by Vikas Swarup
He goes to his doctor for a check-up, but Dr Soni, his family physician, is unable to find anything wrong. 'All your vital signs are good, Mohan. The MRI scan is perfectly normal. I believe it is simply a case of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.'
'What's that?'
'When someone suffers a traumatic event, like seeing a murder in front of his eyes, the brain tries to cope with the psychological stress. This can lead to symptoms such as nightmares, flashbacks and insomnia. I am going to prescribe some sleeping pills. You should be fine in a week's time.'
Four days later, while Mohan is having his breakfast, Brijlal enters the kitchen where Shanti is busy whipping yoghurt. He touches her feet. 'Bibiji, I need your blessings. A boy came to see my daughter yesterday.'
'Oh, so Ranno is getting married?' Shanti asks in pleasant surprise.
'Yes, Bibiji. The boy is also from Delhi, belongs to our caste and, most importantly, is a class four government employee, working as a peon in the Railway Department. His father is also a peon. I only hope they don't demand too much dowry. I have made them my best offer. Let's see if they accept.'
'I am sure things will work out all right,' says Shanti. Taking a quick peek to see if Mohan is still sitting at the dining table, she whispers to Brijlal, 'Today your Sahib will be visiting that witch Rita, won't he?'
'Yes, Bibiji,' Brijlal replies with a nervous grimace, feeling half guilty himself.
'Just keep a watchful eye on Sahib. See that he eats and drinks properly. I am worried about his health. He has not been himself lately.'
'Yes, Bibiji.' Brijlal nods in agreement. 'Even I find his behaviour rather strange at times.'
'If only he had not met Rita,' Shanti says bitterly. 'Sometimes I feel like going to her house and asking her why is she so intent on destroying my family.'
'Don't demean yourself by talking to her, Bibiji,' Brijlal counsels. 'In God's kingdom, justice may be delayed, but is never denied. You will see, she will be punished eventually.'
'I hope you are right, Brijlal.' Shanti looks briefly towards the ceiling and resumes her whisking.
Mohan's office is a depressingly grey building in Bhikaji Cama Place, a chaotic warren of offices and shops. Finding an empty parking slot is a daily headache for Brijlal. Today he is forced to park in the narrow alley behind the Passport Office. After securing the car, he loiters, chatting with the other drivers, playing a game of rummy, sharing his discontent at rising prices, falling morals. At lunchtime he receives a call on his mobile phone. It is the boy's father, saying that he approves of Ranno, and demanding an extra twenty-five thousand rupees as dowry. 'I accept,' Brijlal says and rushes to a nearby temple.
Mohan comes out of the office promptly at three p.m. for the afternoon tryst with his mistress. As soon as he gets into the car, Brijlal offers him a box of laddoos.
'What are the sweets for, Brijlal?' he smiles.
'As a result of your blessings, Sahib, I have managed to get an excellent groom for my daughter Ranno.'
'That's good. Shanti told me that you were looking for a boy.'
'He is a government servant, Sahib. But there is only one problem.'
'Yes?' Mohan responds warily.
'They want an extra thirty thousand as dowry. I was wondering, Sahib, if you could lend the money to me.' He shakes his head. 'Brijlal, I've already given you fifteen thousand as advance pay. There is no way I can spare any more.'
'God has given you so much, Sahib. I am asking for very little.'
'Giving you any more would be to your own detriment. Why do you people need to spend so much on weddings anyway? There is nothing to eat in your houses, yet you want to ape the rich when it comes to marrying your daughters. Now don't disturb me. I have to read this report.' He opens his briefcase and takes out a ring-bound manila folder. Brijlal's face falls.
