place to celebrate the New Year?'
'I think you are right,' Mohan agrees. 'Tihar isn't such a bad place after all. Cheers!'
'Tender is the night,' chimes Varshney.
Just before midnight, Mohan feels the urge to take a leak. He leaves the hall, shivering as a gust of cold wind hits him in the face. It is a chilly night but the sky is alive with the colourful bursts of firecrackers and rockets. As he is crossing the courtyard he hears a faint rustling sound and suddenly a large hand clamps his mouth from behind. He struggles frantically to free himself, but something cold, hard and metallic is thrust into the small of his back. 'One move and the gun will blast your intestines, understand?' Two other shadows materialize out of the darkness, flanking him. He sees their faces and feels his mouth drying. They are the terrorists belonging to the dreaded Lashkar-e-Shahadat. The Army of Martyrdom.
The three men propel him towards the gate. The courtyard is deserted – the sentries are all enjoying the dance programme whose faint sounds can still be heard. There is a lone guard on duty at the main gate. He is watching the fireworks in the sky, his rifle resting against his leg. The leader of the group tiptoes up to the guard. In one swift move, he grabs him by the neck and wrestles him to the ground.
'What . . . what . . . what are you people doing out of your cells?' the flustered sentry asks as he is pinned to the ground.
'Shut up!' the leader barks, while one of his partners picks up the rifle and trains it on the guard. 'Open the gate.'
Shaking with fear, the sentry takes a bunch of keys from his trouser pocket. With trembling fingers he unlocks the padlock and the gate swings open. At that very instant the leader strikes the guard with the butt of the pistol. He topples down soundlessly.
Mohan begins shivering. 'Please don't kill me,' he pleads with his abductors. The leader laughs. It is the last thing Mohan hears before his head explodes in pain and everything turns black.
When he regains consciousness, Professor Varshney is bending over him. 'I'm OK, you're OK?'
'Where am I?' Mohan asks.
'In custody.'
He looks around and finds himself in the prison's dispensary. There is a newspaper on the side table. He picks it up and finds his picture plastered on the front page. 'DARING JAIL BREAK IN TIHAR – GANDHI BABA INJURED', the headline proclaims. Below it are the details:
Red-faced officials were hard put to explain what they were doing watching a cabaret in the highsecurity prison while three dreaded terrorists managed their getaway. How they escaped from their cells and smuggled a pistol into the Tihar complex is still being investigated. Meanwhile, a massive shake-up has been ordered.
The government's retribution is swift. The warden is suspended. Eighteen jail staff are summarily transferred. A tough new jailer is appointed. Babloo Tiwari and Mohan Kumar are shifted from their swanky cell to a narrow dormitory with two new cellmates – Professor Varshney and Dr Tirumurti. The gangster curses the Kashmiris. 'Bloody bastards, now I will have to suffer like the rest. They have taken away my mobile. Even the radio and TV have been banned. How will I survive in this hell hole?'
'The Gita says, give up attachments and dedicate yourself to the service of God and your fellow men,' Mohan intones.
'Who is this Gita?'
'Gita is the key to the scriptures of the world. It teaches the secret of non-violence, the secret of realizing self through the physical body.'
'What crap are you talking, Mohan Sahib?'
'True development consists of reducing ourselves to a cipher.'
'Has he gone mad?' Babloo looks at Tirumurti. 'No, Babloo Saab. He is revealing the knowledge that so far he
has kept hidden from us. We are witnessing the rebirth of Gandhi Baba.'
'This is very convenient,' Babloo sneers. 'As long as we were in that VIP cell he had no qualms about drinking my whisky. And now that we are in this hell hole, he becomes Gandhi Baba? I tell you, he is nothing but a fraud.'
'Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde?' Varshney interjects.
'Have you seen this report, Babloo Saab?' Tirumurti points to the newspaper in his hand. 'It says that judgment in Vicky Rai's case has been postponed to 15 February.'
'What difference does it make when they pronounce the verdict? The outcome is already known to everyone.' Babloo waves dismissively.
'Yes, there is no justice in this country,' Tirumurti sighs. 'A man like Gandhi Baba is in jail and a murderer like Vicky Rai is out on bail.'
'We have entered the heart of darkness,' Varshney says gravely.
The mention of Vicky Rai makes Mohan Kumar suddenly alert. His brow furrows and his pupils dilate. 'Vicky Rai . . . Vicky Rai . . . Vicky Rai,' he mumbles, as though someone has raked an old wound.
'I am going to make a wager on this case. I will bet you a million to one that Vicky Rai will walk free,' Babloo declares.
'I agree,' Tirumurti nods his head.
'He will be gone with the wind,' adds Varshney.
