by Vikas Swarup
‘Will this have any impact on my case?’
‘Murder is murder,’ he notes wryly. ‘Whether you kill a dacoit or a nun, the punishment remains the same.’
‘So what will happen to Acharya’s company now?’
‘I don’t know. It may even go into liquidation if the income-tax authorities levy a hefty penalty on Acharya’s black income. Or the board may decide to sell out to another conglomerate. I’m told Ajay Krishna Acharya, Mr Acharya’s twin brother, is keen to buy the ABC Group. He’ll probably succeed.’
‘That will be the ultimate travesty. Acharya hated his brother like poison. In fact, once he even confided to me that he thought AK was the mastermind behind Atlas.’ I look up at ACP Khan with that momentary stopping of the breath which comes with a sudden insight. ‘Of course! AK had Acharya bumped off so that he could take over his brother’s company.’
ACP Khan shakes his head in slow negation. ‘I’ve already looked into that possibility. AK was in the Grand Regency Hotel the night Acharya was murdered.’
‘What was he doing in the Regency?’
‘Addressing a healthcare conference in front of a thousand delegates. There’s no way he could have murdered Acharya.’
‘I still feel Rana is the key to this entire case. Don’t you think it’s time you interrogated him?’
‘I’ve already summoned him. He should be here in the next five minutes.’
* * *
Rana walks into ACP Khan’s room looking somewhat different from the last time I saw him. Perhaps it is something to do with his dress of polo shirt, khakis and fancy shoes, lending him a touch of easy prosperity.
‘I hope you rot in hell,’ he whispers angrily as he sits down next to me.
ACP Khan deals with him with the brusque proficiency of a seasoned investigator. ‘What was the nature of your relationship with Mr Acharya?’
‘I was his chief aide. You could think of me as a kind of confidential secretary.’
‘So is it true that Mr Acharya had selected Miss Sapna Sinha for consideration as CEO of the ABC Group of Companies?’
He nods with a grimace. ‘It was a mistake. I told Boss so.’
‘What made Mr Acharya choose Miss Sapna?’
‘I have no idea. Boss did not share everything with me. My own guess is he was attracted to her for some reason. That is why last September he secretly bought Gulati & Sons.’
‘But that’s before he even met me!’ I interject.
‘Carry on,’ urges ACP Khan. ‘So Mr Acharya purchased the company Miss Sapna was working in. Then he met her and told her he wanted to make her the CEO of his group if she passed his seven tests, right?’
Rana nods.
‘And you helped Mr Acharya in executing those seven tests?’
‘Not seven. Just six.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Mr Acharya became quite sick recently and didn’t have time to devise the seventh test.’
‘That’s an utter lie!’ I butt in again.
‘ACP sahib, you can speak to Dr Chitnis at the Tata Memorial Hospital in Mumbai,’ Rana says evenly. ‘He will show you Mr Acharya’s medical records, which will prove that Boss was suffering from pancreatic cancer. Terminal stage. He was going to die pretty soon anyways. But this woman’ – he pauses to bestow a look of undisguised contempt on me – ‘just couldn’t wait that long.’
‘He’s making this up,’ I declare flatly.
ACP Khan shoots me a stern look before resuming his questioning. ‘Were you aware that Mr Acharya was the mastermind behind Atlas?’
‘I didn’t have an inkling. It has come as a huge shock to me.’
‘But you were his most trusted aide. How come he didn’t trust you with his secret bank accounts?’
‘I guess there are some secrets that are never shared. But I’ll tell you this: Mr Acharya was a good man, not the monster he’s being made out to be by the media.’
I marvel at the act being put on by Rana. He is still wearing that mask of servile blandness, pretending to be the devoted servant, the loyal aide.
‘May I ask when was the last time you saw Mr Acharya alive?’
‘When I left Prarthana on Sunday, just after eight thirty p.m.’
‘And where did you go after you left Mr Acharya’s residence?’
‘To my house.’
‘And where exactly is your house?’
‘DDA Flat No. 4245, Sector C-1, Vasant Kunj.’
‘Did you remain in your house throughout that night?’
