22 March
I called him up on my mobile. Luckily his number wasn't engaged.
'Is that really you, Shabnam? I hope my Caller ID is not playing tricks on me.'
'Vicky, I need your help.'
'So you want the National Award, after all?'
'No. It is much more serious than that.'
'Really? Have you murdered someone? Just joking. Ha!'
'I cannot talk on the phone. I need to see you.'
'Well I've been dying to see you for a very long time.'
'Can I come today?'
'Today? No, today is a bad day. Why don't you come tomorrow? Come straight to Number Six.'
'Number Six?'
'Yeah. That's my farmhouse in Mehrauli. Every taxidriver in Delhi knows the address. Tomorrow night I am throwing the biggest party on earth. Celebrating my acquittal.'
'I need to see you privately. Not at a party.'
'We will meet in private, darling, but after the party.'
'But you must promise that you will help me.'
'Of course, I promise. Anything you want. But my help comes at a price.'
'I am willing to pay it.'
'This isn't just about your starring in Plan B.'
'I know what you are talking about, Vicky.'
'Good. Then I'll see you tomorrow, 23 March at eight p.m. at Number Six.'
'See you.'
'One more thing, Shabnam.'
'What?'
'Wear something sexy, OK?'
So this is it. The die has been cast. I refused to sleep with a prince, but I have just agreed to sleep with a murderer. Sisterly love has extracted the ultimate price. And I shall pay it willingly.
I took out the dead man's Beretta, pressed the release button and ejected the magazine. I have handled enough guns in films to know them inside-out. There are six cartridges left. I reinserted the magazine and carefully put the pistol inside my handbag.
I am going to a murderer's house; the least I can do is go with back-up. My own Plan B.
EVIDENCE
'There are no facts, only interpretations.'
Friedrich Nietzsche, Daybreak
14 Restoration
MOHAN KUMAR looks at his watch and inserts a hand in the pocket of his kurta, feeling the cold metal of the pistol. It is a timely reminder of the mission he is here to undertake.
It has been over an hour since he entered the gates of Number Six. The strong police presence outside the farmhouse had surprised him. But luckily there was no screening through a door-frame metal-detector for those arriving with their invitation cards.
Vicky Rai had greeted him in his usual pompous manner. 'Hello, Kumar – or should I address you as Gandhi Baba? Glad you could make it.' The hostility between them hung in the air like fog. For a brief moment he had flirted with the idea of shooting Vicky Rai then and there, but his hands had suddenly turned clammy and his heart had started palpitating alarmingly, and he had quietly slunk away into the garden.
His mind has been playing tricks on him all evening, strengthening his resolve one moment and breaking it the next. He swings between confidence and despair. And matters are not helped by the strangers who keep distracting him. They waylay him every few minutes, either to compliment him on his exploits as Gandhi Baba or to seek a favour. 'You deserved the Nobel Peace Prize, Gandhi Baba,' says one. 'Would you agree to address the World Leadership Conclave next July?' requests another. He smiles at them, while inside him the anxiety is growing. He wants to end it, quickly.
To take his mind off the issue of murder, he tries to focus on the mechanics of the act. The party is much bigger than he expected – there must be at least four hundred people on the sprawling lawns of Number Six, another hundred inside the house – and he will have to shoot Vicky Rai in full view of all the guests. This does not faze him. On the contrary, he relishes the prospect of a public execution. It will be an apt lesson for all future Vicky Rais. He touches the butt of the Walther PPK again and senses its power seep into his hand.
He moves towards the gazebo, hoping to locate a suitable vantage spot. The swimming pool is bathed in light, its cool blue water shimmering like glass under the bright spotlights. A girl in a blue bikini suddenly dives into the pool, splashing him with water. As he brushes the drops from his khadi vest, a flashbulb pops in his face, blinding him momentarily. He loses his footing and is about to fall into the pool when someone catches his arm and steadies him. For a few seconds he sees only blackness. When his vision clears he blinks at his benefactor. It is a bearded waiter in a red-and-black outfit. 'Thank you,' he mumbles, feeling flustered. He will have to be more careful, he reminds himself.
There are a good number of people around the pool, sipping wine and swaying to the music. They are all under twenty-five, and he feels old and out of place. He is about to turn away when a statuesque blonde girl in a body-hugging dress approaches him, strutting like a model on a catwalk. 'Ghandi Baba, how lovely to see you,' she drawls, pirouetting seductively in front of him. He can smell liquor on her breath. 'I'm Lisa. I'm in India for a photo shoot on the Kama Sutra. I could teach you some interesting positions.' She laughs and tries to kiss him.
'Ram, Ram,' he says and steps back hurriedly. In the process he collides with a waiter heading for the bar with six bottles of whisky on a tray. The tray falls from the waiter's hands and the bottles tumble to the paved stone floor and shatter. The air begins to reek of alcohol. So pungent are the fumes that he begins to feel dizzy. He stumbles away from the pool, feeling nauseous and strangely light-headed. He lurches down the lawn, moving further and further away from the crowd.
Before he knows it, he is deep inside a wooded area, where the lights of the garden do not reach. The moon is a giant white disc hanging above the treetops, its chalky light the only illumination in the forested gloom. He hears the steady gurgle of a waterfall some distance away, but closer to him the only sound is that of his own laboured breathing. He is wheezing slightly from all the running. Something is happening inside his brain, some kind of chemical reaction. His mind has become a kaleidoscope of shifting thoughts and images. Old suppressed memories are rising up, a fog is lifting, but only partially.
His foot crunches on something. First there is a creak and the snap of a breaking twig, and then he hears a faint hissing sound. He looks down to find a snake on the ground, and from the shape of its large head he knows instantly that it is a cobra. It is poised just above his right leg, its slippery tongue flickering in and out. He freezes and the blood stops coursing through his veins.
The snake rears its head, preparing to strike. I am going to die, he thinks. Just then he hears another twig break and suddenly a hand grips the head of the snake and lifts it off the ground. The cobra writhes for a while till it is flung far away.
'Who… who are you?' he asks, trying to peer into the silvery darkness.
A shadow shifts and a strange young man steps forward. He is dressed in a white shirt and black trousers, with a red Gap cap on his head and a black bag draped over his shoulder. His skin is so black that he merges with the darkness, but the whites of his eyes shine like torches. 'I am Jiba Korwa from Jharkhand,' he says.
'What are you doing here?'
'Waiting.'
'Thank you. You saved my life.'
'And who are you?'
'I am Mohan… Mohandas… Karam… Kumar. No, no – that is not right… Let me say it again. I – am – Mohan Kumar. Yes. And I hate snakes.'