Ritu propels me behind a huge jamun tree, its leafy foliage acting as a natural screen from the people on the lawn. Further to our right is a makeshift tent where the cooks are busy cooking.
'You'd better have a good explanation, Munna, for this aboutface. You have no idea of the risk I took in sneaking out of the house,' she upbraids me. 'If Vicky finds out, he will kill me.'
I am prepared for her outburst. 'I know, Ritu. I have come to liberate you from fear.'
'What do you mean?'
'You will find out soon enough.'
'You have started speaking in riddles again. Tell me clearly why you are refusing to come to Mumbai. Is something wrong?'
'Everything is wrong, Ritu.' I look down at my feet, unable to look her in the eye. 'I have found another girl. I am going to marry her.'
She gives me a stricken look. 'Why are you saying this, Munna? Don't I have enough troubles already?'
'Every word of what I am saying is true.'
'So now you tell me that you don't love me any more?'
'Yes.' I nod and launch into my parting monologue. 'Bole toh, love is a real bitch. It shows people like us dreams which can never become real. Perhaps the poor shouldn't even be allowed the right to love. I now realize that you were right, our love is a prohibited one. We can run away from here, but we cannot run away from that reality. So forget that you ever met me, Ritu. From this moment, erase me from your life for ever.'
She listens to me quietly and when I have finished, flashes me an accusing look. 'So this is it, eh? You think I can just erase you from my life like a teacher erases chalk marks from a blackboard? As if nothing has happened between us?' She draws closer to me. 'Do you know, Munna, why love is considered the greatest gift? Because it makes two people into one. They become joined in body and soul. I have become you and you have become me. And now I know you better than you know yourself. I can say from the bottom of my heart that what you are telling me is not true.'
I try to evade her eyes again. 'You and I can never be one. There is too big a chasm between us.'
'You are still lying. Look into my eyes, Munna, and swear on my life that you don't love me,' she says with sudden vehemence. When I don't reply she pulls my left hand from inside my jacket. In the process the plaster on my wrist gets exposed.
'What is this?' She immediately becomes concerned. 'How did you get hurt?'
'It is nothing . . . I fell down,' I dissemble, but Ritu remains unconvinced. Her hands fly to my face, looking for hidden injuries, and her fingers graze the bandage at the back of my head.
'Ahhhh!' I cry out in pain.
'Oh my God, what have they done to you?' she cries.
'Believe me, it is not serious. There is nothing to worry about.'
'It was my brother, wasn't it?' she asks. 'He wasn't content with hitting me. He had to do this to you as well. Now I understand why you came to break off with me.' I detect a hardening in her voice. Her sorrow is giving way to anger.
'Don't jump to conclusions, Ritu. I honestly don't know who they were.'
'But I know very well. And I will never forgive my brother for hurting you. Now no power on earth can keep me away from you,' she declares and I see a new look in her eyes, a look of utter fearlessness. 'Come with me, Munna. In front of this entire assembly I will announce that I am going to marry you.'
'And you think everyone will applaud you for marrying a sweeper's son? This is not a film, Ritu, this is life. And life does not have happy endings like films do.'
'But this is my life. And from today I will live it on my terms. I refuse to be cowed by two criminals who claim to be my father and brother.'
'Then let us make a pact here and now. Promise me that you won't do anything rash. And I promise to take you from here as soon as my injuries have healed.'
'I will wait for that day, Munna.'
A light wind begins blowing across the lawn. It ruffles Ritu's hair, pushing a few dark strands over her face. At that moment I feel as if standing in front of me is an angel who has come down from heaven to bless me and touch my sordid life with her purity and innocence. And I know that, try as I might, I cannot live without her. But perhaps I can die for her.
I sense a commotion on the lawn. 'Oh, it looks like Shabnam Saxena has arrived,' says Ritu.
'Can I see her?'
'Don't be silly. You must leave before someone spots you. Take good care of yourself, Munna. I love you.' She gives me a quick kiss on the lips and walks back towards the house. I creep deeper into the gloom and take out the gun. I need to feel its power once again, to stiffen my resolve to kill Vicky Rai.
'If I were you, I wouldn't use that gun,' a voice speaks up behind me.
