'How can you tell?'
'I can smell your fear. Is it because of the shadow?'
'What shadow?'
'The shadow that dogs you like the moon. The embekte.'
'Embekte? What is that?'
'There are two spirits in every man – eeka and embekte. When a man dies of natural causes, like an illness, he becomes an eeka and goes to live below the earth. But when a man dies suddenly, such as if he is killed, then the other spirit embekte comes out and tries to find a new body. It takes temporary shelter in whichever living body it can find. This is what you people call a ghost. And a ghost has taken hold of your body.'
'Oh my God, so you can actually see it?'
'No, I cannot see it. I can only see its shadow. Is it a good spirit or a bad one?'
'A very bad one. It makes me do all kinds of weird things. Can you . . . can you do something about it?'
'I could.'
'The doctors say I have DID, but I know it is really a case of possession. I need an exorcist, not a psychotherapist. Do you know how to take a spirit out?'
'Yes. I am half a torale. I can get rid of the shadow.'
'Then do so. I want my life back. In return I'll give you whatever you want.'
'Can you give me some money?'
'How much?'
'Two times nine thousand.'
'That's eighteen thousand. That's a lot of money. What do you want it for?'
'To buy tickets to go back to my village.'
'Let's do a deal. If you can cure me, the money is yours.'
'Then lie down.'
'Here, on the ground?'
'Yes. And take off your shirt. I need to put some red clay on your chest and face.'
'Now that you've saved my life, how can I refuse your instructions?' He strips off his kurta and vest and lies down on the hard ground, unmindful of the ants which are crawling over his legs and the twigs digging into his back.
The tribal unzips his black canvas bag and takes out a lump of red clay, which he mixes with pig fat. He then draws a fine herringbone design on Mohan Kumar's chest and daubs a few horizontal lines on his face.
'What are you doing?' Mohan worries.
'I am summoning the spirits, who will draw away the embekte. Now close your eyes and don't speak.'
The tribal takes out a charm necklace made of bones and drapes it around Mohan's neck. Then, putting his left hand on Kumar's head, and holding a small white bone in his right, he begins chanting, swaying back and forth in a circular motion, faster and faster.
Mohan feels an excruciating pain, as though a corkscrew is being twisted inside his brain. He groans in agony, feeling his skin being peeled off. And then he passes out.
When he opens his eyes, the tribal is still sitting by his side, gazing at him intently.
'Is it done?' Mohan asks.
'Yes. I took the embekte out of your body.'
Mohan presses his temples and finds that the pain has gone. He feels cleansed, whole. He sits up and begins putting on his clothes. 'You have done something which no one else could do. That spirit was causing me a lot of trouble, even though it was that of a very famous man.'
'Man?'
'Yes, the spirit which possessed me was that of Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi. Surely you have heard of Mahatma Gandhi?'
'No, you are mistaken. It was not a man who possessed you, it was a woman.'
'Woman? How do you know?'
'I talked to it. It was very stubborn.'
'What was her name?'
'Ruby Gill.'
'Ruby Gill!' Mohan exclaims. He feels the bulk of the pistol in his kurta pocket and becomes thoughtful. 'So all along it was Ruby Gill leading me on, pretending to be Mahatma Gandhi . . . It's beginning to make sense now.'
The tribal tugs at his sleeve. 'Will you give me the money?'
'Yes, yes, of course.' He opens a black leather wallet and takes out a wad of thousand-rupee notes. 'You asked for eighteen; I am giving you twenty. This can buy you a ticket even to London!'
The tribal accepts the money and bows in gratitude. 'You are very kind.'
Mohan Kumar scrubs his face with a handkerchief, removing traces of the red clay. Standing up, he dusts his dhoti. 'This is the last time I am wearing this silly dress.'
He steps out from the thicket on to the lawn and looks at his watch. It is a quarter past eleven. The party appears to be in full swing. There are at least half a dozen girls in the pool and the bar area is thronged with guests. He strides quickly towards the gazebo.
'Do you have Chivas?' he asks the bartender, who nods. 'Then give me a large Scotch, neat.'