Near Vasant Vihar, the car is briefly held up by a small wedding procession crossing the road. A rag-tag band leads the party, tuneless trumpets blaring a filmi tune. The twenty-odd guests are dressed rather drably, with some even sporting slippers. An anaemic-looking groom dressed in a gaudy sherwani sits astride an equally anaemic-looking horse. Brijlal looks at the procession with the peculiar contempt the poor have for the poorer. His own daughter's wedding will be a lavish affair, he imagines. He will somehow manage to raise the twenty-five thousand and then he will get Sahib to book the Officers' Club on Curzon Road as the marriage venue. There will be a uniformed brass band as well as a live singer. A row of orderlies will carry Petromax lanterns lighting up the night. He can already see the groom's wedding procession walking in through the hallowed gates of the Officers' Club. The hall is glittering like a palace. The melodious sound of shehnai pours into the night. Inside, the elegant pavilion is loaded with sweet-smelling jasmine and marigolds. The guests enter the venue and look around in wonderment at the finery and luxury. The groom's father shakes his head. 'Where have you brought us, Brijlal? Is this the right address?' 'Yes,' he says. 'This is the right address. This where my Ranno is getting married to your son. All thanks to the blessings of my Sahib. There he is.' He points out Mohan Kumar, looking regal in a cream sherwani suit and a pink turban. As if on cue, the band begins playing a song, but for some reason Sahib is screaming at him: 'Look where you are going, you idiot . . . Stoppppp!' and he finds the big brass trumpet almost blaring in his face, shattering his ear drum and knocking him down.
By the time he wakes up from his reverie, it is too late. His head is lying on the steering wheel and the car is up against a The Possession of Mohan Kumar 91 lamppost which is now bent at an impossible angle. There is a small spidery crack in the left corner of the windscreen. His fingers touch something sticky on the steering wheel. He raises his face, looks in the rear-view mirror and discovers blood oozing from the corner of his mouth. He has cut his lip. He shakes his head vigorously, as if to clear it, and steps out of the car to inspect the damage. The front of the Hyundai has taken the brunt of the collision. There is a deep dent in the front fender where the metal has been scrunched up. He suspects the radiator may also have been hit.
Brijlal begins shivering. In twenty years of driving, this is the first time he has made such a mistake. Now he is finished. Sahib will take his hide off. This is the end of his career as a driver, of his dream of getting Ranno married, of a government job for Rupesh.
Then he notices Mohan Kumar on the back seat, eyes closed, looking very still, almost dead. Brijlal's first instinct is to run away, to collect his wife and Rupesh and Ranno and make a dash for the railway station. He will board the Lucknow Mail to his ancestral village, hide out for a few weeks till the matter cools. Then he will settle down in some other city, get another job, look for another groom.
By now the entire wedding party is gathered around the car. The trumpeter touches his arm: 'Kaise hua, bhai? What happened?' The groom also dismounts from his horse and begins inspecting the car. A perspiring constable arrives, parting the crowd with his stick and cries of 'Move! Move!'
Brijlal edges towards the outer periphery of the circle of onlookers, but cannot tear his eyes from Mohan Kumar. He sees the groom open the rear door and sprinkle a few drops of water on Mohan's face from a mineral-water bottle. Sahib stirs and makes a grimace of pain.
'Where am I?' Mohan asks in a weak voice.
'You are in your car, near Vasant Vihar Police Station,' the constable informs him. 'Your car has had an accident. Do you want me to call an ambulance?'
'Accident?' Mohan asks. He gets to his feet groggily and steps out of the vehicle. It is too much for Brijlal. He cuts through the throng and falls at Mohan's feet. 'I am very sorry, Sahib. Please excuse me, I have caused you grievous harm.' He sobs like a young boy.
Mohan lifts up the driver by the shoulder. Brijlal closes his eyes tightly, expecting a hard slap, but finds Mohan gently wiping his tears with his finger. 'And who are you?'
'I am Brijlal, Sahib. Your driver.'
'Has this fellow lost his memory?' the constable as
ks the groom.
'No. My memory is perfectly intact,' Mohan replies. He looks at the constable intently. 'Aren't you the one who hit me with a lathi?'
'Hit you? Are you out of your mind? This is the first time I have seen you.'
'The use of brute force is not right. Especially from a defender of the law.'
'Has your Sahib gone completely nuts?' The constable looks quizzically at Brijlal.
'It is all my fault,' Brijlal wails.
'It is not your fault, Brijlal,' Mohan says. 'There is a divine purpose behind every physical calamity. Will you now please see if the car is still in working order or whether we should try and look for a taxi.'
Brijlal does not know whether to laugh or cry. 'Yes, of course, Sahib,' he says in between sobs and gets into the driver's seat. With trembling hands, he inserts the ignition key and is surprised to find the engine purring smoothly. He reverses the car, brakes and jumps out. 'It is working, Sahib,' he cries. The onlookers begin to leave, their interest in the car strictly commensurate with the damage sustained by it.