‘No. At ten thirty I left for Infra Red, the bar in Basant Lok.’
‘And how long did you stay there?’
‘Till midnight, when I got a call on my cell from the security at Prarthana informing me of Boss’s murder.’
‘And what did you do after that?’
‘I immediately went to Mr Acharya’s residence, where I met Dr Seth. The police also arrived a minute later.’
The interrogation drags on for another fifteen minutes, but it’s getting nowhere, and I’m becoming increasingly impatient. ‘If Acharya did not organise the acid attack on Neha, who did?’ I demand, glowering at Rana.
‘How would I know?’ Rana responds. ‘That’s for the police to find out.’
‘And find out we will,’ says ACP Khan.
* * *
Lauren comes to visit me that evening, accompanied by a tall, dark-haired kid.
‘Do you remember him?’ she asks me.
I glance over at the boy and recognition dawns on me. ‘Guddu, right? The expert lock maker.’
A shy smile crosses Guddu’s face. ‘Yes, madam. I used to work at Mirza Metal Works till you and Lauren Madam rescued me.’
‘What are you doing now?’
‘I’m learning computer skills at the Foundation.’
‘Chin up,’ says Lauren. ‘“If we had no winter, the spring would not be so pleasant; if we did not sometimes taste of adversity, prosperity would not be so welcome”.’ She is quoting the poet Anne Bradstreet.
So great is my despondency that, in return, I can only quote from Oscar Wilde’s ‘Ballad of Reading Gaol’ on prison life: ‘All that we know who lie in gaol/Is that the wall is strong;/And that each day is like a year,/A year whose days are long.’
* * *
At 6 p.m. ACP Khan summons me to his office again. He regards me with solemn eyes as I take the seat opposite him. ‘It’s not looking good for you,’ he says. ‘I’ve just spoken to Dr Chitnis at the Tata Memorial Hospital in Mumbai. He has confirmed what Rana told us. Mr Acharya was indeed suffering from metastatic pancreatic cancer. It has a median survival of just three to five months. Mr Acharya’s condition had deteriorated to such an extent that Dr Chitnis had told him he had barely two weeks left to live.’
My eyes widen in surprise. ‘Acharya never mentioned a word about his cancer to me!’
‘I’ve also seen footage from the security cameras at Infra Red. Rana was indeed there from twenty-two forty-five till twenty-three fifty-five, which means he also has an airtight alibi.’
‘Then he’s manipulated the cameras somehow. I’m pretty sure he was in Acharya’s residence when I entered. He killed Acharya and managed to get out by hoodwinking the security at the gate.’
‘But why would Rana want to kill his boss?’
‘For that most basic of reasons: hate. Rana hated Acharya for not choosing him for the CEO’s job. And he hated me for being the chosen one. So he killed Acharya and framed me, getting two birds with one stone.’
‘What if you had passed the seventh test? Do you think Acharya would have really made you his CEO?’
‘I don’t know,’ I reply, biting my lip.
‘I think he was setting you up as a scapegoat. You would have been the one saddled with the Atlas mess.’
‘Yes.’ I nod slowly. ‘He was much more devious than he looked.’
ACP Khan steeples his fingers and looks me in the eye. ‘Are you prepared to make a confession now?’
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I look right back at him. ‘Do you really believe I murdered Acharya? Is it really that simple?’
He exhales. ‘Murder is never simple,’ he says. ‘But we have to go by facts. And the facts are against you. In any event, I’m no longer in charge of the case. It’s become too big for this police station. The Crime Branch has taken over. They will be the ones questioning you from now on.’
* * *
I have my first encounter with the Crime Branch at 8 p.m. that day. ‘They want you in the Interrogaysun Room,’ Pushpa announces, sending a nervous tingle up my spine. I imagine a dim basement room, lit by a lamp suspended over a table, around which grim men sit in shadows, cigarette smoke clouding their faces.
In fact the Interrogation Room turns out to be brightly lit, with the atmosphere of a cosy classroom. There is a wooden table surrounded by sturdy metal chairs and even a blackboard. The three men sitting around the table, however, do not resemble teachers at all. Dressed identically in nondescript safari suits, they have the faceless look of government sleuths.