He gulps down the whisky in one shot, wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his kurta and asks for a refill. Spotting the CEO of Rai Textile Mill, he pats him jovially on the back. 'So, Raha, how are things?'
Raha turns around, adjusts his steel-rimmed glasses, and is surprised to see Mohan Kumar. 'I didn't expect to see you at this party, Mr Kumar,' he says coldly.
'Let bygones be bygones, Raha. I was suffering from a medical disorder, but I am fully cured now. In fact, I will explain it all to Vicky. Have you seen him?'
'He has just gone inside the house with Shabnam Saxena.'
Mohan drains his second glass and starts walking towards the house. The blonde model who had tried to kiss him is standing in the way, sipping what looks like a strawberry daiquiri. 'Ooh, Ghandi Baba, you are back,' she coos.
He smiles at her. 'Yes, I am back. And I am keen for some experiments in untruth. When do you want to begin?'
She comes within kissing distance of him. 'How about right now?'
'I need to sort out a few issues first. But good things come to those who wait.' He winks and pinches her bottom.
She squeals.
15
Acquisition
'HOWDY! I'm Rick Myers,' I introduced myself, feeling as uncomfortable in the Armani suit I had bought from Connaught Place as an elephant in underpants.
The host, dressed in an equally smart dark suit and purple tie, clasped me in a bear hug as though he was my long-lost brother. I got worried he might start fingering the Glock in the inside pocket of my jacket. 'Welcome to Number Six,' he said. 'Lizzie told me you were coming.' Squinting at me, he tapped his chin. 'Haven't we met somewhere, Mr Myers?'
I had recognized him immediately from the scar running down the left side of his face. He was the hombre who had fired me from the call centre. 'I doubt it,' I said. 'I got this name just yesterday.'
'Yesterday? What do you mean?'
I corrected myself. 'I mean I arrived in your country just yesterday. So the chances of us having met are slim to none, and slim just got up and left.'
'I really like your sense of humour, Mr Myers. I am in the same line as you – film production. Perhaps we can do business together.' He pointed to the man standing next to him. 'Let me introduce you to my father, Mr Jagannath Rai, Home Minister of Uttar Pradesh.'
The pop was a heavy-set, hairy man, with a round face and a thick, curled-up moustache. He folded his hands in greeting, looking greasy as fried lard.
I stepped into the garden and was awestruck at how huge and beautiful the farmhouse was. The three-storey house was made entirely of marble, there was a lawn the size of three baseball pitches, a swimming pool as big as Lake Waco, a temple, and a gazebo lit up like the fourth of July. Far in the distance I could even make out a jungle. The place was bigger than the Governor's mansion in Austin, but I couldn't figure out why it was called a farmhouse. I could see neither any animals nor any farmers on the property.
There were more people on the lawn than you could shake a stick at. And they all looked like big guns in their expensive threads. Music played from large loudspeakers. Waiters hovered around with all kinds of goodies. I remembered Lizzie's warning and decided to check first if any of those Al Qaeda dudes were snooping around. I peered into the forest, looked behind all the trees and that's when I saw a man in a blue suit sneaking across the lawn, close to the
boundary wall, with a packet in his hands. Suddenly I felt like a real FBI officer. I began following him, like Mel Gibson tracked those baddies in Lethal Weapon. I was hoping to confront him with my gun, when he entered the little temple in the corner of the lawn. I saw him fold his hands and bow his head before the Indian gods. It seemed he had only come to offer prayers.
Disappointed, I decided to get a drink and began moving towards the gazebo where the bar was set up. Near the pool a bunch of journalists armed with cameras and flash guns were hanging around, snapping pictures of some pretty young things who were posing like film stars on the red carpet. I immediately started searching for Shabnam. A lanky man with a camera in one hand and a twitch in one eye goggled at me. 'Excuse me, are you Michael J. Fox?'
'No,' I said. 'I'm Rick Myers, Hollywood producer.'
The moment I said this, the girls were all over me. They began peppering me with questions.
'Are you making a film in India?'
'Can you please get me a role?'
'Will you take me with you to Hollywood?'
