Six Suspects

Raha frowns at him and punches a button on the laptop. A new chart appears on the screen. 'Well, the audit report certified by Messrs R. R. Haldar does not support your contention, Mr Dutta.'

'The audit report is a fraud, like you,' Dutta sneers.

Raha decides to ignore the taunt. 'Anyway, as I was saying, our operating environment continues to remain difficult. The totally illegal strike by workers last May resulted in a loss of thirty-five man days.'

'Please don't blame the strike on the workers,' Dutta intervenes again. 'The management was solely responsible for the strike by unilaterally withdrawing the transport allowance.'

Raha continues as if he has not heard Dutta. 'It is Mr Rai's dream to make this mill one of the biggest players in the textile field in India. Our eventual objective is to modernize the mill in two phases, with the installation of hi-tech state-of-the-art textile machinery. For the restructuring plan to work we are required to bring down non-performing assets and interest-bearing debt. We would need to maximize the use of capital intensive machinery, with the concomitant need to… er… rightsize some of the other parameters.'

'And what might these other parameters be, Mr Raha?' Dutta asks.

'This will require us to downscale the workforce to an optimum degree.'

'Oh, you mean men will be sacked to make way for machines?'

'Well, Mr Dutta, I wouldn't put it quite so starkly. And, in any case, the restructuring plan will have in-built provisions for matching of competencies and payment of motivational wages and productivity-linked bonuses, together with other incentivization packages which-'

'Stop this charade, Raha.' Dutta pushes back his chair and stands up. 'On behalf of the unions, I totally reject the restructuring plan.'

There is a fizz of silence in the room. All eyes look at Vicky Rai, who drums his fingers on the table, his face inscrutable. 'Well, in that case, I think we should put the proposal to a vote. All those in favour, please say yes.' He stares at a middle-aged man with a long nose on his left. 'Mr Arora?'

'Yes.'

'Mrs Islamia?'

'Yes.'

'Mr Singh?'

'Yes.'

'Mr Billmoria?'

'Yes.'

'Mr Dutta?'

'An emphatic no.'

'Mr Kumar?'

Mohan has an impish smile on his face. 'Well, I must say this has been a most fascinating and thought-provoking discussion. I will make only three submissions. First, that the principle of majority does not work when differences on fundamentals are involved.' He glances at Vicky Rai, whose eyebrows go up a fraction.

'My second submission is that each and every one of you should consider yourself to be a trustee for the welfare of our fellow labourers and not be self-seeking,' he says, emphasizing each word. 'Where there are millions upon millions of units of idle labour, it is no use thinking of labour-saving devices. This company cannot function with greed as its only motive. It has to serve a higher purpose. And this brings me to my third submission.'

Vicky's face is now etched with worry lines. 'What the fuck is Kumar up to? Is he speaking in our favour or against us?' he whispers to Raha.

'My third submission,' Mohan Kumar repeats as he dips his head below the table and brings up a large packet wrapped in brown paper, 'is this.' He tears off the wrapping to reveal a wooden spinning wheel. 'Ladies and Gentlemen,' he announces, pausing for theatrical effect, 'I present to you the charkha.'

There are gasps from the board members. 'The spinning wheel was invented in India as a device for spinning yarn from fibres, but somehow got lost to us,' Mohan Kumar continues. 'I had to search in almost fifty shops in Chandni Chowk before I found this one. I claim that in losing the spinning wheel we lost our left lung. I believe that the yarn we spin from this device is capable of mending the broken warp and woof of our lives. The charkha is the panacea for all the ills afflicting this company and, indeed, this country. A plea for the spinning wheel is a plea for recognizing the dignity of labour. I am sure our friend from the unions will agree.' He looks pointedly at Dutta, who watches him, mouth agape.

'Yes… Yes, of course,' Dutta mumbles. 'Forgive me, Mohan Kumarji. All along we thought of you as a snake, but you are actually our saviour.'

A buzz goes around the boardroom. Hurried consultations are held. Eventually Vicky Rai stands up. 'It appears that we do not quite have unanimity on the restructuring plan. I will ask Mr Raha to further refine the proposal. We shall notify you of the date for the next board meeting. Thank you.'

He gives Mohan Kumar a withering look and leaves the room, slamming the door shut.

Over the next week, Mohan Kumar devotes himself to various causes. He participates in rallies by the Justice for Ruby campaign, sits outside the Supreme Court with activists protesting against the proposed increase in the height of the Sardar Sarovar Dam, attends a candle-light vigil at India Gate for peace between India and Pakistan, and leads a group of angry women picketing country liquor shops. He also replaces his reading spectacles with wire-rimmed, round 'Gandhi' glasses and the media instantly dubs him 'Gandhi Baba'.

On Sunday, while going to a protest march against the creation of Special Economic Zones, Mohan's car gets caught up in heavy traffic in Connaught Place. As it inches towards the red light, his eyes are drawn to the posters adorning a cinema on his left. Full of lurid images of semi-naked women, they bear titles like 'ALL NIGHT LONG', 'A VIRGIN'S TROUBLES' and 'MAN-EATING BEAUTY'. A diagonal strip on the posters proclaims, 'Full of love and sex. Morning show ten a.m. Special Rates.' A tag-line underneath states boldly: 'Sex needs no language.'

'Ram, Ram,' Mohan mutters. 'How has the government allowed such filth in a public place?'

Brijlal sighs knowingly. 'My Rupesh has also been coming to these morning shows. These posters are nothing. I am told in the films they show full naked women.'

'Really? In that case stop the car.'

'What, Sahib, right here?'

'Yes, right here.'

Brijlal manoeuvres the car to the kerb alongside the cinema and Mohan steps out.

The cinema is an old, grey building, with a cloistered, mouldy aura. The paint on the walls is peeling off and the tiles on the floor have been badly defaced. But the frescoes on the ceiling and the Corinthian pillars in the atrium are still intact, decaying reminders of its former grandeur. The morning show is about to start and there is a fair-sized crowd milling around the ticket window. It is a hormonally driven audience, exclusively male, looking for instant gratification. There are even boys in the queue as young as twelve or thirteen. They fidget nervously and puff up their chests in a desperate bid to look older. Mohan Kumar marches straight to the ticket window, oblivious to the protests of those in the queue. The cashier, a middle-aged man with a pencil moustache, sits in a small airless room with wads of pink, light-green and white tickets in front of him. 'Hundred for Dress Circle, seventy-five for Balcony, fifty for Front Stalls. Which ticket do you want?' he asks in a bored voice, without even bothering to look up.

'I want all your tickets.'

'All the tickets?' The cashier raises his head.

'Yes.'

'The special rates for group bookings do not apply to morning shows. Are you bringing a group from some boys' hostel?'

'No, I want all the tickets only for the purpose of destroying them.'

'What?'

'You heard me correctly. I want to destroy your tickets. Aren't you ashamed of yourself, showing such filth, spoiling the morals of the youth of this country?'

'Hey mister, don't talk to me about all this. Go talk to the manager. Next, please.'

'Please call the manager. I refuse to leave till the manager meets me,' Mohan says firmly.

The cashier glowers at him, before getting up from his stool and disappearing through a green door. Presently a short, corpulent man enters the room.

'Yes, what is it? I am the manager.'

'I want to talk to you,' says Mohan.