by Vikas Swarup
'Well, there's no evidence to suggest any biological cause for Dissociative Identity Disorders. In almost all the cases that I have seen, the transition from one personality to another is usually triggered by a stressful event.'
'So if I were to avoid stress, I can prevent the transition?'
'In theory, yes. But I must warn you that the alternate personality can take control of the individual's behaviour at any time. And, what is even more important, over time one personality tends to dominate the others.'
'I assure you, Doctor, I won't let Mahatma Gandhi dominate me.' He stands up. 'Thank you for your time.'
'It was interesting meeting you, Mr Kumar,' Dr Diwan replies.
'Although we didn't quite see eye to eye on the treatment, I hope you now have more clarity about your illness.'
'An eye for an eye ends up making the whole world blind, Doctor,' Kumar says gravely and gently pats the doctor's arm.
'Oh my God!' Dr Diwan exclaims.
Mohan chuckles. 'Just kidding. But that is exactly the kind of thing I say when I switch to Gandhi. That will not happen any more. Good bye, Doc,' he says and saunters out of the clinic.
Dr Diwan watches his receding figure with a puzzled expression.
Immediately after returning from Dr Diwan's clinic, Mohan Kumar becomes more careful than an accountant with tax inspectors on his tail. He tiptoes through the house like a ballet dancer, smooth and light-footed, avoiding collision with doors and walls and keeping clear of the temple room by at least twenty feet. He bans all crackers from the house and issues strict instructions to Brijlal to drive at no more than forty kilometres per hour and to avoid sudden braking. He examines each and every book in his library and incinerates every title which might have even a semblance of a connection to Gandhi, in the process destroying such rare volumes as a first edition of India of My Dreams and a biography of Martin Luther King with the tag-line 'American Gandhi'. He increases his alcohol intake to three shots a night and, to ensure that Gandhi doesn't intrude even in his dreams, starts taking Valium tablets just before sleeping.
Shanti accepts Mohan's reversion to his old, difficult self with the robust fortitude of a martyr. Gopi goes back to preparing meat dishes and putting ice and soda in Sahib's room at night.
Mohan is in his bedroom with his second glass of whisky, examining the papers pertaining to Rai Textile Mill, while outside the window an unseasonable thunderstorm rages. The rain comes down in sheets and thunder shakes the roof. He hears the phone ring and picks it up.
'Hello?'
'Hello, Kumar.'
A tiny prick of resentment stabs at his heart every time Vicky Rai addresses him by his surname, but, like a pragmatic bureaucrat, he has learnt to swallow his pride.
'Yes, Sir,' he replies.
'I am just calling to remind you about the board meeting tomorrow.'
'Oh yes, Sir. I received Raha's report today. In fact, I was going over it right now,' he says.
'We will be banking on you to push through the retrenchment proposals. The job cuts are essential, you know, to restructure the textile company.'
'Without doubt, Sir. We need to cut a hundred and fifty jobs at least. Don't worry, I will ensure that the restructuring proposal is passed without any difficulty. Of course, it won't be unanimous. The unions will oppose the lay-offs tooth and nail. Dutta, as usual, will indulge in some theatrics. But what can one union guy do against five from the management? We will steam-roll him into submission.'
'I am sure you can take care of that bastard. Good night, Kumar.'
As Mohan puts the phone down, there is a knock on the door. At first he doesn't hear it, so heavy is the rain outside. But the knock is insistent. With an irritated frown he gets to his feet, puts on his slippers and opens the door.
Brijlal stands in front of him, his eyes bloodshot, his clothes completely drenched.
'What are you doing here?' Mohan demands.
'It is all over . . . It is all over,' Brijlal mumbles, shivering slightly.
Mohan wrinkles his nose. 'You are reeking like a pig. Are you drunk?'
'Yes, Sahib, I am drunk.' The driver gives a hollow laugh. 'What do you expect from country hooch? It will smell. But it gives a kick which your expensive imported whisky can never give.' He lurches into the room.
'Out . . . out,' Mohan gestures, as if reprimanding a dog. 'You are spoiling the carpet.'
Brijlal doesn't heed the instruction and advances towards the bed. 'I am only spoiling your carpet, Sahib, but you have spoilt my life. Do you know what day it is today?' He speaks in a slurred, off-key voice.
'Yes. Today is Sunday, the second of December. What's so special about it?'
'Today my Ranno was to get married. Today I should have been listening to the sound of shehnai. My house should have been ringing with laughter and happiness, but instead I have been listening to the sobs of my wife and daughter. All because of you.'
'Me? What did I do?'
'You are the one who had me accosted like a common thief and paraded before the whole of Khan Market. You are the one who demanded the return of the money. So I had to take the dowry back from the groom's family. I have never been more humiliated in my life. And what was my fault? The bottles were going to be destroyed in any case. If I made some money from them, what harm did I cause anyone? You big sahibs cheat your wives and have affairs with other women. You booze and gamble and don't even pay tax. But it is poor people like me who get insulted and arrested.'
'Enough, Brijlal. You have lost your senses,' Mohan says sternly.