The last time I was surrounded by so many girls was in Third Grade when they were all taking a good look at my willie. Mizz Henrietta Loretta had given us a new kind of exam called an IQ test and I foolishly bet Betsy Walton that I would score more than her. We were both pretty much bottom of the class but I thought I was smarter than her. As it turned out, I did score as high as 48 on that test, but she still beat me by getting a 50. So I had to take off my shorts in front of the whole class in what still remains the most embarrassing experience of my life.
Even as I was trying to figure out how to get rid of all these crazy chicks, I heard a ruckus at the bar. A waiter had dropped a whole tray of drinks and a tall man wearing an Indian dress was having a hissy fit, staggering around like a blind horse in a pumpkin patch. Ten seconds later I saw him running across the lawn like a scalded dog.
A young girl, who looked like her belly button wasn't dry yet, tapped me on the arm. 'Do you know any Hollywood stars?' she pouted.
'Yeah,' I replied. 'Arnie Schwarzenegger is my best buddy.'
She almost swooned. Another girl kissed me on the cheek without any warning and whispered, 'Can I meet you in your hotel room?'
I hadn't even put on my deodorant spray, yet these girls were becoming hornier than four-balled tomcats. So I excused myself and headed straight for the house, hoping to find Shabnam there. I walked through a door into a large round hall which had marble flooring smoother than a baby's ass. The sofas had been pushed into the corners and there were large windows on either side of the room, one opening on to the lawn and the other on to the driveway. There were plenty of people in the hall, talking and drinking at a wooden bar stacked with bottles. I looked around for Shabnam, but she wasn't there. So I went back into the garden and picked a quiet spot far from those batty girls.
Around eleven o'clock there was a sudden buzz on the lawn and everyone started moving towards the house. 'What's happening?' I asked a waiter. 'They say Shabnam Saxena is here,' he replied, and quick as a hiccup I was back in the hall. Five minutes later, in walked the woman of my dreams, looking even more beautiful than her photograph. She was wearing a tight-fitting dress and carried a moccasin handbag. I could smell her perfume from fifty feet away.
Shabnam took an empty sofa and Vicky Rai sat down beside her. From the way Shabnam cringed when his hand grazed her arm, I knew she didn't fancy him. I felt like drawing my Glock and blowing out his brains. They spoke in low voices and I saw Shabnam shake her head several times. A waiter with a thick black beard brought in a trayful of drinks. Shabnam took an orange juice; Vicky Rai asked for tequila. I hovered near them, hoping to catch Shabnam's eye. Fifteen minutes passed by, but Vicky Rai didn't budge from the sofa. Just when I was beginning to wonder if his backside was coated with superglue, his pop came in and told him to get up. 'Iqbal Mian has come. He wants to meet you.' Vicky made a face and stood up reluctantly. Sensing my opportunity, I plonked myself on the sofa faster than the Undertaker does a choke slam on his opponent.
Shabnam looked at me like a warehouse inspector checking out new merchandise. I extended my hand. 'Hi! I'm Rick Myers, Hollywood producer. I've been fixin' to meet you for ages,
Shabnam. Just saw your film Love in Canada on the telly.'
She shook my hand warmly. 'What are you doing in India, Mr Myers?'
'Believe it or not, I came just to see you.'
'To offer me a role in an American film?'
'Yeah.'
'What's it going to be called?'
'Er . . . I was thinking of Love in Waco.'
She smiled. I inched closer to her on the sofa and dropped my voice to a whisper. 'Listen, Shabnam, I know you are in a whole lot of trouble.'
She became more nervous than a fly in a glue pot. 'What do you mean?'
'I mean I know all about Sapna.'
The moment I said 'Sapna' she crumpled; the fight went out of her body like gas from a hot-air balloon.
'How did you find out?'
'A PI by the name of Mr Gupta tipped me off. I tell you, that guy is smarter than a tree full of owls.'
'I am indeed in great difficulty,' she said, wringing her hands.
'I came to Vicky Rai for help from his father. But he asks a high price.'
'I wouldn't go partners on a butcher's knife with him,' I said. 'He's more slippery than a pig on ice.'
'Then what should I do?'
'Take my help. I'm the guy for you.'
'What can a Hollywood producer do to help me?'