They tell me to sit down on the lone seat opposite them, making it clear that it was me versus them, one versus three.
Then the interrogation begins. At first they are civil, asking me routine things about my family, my job at Gulati & Sons and my interactions with Acharya. Then, gradually, the tone changes. The questions become pointed, suggestive and downright offensive. ‘Did you have a sexual relationship with Acharya?’ ‘How many times did he call you to his bedroom?’ ‘Were you aware of Acharya’s connection to Atlas?’
For three hours the Crime Branch investigators grill me mercilessly, trying to browbeat me into admitting that I murdered Acharya. When I stand my ground, they yell and scream at me, bully and intimidate me. ‘We’ll hang you for this murder if you don’t confess.’
‘Then hang me,’ I say defiantly. ‘But I won’t admit to a crime I did not commit.’
* * *
Being enmeshed in a police investigation, I realise, is like stepping into quicksand. No matter how hard you fight to get out, you end up sinking deeper and deeper. Bit by bit, the Crime Branch sleuths gather evidence against me, connecting all the dots, making it a damning indictment. From what I can gather, the police case against me runs as follows: I was Acharya’s mistress, having an affair with him; Acharya had promised me the CEO-ship of his company, provided I succeeded in his seven tests; having completed six tests I became impatient, wanting to lay my hands on all his money; along the way a completely unrelated incident, the acid attack on Neha, happened; thinking it to be the handiwork of Acharya, I went to his residence with a knife to blackmail him; Acharya rejected my demands and, in a fit of rage, I attacked him with the knife and murdered him.
I have to admit that the hypothesis sounds quite plausible. In fact, by the end of the third round of coercive interrogation I am almost ready to believe it myself. Perhaps I have indeed killed Acharya, and so traumatic was the experience that I have locked that memory deep inside me and thrown away the key.
As part of their strategy, the Crime Branch people try all kinds of mind games. I am deprived of sleep and food. Instructions are issued to treat me as a maximum-security criminal. A male guard is now posted every night outside my lockup, as though I were some kind of Houdini who can escape from a locked, windowless cell.
Media interest in the case shows no sign of abating. There are more OB vans parked outside Vasant Vihar police station than outside 7 RCR, the Prime Minister’s residence. My arrest is the number-one story in India, beating even the soap operas on TV. A famous director announces plans to make a biopic on my life. As he puts it, ‘All juicy scandals revolve around money, murder or sex. And, when you have all three present, as in the case of Sapna Sinha, then you have a superhit on your hands!’
* * *
Nirmala Ben comes calling on Day 5 of my arrest. News of her impending visit causes a stir in the police station. ‘You even know Big Ben?’ Pushpa Thanvi asks me with reverential awe, looking at me with new respect.
The Gandhian arrives at 1 p.m., but is not brought to me directly. First, she is taken for a cup of tea in ACP Khan’s office. Then he escorts her on an inspection tour of the police station. She peeps into the various rooms around the courtyard, poses for photographs, even signs autographs. ‘Big Ben, Big Ben.’ I hear chants, cheers, and laughs. My anticipation has reached a crescendo by the time Mrs Nirmala Mukherjee Shah steps into the visitors’ room, which has been swept clean and spruced up with a flower arrangement.
She looks comfortably elegant in a simple white sari. A roiling scrum of press photographers and TV cameramen surges behind her like a tsunami. The reporters trip over cords and each other in their desperate attempt to get a sound bite. It is not every day that they get a chance to record an encounter between the most famous anticorruption crusader in India and the country’s most famous detainee.
Pushpa preens by my side as flashbulbs go off in my face from all directions. The reporters crowd closer, thrusting their microphones at me like daggers. I hold up my hands before my face, shrinking back from the bright lights and shrill voices, from all these people who want to make a spectacle of my misfortune.
ACP Khan tries to get the journalists and TV crews to leave after the photo op, but no one listens to him. It is left to Nirmala Ben to restore a modicum of order. ‘Dekhiye, this is a private visit,’ she says with folded hands. ‘Please allow me to meet my goddaughter alone, and then I will come and have an interaction with all of you outside. Barobar chhe ne?’