I am so startled, the gun drops from my hand.
A tall man with a straggly black beard steps forward. He is dressed in off-white kurta pyjamas and has a fawn-coloured shawl draped over his shoulders.
'Don't worry, my dear fellow, I am not a policeman. But I couldn't help overhearing your conversation with the lovely Ritu.'
I hastily pick up the gun and put it back into my jacket pocket.
'I have never heard such moving dialogue in my life,' he continues, fingering his straggly beard. 'You are a born actor. Let me take another look at you. Can you move a little into the light? Yes, that's perfect. Oh my God, you are magnificent. I have finally found my hero.'
'Who are you?'
'I am Jay Chatterjee, the film director. And I have decided to cast you as the hero in my next film, without any screen test. For the heroine's role I was thinking of Shabnam Saxena, but she will look too old against you. Now I think I will have to discover a new heroine as well.'
'Shabnam Saxena? Hero? What are you talking about? Is this one of those candid-camera pranks?'
'Jay Chatterjee does not believe in pranks,' the man says sternly. 'Get ready for instant stardom. Your life is made. But you will need a new name.'
'Why?'
'A name like Munna won't take you far in our industry. From today, you shall be known as . . . Chirag. The Lamp. I love it!' He takes out his wallet and extracts some notes. 'Here's twenty thousand. Consider this your signing amount, Chirag.'
I accept the money with trembling hands. 'I . . . I still find all this hard to believe.'
'This is what life is all about. You never know what's round the corner.'
'But I am just a sweeper's son.'
'So what? Johnny Walker was a bus conductor. Raaj Kumar was a sub-inspector. Mehmood was a driver. When Lady Luck knocks, she only sees a door. She doesn't see who's behind it.'
Jay Chatterjee notes down my mobile number and strolls back to the lawn, his fingers playing an imaginary piano. I remain standing under the tree for a long time, shivering with excitement.
My brain begins dreaming up new scenarios for me. I see myself in Mumbai, sitting with Ritu in a Mercedes, surrounded by thousands of screaming fans, mostly girls. They beg for my autograph and profess their undying love as the police charge them with lathis. I step out of the car and raise my hand. The policemen back off. 'Chirag! Chirag! Chirag!' a loud chant goes up and fifteen rockets scream into the sky all at once.
I open my eyes and discover that I am still in Delhi. But there are real rockets shooting over my head.
Are they for Vicky Rai, or for me? What do you say? Kya bole?
18
Redemption
EKETI CROUCHED behind a kadam tree and waited for the alarm to ring. The forested area was quiet, but the sound of laughter drifted across the brightly lit lawn. He had no sense of how much time had passed, but he was patient. A lot had happened since he had entered the farmhouse through that rear gate. He had killed a snake and successfully performed a ritual exorcism, something which even the great Nokai would have been proud of. And best of all, now he didn't need to depend on Ashok to return to his island. He had enough money to buy tickets for himself and Champi.
Thinking of Champi brought a smile to his face and an ache to his heart. He was waiting to rush
back to her with the sacred rock. Tomorrow they would travel to Kolkata to board the ship for Little Andaman, where they would receive a hero's welcome. He patted the canvas bag by his side. It was his only remaining link to the island. The clay, the bones, the pellets all brought to his mind the scents and sensations of Gaubolambe, which loomed larger in his imagination with every passing day.
Suddenly little beeps began emanating from the canvas bag. Eketi stood up with a start and switched off the alarm. He dusted down his black trousers, slung the bag over his shoulder and set off on his mission.
He reached the cobbled pathway that led to the garages and paused. In the middle of the path a small tent had been erected, inside which an army of cooks was busy frying, peeling and chopping. Large aluminium pots simmered on gas stoves. A perspiring man in a vest was bent over a clay tandoor, spearing freshly made rotis with a long metal skewer.
Eketi skirted the tent from the rear and proceeded down the path. He reached the garages without any difficulty. There was an empty plastic chair and immediately above it, embedded in the wall between the two garages, was a metal cabinet, painted blue. He was about to open the cabinet door when a hand fell on his shoulder. 'Hold it!' a stern voice boomed behind him.