I took a quick look around and then leaned closer. 'I'm not really a Hollywood producer. I'm a forklift operator at Walmart. But I've been drafted into the FBI's Witness Protection Programme.'
She raised her eyebrows. 'And why exactly would the FBI offer you such a programme?'
'Coz I closed the contract on some real scumbags over in Pakistan. The FBI gave me fifteen million dollars as a reward and the President wrote me a very nice letter.'
Shabnam flicked her fingers across her face. 'Come on now, you're just pulling my leg.'
'You don't believe me? You want to see proof ?' She nodded and I took out the letter from the President from my suit pocket.
She read it and looked at me. 'But this is addressed to Larry Page.' She frowned. 'Now where have I heard that name?'
'Larry Page used to be my real name. But now the FBI have given me this new name – Rick Myers. I still haven't cottoned on to it.'
Shabnam wasn't even listening to me. She snapped her fingers. 'Larry Page . . . You're the American who has been writing me all those letters, aren't you?'
'Yeah. That's me,' I said and looked her in the eye. 'I'm madly in love with you!'
That went down like a pregnant pole-vaulter. Shabnam got up from the sofa faster than a striped-assed ape and wagged a finger at me. 'Please keep away from me, Mr Page. I want nothing to do with you.'
She turned her back on me and began talking to a tall dude with a black beard.
I felt as mad as a one-legged man at a butt-kicking contest.
16
Sacrifice
'HELLO, TRIPURARI?'
'Yes, Bhaiyyaji. Where are you calling from? Aren't you supposed to be at Vicky's party?'
'Yes, yes. I am calling from Number Six. Tell me, have you been in touch with Mukhtar?'
'Mukhtar? No, Bhaiyyaji. I haven't spoken to him for over two weeks. What's the matter? You sound tense.'
'I gave Mukhtar a job a week ago, on 17 March. Did he come to get money from you, by any chance?'
'No, Bhaiyyaji. And what is this job you gave Mukhtar? You never mentioned anything to me.'
'I'll tell you later. For the moment, try and find him for me. Ask him to give me a call. I've been trying to call him for the past three days but it looks like his mobile is switched off.'
'He must be lying drunk somewhere with a girl.'
'Wherever he is, just find him for me, OK? And then let me know.'
&nb
sp; 'I will, Bhaiyyaji.'
(Disconnect.)
17
Revenge
THE RICH may live very differently from the poor, but they don't die differently. A bullet does not discriminate between a king and a pauper, a tycoon and his worker. Standing in front of the wrought-iron gates of Number Six, looking at the glittering lights of the farmhouse, watching expensive imported cars enter the elegant driveway, I envy the conceit of the gun. One bullet is all it will take to end Vicky Rai's pomp and show. One bullet and khallas!
I see policemen with walkie-talkies standing behind a barricade and quicken my steps. There is a big crowd of curious onlookers on the road, straining to catch a glimpse of the celebrity guests. There is a rumour going around that Shabnam Saxena is expected any minute.
I turn left into the side lane and lurk by the service entrance, waiting for Ritu to come out. Compared to the hustle and bustle on the main road, the side lane is peaceful and quiet, though it is full of parked cars.
At five to eleven the metal gate creaks ajar and Ritu emerges, clad in a red salwar kameez and lugging a blue bag. Her injuries have still not healed fully, and her eyes are red and swollen. It seems she has been crying. We embrace silently. I take the precaution of keeping my left hand hidden inside the Benetton jacket I am wearing.
'Let's go, Munna.' She clutches my arm and begins to pull me towards the main road when I gently stop her.
'I have to tell you something, Ritu.'
'Whatever you have to say, you can tell me at the railway station. We don't have time to lose.'
'I am not going to the railway station.'
'What?'
'That is what I came to tell you. I am not going to Mumbai.'
'Why?'
'Let's go inside the farmhouse and I will tell you.'
She gives me a baffled look and retraces her steps to the service gate. She peeks in furtively before pushing it open and pulling me inside.
I see a manicured lawn in the distance with people laughing and chatting. There is even a swimming pool in which some girls are frolicking. Waiters in red-and-black uniforms hover around a gazebo.