Six Suspects

'Are you mad, woman? No one with any wisdom would ever destroy perfectly good bottles of foreign whisky. Who took them out of the cellar?'

'It was Brijlal.'

'Call that swine.'

Brijlal is summoned and questioned thoroughly. He sticks to the story he has been rehearsing for a fortnight. He had been asked to destroy the bottles by Bibiji. He had taken them to the municipal drain and smashed each and every one of them on the concrete pavement, discarding the glass shards in the rubbish bag which the garbage truck had subsequently carted away.

'Didn't you think of checking with me, first?'

'Well, Sahib, Bibiji said it was your order. Who am I to question Bibiji?'

'This Bibiji is the root cause of trouble in this house,' Mohan says, gnashing his teeth. 'I need a drink right now.'

'Why are you changing the perfectly sensible decision you took to become a teetotaller?' Shanti implores him. 'I maintained a fast all these years only for you to kick this evil habit. When you said you were giving up drinking, I thought God had finally opened your eyes, given you good sense.'

'Good sense is what you need, woman,' he shouts and turns to Brijlal. 'Take me immediately to Khan Market. I cannot sleep without having a drink.'

'But it is Diwali today, Sahib. The market is closed.'

'Then go and steal a bottle from somewhere,' he snaps at the driver, picking up a dinner plate from the counter and throwing it against the wall, where it shatters into pieces.

'Take him, Brijlal,' Shanti cries. 'Take him to some bar before he destroys everything.'

'It is impossible to stay in this house,' Mohan declares and stomps out of the kitchen.

The next morning he asks Brijlal to drive him straight to Modern Liquors in Khan Market. The owner, Mr Aggarwal, greets him warmly. 'Welcome, Kumar Sahib. Do you have some more bottles for us?'

'What do you mean?'

'You sold your vintage collection to us a few weeks ago. I was wondering if there was more. We will pay top price for every bottle.'

'You are mistaken. All my bottles were destroyed.'

'Then someone has cheated you, Sir. I paid twenty-five thousand rupees for your collection.'

'I see.' Kumar strokes his chin and summons Brijlal to the shop. 'Is this the man who sold you the bottles?' he asks Mr Aggarwal.

'Exactly, Sir. He is the man.'

'I think it is time you told me the real story behind the bottles, Brijlal,' Mohan says coldly.

Trembling with fear, the driver blurts out the truth.

'What did you do with all that money?' Mohan demands.

'I used it for Ranno's dowry, Sahib.'

Mohan's rage bubbles over. He raises his hand and slaps the driver. 'You ungrateful dog! You eat my salt and then stab me in the back? Now go and get it back, each and every penny of it. If you don't return my full twenty-five thousand, I will turn you over to the police.'

Brijlal clutches Mohan's feet, tears streaming from his eyes. 'But Sahib, this will ruin my Ranno's wedding. You can deduct it from my salary every month, but please don't ask me to break my daughter's heart.'

'You should have thought of the consequences before you embarked on your little transaction. I want my money by this afternoon. Otherwise get ready to spend the night in jail.'

Brijlal walks into Mohan's study at noon and hands him a brown envelope.

Mohan counts the notes and gives a satisfied grunt. 'Good. Twenty-five thousand. You have now made amends, Brijlal. Let this be a lesson. Another foolish mistake like this and I will have no qualms about dismissing you. Then you won't even have a roof over your head.'

Brijlal says nothing and walks out of the room like a zombie.

A week passes. Mohan Kumar resumes his drinking and meateating with such vengeance that his household comes to the conclusion that the brief interlude without alcohol was an aberrant decision, itself taken perhaps under the influence of alcohol. He stops talking to Shanti completely, and looks at her with such revulsion that she avoids crossing his path. Gopi is warned against bringing bottle gourd into the house, let alone cooking it.

Mohan resumes going to the office, and tries to speak to his mistress, but Rita Sethi resolutely refuses to take his calls, which causes him great consternation. And then he gets his bank statement, which leads to an apoplectic fit.

Sister Kamala's face tightens, making her look rather schoolmatronly. 'Now let me get this straight, Mr Kumar. You are telling me that we have illegally withdrawn the sum of two million rupees from your account with HSBC Bank, right?'

'Damn right,' Mohan Kumar mutters, wiping sweat from his brow with a blue handkerchief. 'I got this statement in today's mail. Look at it.' He thrusts a sheet of paper at her. 'It says cheque number 00765432 for rupees twenty lakhs was credited to the account of the Missionaries of Charity. Well, I never gave you that cheque. So there's obviously some fraud involved here.'

Sister Kamala adjusts the blue sash of her crisp white sari with studied nonchalance. 'In that case we will have to refresh your memory.' She looks at the woman with glasses standing beside her chair wearing a similar dress. 'Sister Vimla, can I have the documents please?'

Sister Vimla pushes the round glasses on her nose a notch higher and places a green ring-binder on the table.

Sister Kamala flips open the binder. 'Would you care to have a look at this, please, Mr Kumar. This is a photocopy of the cheque you gave us ten days ago, on 7 November. Is this your signature or not?' she asks.

Mohan Kumar scans the document with the suspicious air of a probate attorney examining a will. There is a long pause, and then he exhales. 'It does look like my signature. A very good forgery, I must say.' He jabs a finger at Sister Kamala. 'This is a serious matter, you know. You could go to jail.'

'So you say that your signature is forged. Fine.' She flips to the first page. 'Would you have a look at this photograph now? Is this you or has this photo been forged too?'

Mohan Kumar looks at the glossy colour photograph under a plastic sheet. There is a longer pause. 'It… it does look like me,' he says weakly.

'Yes, Mr Kumar. It is you. You came to us on a Wednesday. You sat in this very room, on this very chair and gave us the cheque, telling us how much you admired Mother Teresa and her work. You said that possession of inordinate wealth by individuals is a crime against humanity and then you wrote us a cheque for twenty lakhs. Sister Vimla took this photo for our monthly bulletin, to keep a record of the largest single donation this branch has ever received.'

'But… but I have no recollection of coming here.'

'But we have full recollection, and full proof,' Sister Kamala says triumphantly.

'Is there no way I can get my money back?' he pleads.

'We have already cashed the cheque. The funds will help us run our hospice for the terminally ill, expand the orphanage and open a small school for children up to Grade Six. Think of what you will earn back in goodwill and blessings from all those who will be helped by your donation.'

'I don't need any goodwill. I just want my money back. I am a very senior IAS officer.'

'And also a very venal one. Sister Vimla did a full background check on you. Aren't you the Chief Secretary who was declared the most corrupt officer in Uttar Pradesh by the Civil Service Association?'

'That's rich. You take my money and also insult me! Now are you returning my money or do I need to go to the police?'

'You don't need to go to the police, Mr Kumar. You need to go to a doctor,' Sister Kamala says. 'And now, if you will excuse us, it is time for our prayer.'

'But…' Mohan tries to interject.

Sister Kamala firmly shuts the door and turns to her aide. 'Loco.' She draws circles over her right ear with her index finger. 'Completely loco.'

Dr M. K. Diwan's clinic in Defence Colony is pleasantly furnished with a relaxing couch upholstered in blue, some easy chairs, abstract paintings on the alabaster walls and an artificial silk fig tree in the corner which looks surprisingly real. The décor gives the feel of a drawing room rather than an office. Dr Diwan is a tall man in his late forties, with a brusque manner and a clipped British accent.