He whirled around to find a dark man dressed in a white shirt and grey trousers glaring at him. There was a hockey stick in his right hand.
'Who are you?' the man demanded brusquely.
'I am Mr Sharma's driver,' he replied, swallowing hard.
'Then what are you doing traipsing around here? All the drivers are supposed to eat in the outside tent. Go over there.' He pointed towards the gate.
'Yes,' he said and half ran, half walked towards the gate. Rounding the corner, he leaned against the wall, his body still limp with shock.
He saw that he had reached the front driveway, where a row of cars was lined up, but none of the drivers was around. They were all having dinner inside a tent erected just behind the left entrance gate. The deathly silence in the portico was a sharp contrast to the music and laughter emanating from the garden at the back.
Hiding behind a marble column, Eketi peeked back at the cobbled pathway. The man in the grey trousers was now sitting on the plastic chair directly below the switchboard, wiping his neck with a handkerchief, the hockey stick leaning against his left leg. He did not appear to be a regular guard, but it was evident that he was stationed there specifically to ensure that no one tampered with the switchboard. Eketi wondered what to do. Should he go back to the Bhole Nath Temple and ask Ashok? Should he just make a dash for the ingetayi, light or no light? A whizzing sound came from above and he looked up to see a great green flower burst in the sky. The fireworks had started on the rear lawn.
He edged inside the portico and came across an open casement window. Peeping in, he saw a large hall full of people talking and drinking. The bass whine of a speaker suddenly split the air and a tall man wearing a dark suit and purple tie walked towards a mike positioned just behind the open window. The man turned to face the crowd, tapped the mike a couple of times and began speaking. 'Friends, we are gathered here today to celebrate my acquittal,' Eketi heard him say. 'All along I maintained my innocence. I am glad the court also recognized it. I am thankful to all of you whose support kept me afloat through those dark days and nights when I didn't know whether I would be spending the rest of my life in a dingy cell. So this is to say thank you. But the person I need to thank the most is my father, the one man responsible for making me what I am today. Dad, can you please come up here and say a few words?'
An older, heavy-set man, wearing white kurta pyjamas, walked up to the mike and embraced the man in the suit, who clung to him as if it was their last meeting. Eketi even detected a tear coursing down the suited man's cheek. Then the older man began speaking.
'It is always a mistake to give a politician a mike,' he said and there was mild tittering. 'But I am standing here today not as the Home Minister of Uttar Pradesh but as a father. And nothing gives a father greater happiness than to see his children prosper and flourish. Nothing pains a father more than to see his son being implicated in a totally fabricated case. I am glad that the long dark night is over and my son can now live like a free man. This is a victory for all those who have faith in the judiciary and in justice. To my son I wish a very long life. May Lord Shiva bless all of you.'
There were murmurs of approval from the people in the room. A cracker burst loudly and the sky was lit up by a brilliant orange pumpkin.
Eketi went back to his vantage point against the wall. He peeked at the garages again, hoping that the man in the grey trousers might have gone. But he was still there, except now he was standing up and looking left and right, as if checking that the coast was clear. As Eketi watched, the man turned towards the switchboard, opened the cabinet and fiddled briefly. Instantly, darkness descended over the entire farmhouse.
The tribal quivered with excitement. This was his cue. He raced down the cobbled pathway soundlessly and ran on to the lawn, which was also in pitch darkness. He was halfway across the grounds when his foot struck a wooden table and he went sprawling on to the grass. A loud bang came from inside the house, as though an engine had backfired, and he sensed a dark figure rush out on to the lawn. Eketi's left leg was hurting badly, but ignoring the pain he bounded the last few steps to the temple, his eyes accustomed by now to the darkness. Dropping his canvas bag to the floor, he began feeling his way around the walls, which had recessed alcoves containing idols of various deities. It took him half a minute to locate the one with the ingetayi. He touched it, felt its smooth surface, the markings on top, and his fingers began throbbing on their own. All else became a blur as he picked up the sea-rock. It lifted off its base easily. Slipping it into the canvas bag, he swung the bag across his shoulder and began running down the lawn, his heart singing. He was going home. To Champi. To Gaubolambe.