It is like a magician performing mass hypnosis. The hordes depart instantly, leaving the Gandhian alone with me, ACP Khan and Pushpa.
Nirmala Ben looks deep into my eyes, searching them, and finds the truth she is looking for. Like a good doctor who knows what is wrong with a patient simply by reading his pulse, she cognises what I am going through, understands my torment.
‘Be brave, my girl,’ she says. ‘Remember, bravery is not a quality of the body, but of the soul.’ Then she wraps her arms around me and pulls me to her shoulder. I cling to her tightly, feeling her warmth, searching for that wellspring of compassion and understanding I found in Ma. Though I try very hard not to cry, that pit of sadness and despair in my soul bubbles over, and I begin sobbing like a lost child. She passes a hand through my hair, soothing me. ‘Don’t worry, everything will be sorted. I’ve told Susheela, too, that I’ll do my best for Neha.’
Twenty minutes later, Nirmala Ben prepares to leave. ‘Close the day with prayer so that you may have a peaceful night free from dreams and nightmares,’ she offers as parting advice as she takes my hand in hers. I feel something metallic being slipped into the hollow of my palm and instinctively fold it into a fist. Then she bows her head in namaste and walks out of the room.
‘What a remarkable woman,’ ACP Khan says as he escorts me back to the lockup.
‘I got a photo with her, sir,’ Pushpa beams, eliciting a frown from her boss.
I open my fist to discover a small key.
* * *
Nirmala Ben has gone, leaving behind a mystery for me. What is the key, what does it open, and why did she give it to me?
I turn the key over in my hands. It is an ordinary, stainless-steel key, nothing special. Like the type used to close cupboards and cabinets. But there are no cupboards and cabinets inside the lockup. It is probably Nirmala Ben’s kleptomania acting up again, I reckon, as I slip it into the pocket of my kameez.
Later in the day a doctor comes to examine me. The incessant interrogation by the Crime Branch officials has taken a toll on my health, both mental and physical. A queasy combination of dread, sadness, hopelessness and helplessness has settled permanently in the depths of my stomach. Inevitably it impacts on my bowels, leading to such a severe attack of diarrhoea that it sends me scurrying to the bathroom even at odd hours of the night, much to the annoyance of Pushpa.
* * *
It is past midnight, but sleep is far from my eyes. Though de
spondency buffets me every day, I’m feeling particularly down tonight. There is talk of transferring me to Tihar Jail, where only the most hardened criminals are housed. The prospect of spending my entire life behind bars stretches before me like a Siberian winter, barren, bleak and entirely desolate.
I still have belief in ACP Khan, but he has been reduced to the status of a helpless bystander. The Crime Branch sleuths are a law unto themselves and they will stop at nothing to secure a murder conviction. I can feel all doors closing on me. ‘Only a miracle can save you now,’ my lawyer says. But even Goddess Durga seems to have deserted me, making my faith wobble.
Lost in my thoughts, I barely hear the cell door being opened. It is Pushpa Thanvi, wearing her usual sour face. ‘I am fed up of your friends,’ she declares.
‘Why?’ I ask. ‘What happened?’
‘Now there’s a phone call for you.’
‘From where?’
‘Kochi.’
‘Kochi? I don’t know anyone in Kerala.’
‘Then you better tell that mad night owl to stop disturbing us at unearthly hours,’ she says, and marches me down to the Reporting Room where three constables are huddled around an old rotary phone like dogs around a bone.
I pick up the receiver. ‘Hello?’
‘Is that you, Sapna?’ I hear a voice crackling with long-distance static. It is a voice I would have recognised even from a million light years away.
‘Karan?’ I ask in astonished delight. ‘Where are you calling from?’
‘From Coachella in California.’
The sound of his real voice is like a balm to my wounded soul, instantly bridging that great chasm of distance and time between us.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he continues. ‘I just heard the news about Acharya. I’m now scraping together funds to get a flight to Delhi as soon as possible.’