Six Suspects

Please believe me, I had no personal score to settle with Vicky Rai. I am not related to any of the six homeless people he mowed down as a teenager. I had never set eyes on Kishore Rajput, the forest ranger whom he got killed. Ruby Gill was neither my colleague, nor my sister, nor my lover. I didn't know her, never met her.

I presume my action will be seen as vigilante justice. The act of a citizen who takes the law into his own hands when the actions of established authorities are insufficient.

And the actions of established authorities clearly were insufficient. Vicky Rai broke one law after another and received one acquittal after another. The final straw came when he was even exonerated of the murder of Ruby Gill.

Our great epics tell us that when evil becomes all-pervasive, God comes down to restore goodness. With all due respect, that's nonsense. No one comes down from heaven to sort out the mess on earth. You have to clean up the shit yourselves. You have to take off your shoes, hitch up your trousers and wade into the sodden muddy pit.

That is what I did. My conscience left me no other choice.

The middle class is supposed to act as the conscience of the nation, an ethical beacon guarding against the excesses of the upper class and the defeatism of the underclass. It is the middle class which challenges the status quo, which brought about the great revolutions of the world – in France, China and Russia, in Mexico, Algeria and Vietnam. But not in India. Our middle class believes firmly in the preservation of the status quo. Unconcerned with the declining standards in public life, apathetic about the plight of the poor, it indulges in rampant consumerism. We have become a nation of voyeurs, hooked on inane soap operas about scheming mothers-in-law and suffering housewives, feeding on the carcass of others' misfortunes, salivating at the break-up of a celebrity marriage, mesmerized by flickering TV images of politicians caught accepting bribes on camera.

I have nothing against voyeurs. I admit, in my younger days even I was tempted occasionally to peep into my neighbour's house, hoping to catch a glimpse of his young daughter taking a bath. But what if instead you catch your neighbour choking his middle-aged wife to death? What do you do then? Do you slink into your bed like a half-guilty thief or do you rush into the neighbour's house and put a stop to the crime?

This was the dilemma I faced when I listened to the tapes of Vicky Rai's conversations. You see, I had been tapping his phone for the past two years, just as the Chief Minister was tapping Jagannath Rai's phone.

When I first began the phone tap, I had no idea what I was getting into. It seemed like a harmless way to ferret out information and it was easy. India is an eavesdropper's paradise. Nobody is bothered about infringement of civil liberties, privacy rights and data protection. All you need is some electronic equipment which can be bought off the shelf from any shop in Palika Bazaar and some connections in the phone department and you are all set for some freelance tapping. I currently have seven intercepts running all the way from Jammu to Jabalpur.

For two years I listened to Vicky Rai's voice on a daily basis. I listened to the favours being exchanged, the bribes being paid, the frauds being perpetrated, the girls being seduced. I heard earnumbing accounts of how laws were broken and subverted, how evidence was falsified, how justice was trampled upon, raped, pillaged and sold to the highest bidder. Every infraction was like a band of iron squeezing my heart. Every injustice was like a nail being driven into my body.

And then, on 17 March, I heard a conversation which set me on fire. I will play you a small clip from that tape. Listen carefully.

'Hello, Vicky baba, recognize me?'

'Is it Mukhtar?'

'Yes, Vicky baba. I am sorry to call you so late, but-'

'What's the matter? You sound very worried.'

'You remember, Vicky baba, how we used to play together in Lucknow? You would sit on my back and I would race to the peepul tree and then you would say "Take me to-" '

'I am sure you haven't called me at one o'clock in the morning to reminisce about my childhood. Come to the point, Mukhtar. Are you in some kind of trouble again?'

'No, Vicky baba, you are in trouble.'

'What do you mean?'

'Boss called me to his house an hour ago.'

'So? Who did Dad want bumped off this time?'

'You, Vicky baba. He gave me a contract to kill you.'

'Have you gone mad?'

'No, Vicky baba. I swear on my dead father. This is exactly what Boss asked me to do.' (Long pause.)

'I still don't believe this.'

'I couldn't either. I have seen you grow up in front of my eyes, Vicky baba. How can I take your life?'

'When did Dad tell you to carry out the hit?'

'On 23 March. When you are going to have some big party at Number Six.'

'I see.'

(Long pause.)

'I don't know what's happened to Boss. He is not the man he used to be. This fight for the Chief Minister's chair has warped his brain.'

'Mukhtar, will you do a job for me?'

'Hukum, Vicky baba.'

'I want you to kill Mr Jagannath Rai. On the same day, at the same place. I will pay you one hundred times what Dad would have paid you. Will you accept my contract?'

'Vicky baba, how can-'

'I will send you ten lakhs right away, and the balance on completing the job. You don't need to do any more hits after this one. Do we have a deal?'

'I don't know what to say, Vicky baba.'

'It will be your easiest hit, Mukhtar. I will keep the service entrance unlocked. You come in through there with your gun. I will be at the bar in the big hall and I will ensure that Dad is in the other corner, next to the bay window which opens on to the driveway. At exactly five minutes past midnight I will get my trusted servant Shankar to switch off the mains. Fireworks will already be going on at the time. You finish off your work as soon as the lights blow and race out through the service gate. Can anything be simpler?'

(Long pause.)

'Do we have a deal, Mukhtar?'

'Yes, Boss.'

'Good. Then I suggest you disappear for a while. Do not take any calls from Dad.'

'Yes, Boss. I will hole out in Sarai Meer, and then come to Number Six only on the twenty-third.'

'Fine. I will have your advance sent to Azamgarh.'

'Meherbani. Khuda hafiz.'

(Disconnect.)

Something snapped in my brain when I heard this tape. How long can you see what is happening around you and remain unaffected by it? How long can you pretend you are not a citizen of this country, not a thinking, feeling man? And I said to myself, 'Enough is enough.' I decided to kill Vicky Rai, mete out my own justice to him. If the corrupt father was going to die, then so would the depraved son.

To kill a man you need three things. A powerful motive, strong nerves and a good gun. I was motivated and steady, all I required was a reliable gun. I went for a country-made pistol, a compact semi-automatic.32 fabricated in Bamhaur; cheap, dependable and completely untraceable. Then I paid a visit to Akram Bhai, a wizened old cobbler who owns a small shop behind Jama Masjid, specializing in custom-made footwear. He made me a pair of patent-leather shoes which, once you lifted the insole, contained a hollow compartment in the heel big enough to secrete a wad of cash. Or a bar of gold. Or a compact gun.

So on 23 March, I, too, was in Number Six with a pistol in my pocket. Getting inside the farmhouse was child's play. I slipped in through the unlocked service gate wearing a fake beard and the red-and-black uniform of the waiters from Elite Tent House, who, I knew from an earlier intercept, were doing the catering at the party. I picked up a tray and hung around the garden, watching the guests laughing and the booze flowing. It was a typical Delhi party of the rich, with the usual air-kissing and pointless hugging, the ritual exchange of business cards and the predatory circling of women flaunting their bodies.