He had almost reached the edge of the wood when the lights came back on. 'Stop!' someone shouted behind him. He turned around and saw a constable with a raised baton speeding across the lawn towards him.
He tried to make a dash for the safety of the thicket, but at that very moment his injured left leg gave up on him. He fell down in a heap and within seconds the cop was upon him.
'What have you just done, bastard?' the constable wheezed, breathing deeply.
'Nothing,' said Eketi, his face distorted with pain.
'Give me your bag,' the constable said, whacking him on the legs with his lathi.
With a startled cry, Eketi let go of the bag. The constable lifted it and was surprised by its weight. 'What have you got inside? Let's take a look,' he muttered as he unzipped the bag. One by one he started taking out its contents – the small lumps of red and white clay, the pouch of pig fat, the bone necklace, and finally the sacred rock. 'Oh, this looks like a shivling! Where did you steal it from?' Before Eketi could reply, the constable groped in the bag one final time. His fingers touched something hard and metallic and his eyebrows rose as he drew out a silver-coloured gun. It was a locally made improvised revolver, a katta.
'And what is this, motherfucker?'
'I don't know. That is not mine,' Eketi replied, completely taken aback.
'Then how come it is inside your bag?'
'I don't know how it got there.'
'Don't worry, we will find out,' said the constable as he took out a pair of handcuffs. 'Come on, blackie, you are under arrest.'
19
Evacuation
24 March
I have been arrested. For murdering Vicky Rai.
These aren't the opening lines of a film script or a novel. I am writing them sitting on a wobbly bench inside the record room of Mehrauli police station, where I have been detained along with five other suspects. It is a large room, full of files piled high on metal shelves fifteen feet tall. Cobwebs festoon every corner and an ancient fan hangs from the wooden ceiling. The room has the musty smell of a library intermingled with the fetid st
ench of a morgue. The occasional gust of air blowing in from the small window with an iron grille is therefore a relief. I can hear the faint pitter-patter of raindrops. It has been raining steadily for the past two hours.
I had made a fashionably late entrance at the party, arriving at the farmhouse just after eleven. The lawn was packed with people. It seemed the Who's Who of Delhi had come to celebrate Vicky's acquittal. Jagannath Rai was there too, with an army of hangers-on in starched white kurta pyjamas. I was sickened by this vulgar display of political muscle, this affront to justice. But I was even more sickened by Vicky Rai. Having seen him up close – the scaly scar running down his left cheek, the way spit dribbled out of his mouth when he became excited – I felt disgusted at my decision to seek his help. I was going to pay a very high price indeed for saving my sister.
And then I met the weirdest American in the whole world. He was cute, with a strong resemblance to Michael J. Fox; he was rich, having just received fifteen million dollars; and he was madly in love with me. But he turned out to be the psycho Rosie had warned me about. So I got rid of Mr Larry Page, a.k.a. Rick Myers, faster than he could say 'Howdy'.
At the stroke of midnight fireworks began in the garden and speeches began in the marble drawing room. Vicky Rai and his father spoke as if they were members of a mutual admiration society. Their corny panegyrics made me cringe. Then Vicky went to the bar and began mixing a drink. That is when the lights went out and the entire house was plunged into darkness. Living in Mumbai, I had almost forgotten the power cuts which used to plague Azamgarh. But somehow the lights going off at Number Six did not seem to fit the pattern of an unscheduled load-shedding. It smacked more of deliberate mischief.
'Arrey, what happened?' I exclaimed.
'Switch on the generator,' someone shouted.
And then a shot rang out. 'Nooooooo!' Jagannath Rai screamed. Another cracker burst outside, but it was so loud it seemed as if it had burst inside the room, almost shattering my eardrums.
There was complete confusion and pandemonium for the three minutes or so that the house remained in pitch darkness. Then the lights came on, blinding my eyes with their sudden dazzle. The first thing I saw was Vicky Rai's body, slumped below the window, next to the bar. Blood had seeped into his white shirt, turning it crimson. I heard another high-pitched scream and realized it was mine. At that moment ten police constables barged into the hall, led by an Inspector with a curled-up moustache.