The cell is unlocked again at four p.m. 'Come,' Babloo says. 'Let's go for some fresh air.'
They walk into a courtyard, half the size of a football pitch, where nearly fifty prisoners are milling around. They are of all ages and sizes: some are wizened old men with flowing beards and some look as young as fifteen. There is a group playing volleyball, another gathered around a radio set and a few men just sitting and chatting. The deferential way in which the other prisoners greet Babloo Tiwari clearly establishes him as their leader. Only a group of three men sitting huddled together in a corner takes no notice of him.
'Who are they?' Mohan asks.
'Don't talk to them. Don't even go near them. They are foreigners belonging to the dreaded Lashkar-e-Shahadat who were involved in last year's attempted bombing of the Red Fort.
'Shouldn't they be put in a separate area, if they are high-risk terrorists?'
Babloo smiles. 'Arrey bhai, even you are now in the high-risk category.'
Mohan nods. His gaze falls on a striking, middle-aged man, sitting alone on the steps. He has Einstein's hair and Hitler's moustache.
'Who is that cartoon?' he nudges Babloo.
'Oh him, he is our chief source of entertainment,' Babloo says. 'Let me show you. Hey, you,' he calls out. 'Come here.'
The man shuffles towards them. He is tall and reed-thin, and has a furtive look about him.
'We have a new visitor. Won't you welcome him?' Babloo asks in Hindi.
'Welcome to the Gulag Archipelago,' the man announces in perfect English, holding both hands together.
'What is your name?'
'My name is Red.'
'What are you in jail for?'
'Atonement.'
'And what do you think will be your punishment?'
'One hundred years of solitude.'
'Who is your best friend here?'
The Possession of Mohan Kumar 127
'The boy in the striped pyjamas.'
'Thank you. You can go now.'
'So long, see you tomorrow,' the man says. He tilts his head, stretches his arms and begins running towards the centre of the field like an aeroplane in flight.
Mohan is intrigued. 'Is his name really Red?'
'No,' Babloo grins. 'His name is L. K. Varshney. He used to be a Professor of English Literature at Delhi University. One day he discovered his wife in bed with his best student. So he killed his wife and is now in jail, pending trial. He will probably be sentenced to life. They say he used to be half mad when he was a professor. Tihar has made him completely mad. Now he always speaks in this funny kind of way.'
'And what are you in jail for?'
'For everything. I have committed almost every crime in the Indian Penal Code and all my cases are awaiting trial. But they won't be able to prove anything. I stay in Tihar because I prefer to stay here. It is safer than being outside.'
As Babloo wanders off to chat to a couple of tough-looking inmates, a young boy with a dusty face and short hair comes up to Mohan and touches his feet. He smells of dirt.
'Arrey, who are you?' Mohan shrinks back.
'They say you are Gandhi Baba,' the youth says hesitatingly. 'I came to pay my respects and ask for a favour. My name is Guddu.'
'What are you in for?' Mohan asks.
'I stole a loaf of bread from a bakery. Now I have been here five years. They beat me every day, make me clean the toilets. I want to see my mother. I miss her very much. I know only you can get me out,' he says and starts sobbing.
'Hato. Hato.' Mohan tries to wave him away. 'Look, there is nothing I can do. I am a prisoner too, like you. I have to get out myself before I can think of others. And don't spread this nonsense about my being Gandhi Baba, OK?'
He moves to the other side of the field and is almost immediately accosted by an old man with an aquiline nose and twinkling grey eyes.
'Yada yada hi dharmasya glanirbhavati bharata,' the man intones in Sanskrit, and then translates for Mohan's benefit. 'Whenever there is a fall of righteousness, you arrive to destroy the forces of evil. I bow to you, O great Mahatma. Only you can save this country.'
'And who might you be?' Mohan asks wearily.
'Dr D. K. Tirumurti at your service, Sir. Sanskrit scholar from Madurai.'
'Also professional cheat, you forgot to mention,' Babloo speaks up from behind.
'Let's go, Babloo, I've had enough fresh air.' Mohan tugs at the gangster's sleeve. 'There is one chap who wants me to save him, another who wants me to save the country. Is this a jail or a lunatic asylum?'
Babloo chuckles. 'Actually there is very little difference between the two. Stick with me if you don't want to join the loony brigade.'
The food at dinner time is the same bland fare. But by now Mohan is so famished, he polishes off all four rotis and slurps up the cold vegetable stew. Babloo, he notices, eats very little, sniffling most of the time.
'How do you manage on so little food?' he asks the gangster.
Babloo gives a crafty smile. Wiping his runny nose with the sleeve of his kurta, he lifts the mattress and brings out a hypodermic syringe. 'My food is this.' He tests the syringe before plunging it into his arm.
Mohan winces. 'So you are a drug addict?'
'No. Not an addict,' Babloo says with sudden vehemence. 'I control the cocaine. The cocaine doesn't control me.' He completes the injection and exhales. 'Ahh… this is paradise. I tell you, nothing can beat the rush of crack. Want to try? It will make you forget Scotch.'
'No thank you.'
'I take only one dose at night. And that keeps me going all through the night and all through the next day.'
'Then how do you sleep?'
'I pop some sleeping tablets.'
'Thankfully I don't need sleeping pills to get to sleep,' Mohan says and pulls the blanket over his head.
'Good night, Sir,' Babloo calls out and for no apparent reason bursts into a fit of laughter.
It takes an immense effort on Mohan's part to begin the slow process of adjusting to jail life. He learns to get up at five thirty a.m. for the head-count of prisoners, to sit on the stinking toilet without holding his nose, to tolerate the insipid tea and inedible rotis, to attend the prayer assemblies and yoga sessions and even watch the soaps on TV, which most inmates are completely addicted to. He becomes acquainted with Punjabi murderers and Gujarati arsonists, Nigerian drug-pushers and Uzbek counterfeiters, South Indian cheats and North Indian rapists. He begins playing chess and carrom. He borrows three books a week from the jail library and starts maintaining a diary of prison life.
Throughout this period, he is sustained by Babloo's largesse with his Scotch whisky, the punctilious delivery of Shanti's tiffin every Wednesday loaded with mutton curry and chicken biryani, and the soothing assurances of his lawyers that he will be out soon.
He develops an uneasy friendship with Babloo Tiwari. He is revolted by the criminal's crassness, his ignorance of world affairs, but also amazed at the power he wields in jail. Babloo is the uncrowned king of Tihar, each and every official having been bribed or bullied into servicing him. He runs his empire from inside the jail, spending half his time talking to his henchmen in low whispers, arranging abductions and demanding ransoms, receiving contraband consignments of liquor, cocaine and SIM cards, doling out rewards to pliable policemen and bribe-taking bureaucrats. He has a shrewd sense of their weaknesses, knowing whom to lure with a call girl and whom with cash. But he reserves his ultimate display of power for New Year's Eve, when he organizes a 'private concert' for the jail staff and his cohorts.
In the reading room, the tables and chairs have been pushed to the corners and a makeshift wooden stage erected next to the wall. The central space is covered with white sheets and scattered with foam cushions. Two bottles of Johnny Walker Black Label are placed in the middle and salted nuts in stainless steel bowls are laid out at strategic intervals.
Babloo Tiwari reclines against a bolster, takes a sip of whisky from the glass tumbler in his hand, pops a cashew nut into his mouth and gazes at the fair young woman on the stage. Dressed in a knee-length lehnga and a tight choli, she is busy aping the moves of Shabnam Saxena to a taped medley of her film hits.