Brijlal holds open the rear door, and Mohan gets in. 'Will you be so kind as to tell me where we were going?'
'To Rita Memsahib's house.'
'And who is she?'
'You will remember everything, Sahib, once you meet her.'
*
Mohan Kumar alights next to Rita's house looking totally lost. Brijlal directs him to the first-floor flat, presses the doorbell, and then, feeling awkward, returns to the car.
Rita opens the door, dressed in a pink nightgown, and Mohan is overpowered by the strong scent of her perfume. 'You are late, darling,' she drawls, and attempts to kiss him on the lips.
Mohan Kumar draws back as though stung by a bee. 'Don't . . . don't. Don't touch me, please.'
'What's wrong with you?' Rita raises her eyebrows.
'And who might you be?'
'Ha,' she laughs. 'Now you pretend you don't even know me.'
'I really don't. My driver has brought me here.'
'I see,' Rita says with exaggerated politeness. 'Well, Mr Kumar, my name is Rita Sethi. I happen to be your mistress and you come to my house twice a week to have sex with me.'
'Sex with a woman! Oh my God!'
'This is getting tiring, Mohan. Come on, cut it out.'
'You see . . . you see, Miss Sethi, I have taken a vow of brahmacharya requiring complete celibacy. I cannot have sex with any woman.'
'Have you joined some theatre company?' Rita asks crossly. 'Why are you putting on this act of behaving like Mahatma Gandhi?'
'But I am Gandhi.'
'Gandhi?' Rita bursts out laughing. 'I wouldn't mind being called the mistress of Gandhi.'
'Well, then I should have mentioned this to you a long time ago, but there are seven social sins, Ritaji,' he says, blushing slightly. 'Politics without Principle, Wealth without Work, Knowledge without Character, Commerce without Morality, Science without Humanity, Worship without Sacrifice and Pleasure without Conscience.' He reels them off on his fingers. 'This last one applies to the relationship between a man and his mistress. I hope you understand the import of what I am saying.'
'Yes, I understand very well. It means sex without love. You have simply been using me all this while, without really loving me. Now you have tired of me and want to leave me, hence all this drama,' Rita says bitterly. 'Fine. Leave me. You always were a selfish bastard, concerned only about yourself. I don't know why I wasted my time with a jerk like you. Out.' She points to the open door.
'Before leaving, may I proffer another bit of advice?' he says. 'May I request you to maintain chastity? Chastity is one of the greatest disciplines, without which the mind cannot attain requisite firmness.'
Rita gapes at him, her face darkening. 'You swine,' she hisses and delivers a stinging slap to his left cheek.
Mohan Kumar stumbles backwards, his shoulder crashing into the door frame. 'That was totally unnecessary,' he mutters, nursing his cheek. 'Nevertheless, if it pleases your fancy, you may exercise your violent instincts on my right cheek as well.' He turns his face to the other side.
Rita literally propels him out of the door and on to the staircase. 'Good riddance to you, Mr Mohanbhai Pseudo Gandhi,' she shouts before slamming the door shut.
'Correction, my dear. It is Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi,' she hears him say as he tramps down the stairs.
'What happened, Sahib?' Brijlal asks. 'You have come out very quickly today.'
'We are not coming back here ever again, Brijlal,' he replies.
'Bibiji will be very happy.'
'Who is Bibiji?'
'Your wife.'
'My wife? I have a wife?'
Mohan Kumar wanders through his house like an amnesiac trying to piece together the jigsaw of his past. The first person he meets is Shanti, beaming with the exuberant cheerfulness of a newlywed bride. 'Brijlal tells me you just broke off from that witch Rita. Is it true?'
'Yes. I am not going back to Miss Rita Sethi.'
'Then just give me a minute,' Shanti says and disappears into the small room next to the kitchen which has been converted into a temple. She returns with a small steel plate in her hand. 'Let me do a little tika.' With the ball of her middle finger, she rakes his forehead with a pinch of vermilion paste.
Mohan appears mystified. 'What is this for?'
She blushes. 'For starting our married life afresh from today.'