'What is this?' Mohan berates them. 'You people are speaking as if the British are still ruling India. In those days, I agree, justice was denied in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred. But now we are our own rulers. I am sure Vicky Rai will get his just desserts. We should have faith in the judiciary.'
'Fine, Gandhi Baba, we shall see who is proved right on 15 February,' says Babloo and shivers slightly.
'Have you got a fever?' Mohan asks with concern.
'No. It is just a passing chill,' Babloo says.
'It is the winter of our discontent,' says Varshney.
Over the next two days, Babloo's behaviour becomes increasingly bizarre. He gets agitated over small things, complains frequently of nausea and blurred vision and has bouts of uncontrollable shaking. Out of the blue he starts suspecting Varshney of being an informer and warns him to keep his distance. He stops eating completely, and refuses to leave the cell. At night he curls himself up and rolls back and forth on the stone floor like a man in terrible pain.
Tirumurti is quick to diagnose the ailment. 'Babloo is having withdrawal symptoms, now that he cannot get his cocaine any longer. We must try and somehow get him his fix, otherwise he will die.'
'I don't agree,' Mohan says firmly. 'A doctor who panders to the vice of his patient degrades himself and his patient. Babloo doesn't need drugs. He needs kindness and companionship.'
'Love in the time of cholera,' opines Varshney.
Mohan's arrival at the prayer meeting the next day causes considerable commotion. He delivers a long and impressive monologue on the dangers of drug addiction, the importance of faith and the benefits of celibacy. He asks for a personal introduction from each prisoner, questioning them in detail about their personal histories and periods of detention. He seems unusually solicitous of people's health, offering several home remedies to a prisoner who has complained of colic pain. He appears to be fascinated by the library, checks out the PA system to determine whether it plays any bhajans, and at lunchtime asks the cook for goat's milk.
He starts sleeping on the floor, insists on cleaning the toilet himself and is happy to clean the toilets of others as well. He begins to keep a silent fast once a week, claiming that abstaining from speaking brings him inner peace.
A prison is fertile ground for the emergence of leaders. It contains the dregs of society, willing to cling to any hope to help endure the rigours of prison life. Gandhi Baba quickly attracts a large fan base, his chief disciple being Babloo Tiwari, who is almost cured of his addiction.
'Do you know what is the hardest thing in the world, Gandhi Baba?' he asks Mohan one evening.
'To kill a mockingbird?' Varshney offers hopefully.
'No. To awaken faith in a man who has forsaken religion. I am eternally grateful to you, Gandhi Baba, for opening my eyes to the benevolence of God.'
'So will you sing Vaishnav Janato with me at tomorrow's prayer meeting?' Mohan a
sks with a twinkle in his eye.
'Not only that, I am going to shave off my hair and become a vegetarian.'
'That is wonderful. Now if you would only stop your criminal activities as well . . .'
'Consider it done, Gandhi Baba. Babloo Tiwari the gangster is dead.'
'A farewell to arms,' Varshney quips.
Several other inmates follow Babloo's example and become vegetarian, causing prison officials to revamp the meal plan. Mohan encourages the prisoners to paint and has their paintings sold through a website set up by Tirumurti's brother-in-law. Invited to the women's prison block to deliver a talk, he persuades the women inmates to start producing snacks and savouries which are then marketed under the brand name 'Bapu's Choice'.
Newspapers write editorials on Mohan's reforms. Two British drug-pushers, Mark and Alan, become his disciples and begin collaborating on his biography. Chennai University passes a unanimous resolution recommending Mohan for the Nobel Peace Prize.
As 15 February approaches, there is only one topic of conversation in the jail – the judgment in the Vicky Rai case. The day before the verdict, Mohan is unable to sleep. He paces up and down the cell while the others snore peacefully.
The next day, just before lunch, he leads a procession of inmates to the warden's office.
'What is all this? What are you people doing in my office?' the warden demands.
'We have come to see the circus,' Tirumurti informs him.
'What circus?'
'The trial,' says Varshney.
'Oh, so you people want to see the verdict in Vicky Rai's case? Not a problem. I was going to watch it myself.' The warden presses a button on the remote and a decrepit-looking TV sitting atop a bookcase flickers into life.
Virtually every channel is running live feeds from the courtroom in Delhi. The warden tunes to ITN and Barkha Das fills the screen, dressed in a blue salwar kameez with an olive-green photographer's vest on top.
'This will be a landmark day in the history of justice in India,' she says. 'Just as America waited with bated breath for the verdict in the O. J. Simpson case, India is waiting for the verdict in the Vicky Rai case. The courtroom behind me is packed to the rafters, but we have ITN's Shubhranshu Gupta inside, who will give us the latest. Shubhranshu, has the judge delivered his judgment?'