He shrinks back. 'Let me tell you, Shanti, that I have taken a vow of complete celibacy. So please do not have the expectations of a married man from me.'
'You can sleep in your own room,' she says evenly. 'The lifting of that witch's shadow from this house is boon enough for me. In God's court there is some justice, after all.' He raises his finger like a teacher. 'I will now devote my life to fighting injustice. I will use truth as my anvil and non-violence as my hammer.'
'Arrey, what's got into you? You are speaking just like Gandhiji.'
'Then do you mind if I start calling you Ba?'
'You can call me anything. Just don't call that witch ever again.'
Mohan Kumar commences a rigorous new routine, sitting in the temple every morning with Shanti, praying and singing bhajans. He gives up his suits and shirts in favour of simple cotton kurta pyjamas and develops a penchant for Gandhi caps. He stops dyeing his hair, eats only vegetarian food, becomes a complete teetotaller, substitutes sugar with jaggery and insists on having a litre of goat's milk every day.
He discards his mobile phone, stops going to the office completely and spends his time reading the Gita and other religious books, and writing letters to the newspaper on issues such as corruption and immorality, but which are never published because he signs them 'Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi'. His favourite pastime, however, is to collect each and every piece of information on the Ruby Gill murder case, which he pastes diligently into a scrapbook.
'Why this sudden interest in Ruby Gill?' Shanti asks him.
'She was my greatest disciple,' he answers. 'She was doing her doctorate on my teachings before her life was tragically cut short.'
'The entire neighbourhood is talking about Sahib's transformation,' Brijlal confides in Gopi. 'Some people say he has gone mad. He has started imagining himself to be Mahatma Gandhi. Why doesn't Bibiji take him to see a good mental doctor?'
'All rich people are slightly mad, Brijlal. Besides, Bibiji prefers him this way,' the cook replies.
'But madness is a serious illness, Gopi. Today he is calling himself Mahatma Gandhi, tomorrow he might start calling himself Emperor Akbar.'
'Arrey, what difference does it make what he calls himself, Brijlal?' Gopi says. 'At least he is doing things which we consider right. Best of all, he does not trouble us any longer.'
'Yes, that is true. So what should I do?'
'Pretend to be Gandhiji's driver, just as Bibiji pretends to be Gandhiji's wife.'
It is Diwali, the Festival of Lights. Mohan Kumar's house is lit up with strings of tiny twinkl
ing bulbs. The night sky is a riot of colour as brilliant pink and green flowers continue to explode with abandon. Every few seconds a rocket goes screaming into the atmosphere. The bursting of crackers reverberates in the air like thunder.
The garden has been taken over by an army of children, clapping and whooping with delight.
Seven-year-old Bunty, the son of the neighbourhood sweeper, is busy lighting a rocket with his eight-year-old friend Ajju, the cobbler's son. The rocket is placed inside an empty coke bottle.
'Ey, Ajju, let's see what will happen if we hold the bottle sideways instead of straight,' Bunty suggests.
'Arrey, the rocket will go sideways instead of straight up,' says Ajju.
'Then let's try sending it sideways, into the gate. I will tilt the bottle and you light the rocket.'
'OK.'
Bunty holds the glass bottle in his hand, pointed towards the entrance, while Ajju strikes a match and lights the fuse. With a few little sparks the rocket streaks towards the gate, leaving a cloud of smoke inside the bottle. In mid-flight, however, it reverses its trajectory and heads towards the house. Bunty and Ajju watch in horror as the rocket dives straight through an open window on the first floor.
'Oh my God, Bunty, what have you done?' Ajju asks, cupping his mouth with his palm.
'Shhh!' whispers Bunty. 'Don't tell anyone. Let's grab a couple of cracker packets and run before they catch us.'
A little while later, Shanti steps into the garden with Gopi in tow, holding a tray of lighted clay lamps and a box of sweetmeats. She picks up a diya from the tray and places it in the centre of the decorative pattern she has specially drawn on the concrete floor of the gazebo.
A cracker bomb bursts with deafening noise in the western corner of the garden. The cook looks with displeasure at the crowd of children dancing with delight on the grass. 'Look at these idiots, Bibiji,' he tells Shanti. 'They are not bursting crackers, they are burning money. Our money. One bang and a hundred rupees go up in smoke.'