The driver continues as if he has not heard him. 'The relationship between master and servant is a very delicate one, separated by a lakshman rekha. You crossed the line, Sahib. The groom's family has called off the wedding completely. Now you tell me what should I do? Allow my Ranno to remain a spinster all her life? How can I face my wife, who slaved day and night in preparation for the wedding?'
'I am warning you, Brijlal. You are really exceeding your limit.'
'I know I am exceeding my limit, but you, Sahib, have exceeded all decency. You deserve to be stripped naked, hung upside-down and then lashed with a whip till you feel the pain which I am feeling now.'
'Enough, Brijlal,' he bellows. 'I am ordering you to leave right now.'
'I will go, Sahib, but only after settling the score. You have wealth and power, but I have this.' He inserts his hand into his kurta and draws out an old knife. Its dull steel fails to catch the chandelier's light.
Mohan Kumar sees the knife and gasps. Brijlal advances further into the room; Mohan shrinks away till his back collides with the window overlooking the garden. A bolt of lightning rips across the sky, causing the window panes to shudder.
'You are drunk, Brijlal,' he appeals again. 'If you take any foolish action now you might regret it later.'
'I am a desperate man, Sahib. And a desperate man doesn't care for consequences. My wife and daughter, in any case, will commit suicide. My son will find a job somewhere or other. As for me, after I kill you I am going to kill myself.'
The true extent of Brijlal's desperation is slowly becoming evident to Mohan. 'OK . . . OK . . . Brijlal, I will personally ensure that Ranno's wedding takes place,' he blabbers. 'You can take my house, or I can book the ballroom of the Sheraton. And I will give away Ranno myself. After all, she is just like my daughter.' The words gush out of his lips in a torrent.
'Ha,' Brijlal snorts. 'A man confronted with death can make even a donkey his father. No, Sahib, I am not going to fall into your trap again. I am going to die, but first you are going to die.' He grips the knife tightly in his right hand and raises his arm. Mohan shuts his eyes tightly.
The arc of the knife slices through the air and bears down on Mohan's chest, breaking centuries-old barriers, sweeping aside the cobwebs of rank and status. But just as it is about to pierce Mohan's chest, Brijlal falters. He is unable to breach the final frontier of loyalty. The knife slips out of his grip, his hands drop limply to h
is sides, he sinks to the carpet, throws back his head and lets out a piercing wail, a requiem for his frustrated defiance.
Meanwhile, a slow change is coming over Mohan Kumar. The tension in his face is dissolving, as if a shadow is lifting. He opens his eyes and finds Brijlal at his feet.
'Arrey, Brijlal, what are you doing here?' He speaks in a slow, ponderous manner. Then, as if remembering something, he taps his forehead. 'Of course, you must have come to invite me to your daughter's wedding. Ah, Ba is here.' Shanti bursts into the room. 'What happened?' she asks breathlessly. 'I thought I heard a scream.'
'Scream? What scream? You are imagining things, Ba. I was just talking to Brijlal about his daughter's wedding. Wasn't it supposed to be today?'
Shanti looks at Brijlal, who is still on the carpet, sobbing in short gasps. She wrings her hands. 'I don't know what is wrong with you. One day you are the saint, and the next day you become the devil, then you become a saint again. Are you even aware that Brijlal had to cancel his daughter's wedding?'
'Really? How could that happen, Brijlal? If there has been some mistake from my side I ask your forgiveness with folded hands.' He brings his palms together.
Brijlal falls at Mohan's feet. 'Please don't say this, Sahib. I am the one who should be asking for forgiveness. I came to harm you, yet you have forgiven me. You are not a man, you are God, Sahib.'
Mohan lifts him up. 'No, Brijlal. God is vast and boundless as the ocean, and a man like me is but a tiny drop. And what is all this talk about you trying to harm me? Have you also started imagining things? Oh! What is this knife doing here?'
The board meeting begins promptly at four o'clock inside the premises of Rai Textile Mill in Mehrauli.
The boardroom has the metallic smell of fresh polish. Its large oval table is made of burnished teak with green felt place mats. The walls are decorated with corporate art.
Mohan Kumar enters the room wearing a white dhoti kurta and a white Gandhi cap. Vicky Rai, dressed in a blue pinstripe suit, greets him at the door. 'Very clever, Kumar,' he whispers. 'This outfit will fool the unions completely.'
'Where am I sitting?' Mohan Kumar asks him.
'You are my right-hand man, so you sit on my right side.' Vicky Rai winks at him. 'And next to you I have put Dutta.'
Five men and a lone woman take their places around the table. Vicky Rai sits at the head of the table, in front of a projector screen. 'Well, members of the board, for today's meeting there is only one item on the agenda, the restructuring of Rai Textile Mill,' he begins briskly. 'As you all know, we purchased this factory from the government two years ago as a sick unit. Drastic measures are needed to make it healthy.' He gestures to a short, fair man with steel-rimmed glasses sitting on his left. 'I will now ask Mr Praveen Raha, the CEO, to unveil the new corporate strategy for the board's approval.'
Raha adjusts his glasses and pushes keys on a laptop till a Technicolor picture full of charts and graphs is projected on to the white screen behind him. 'Honourable members of the board, let me begin with a stark fact,' he says. 'Last year the company suffered a net loss of rupees thirty-five crores.'
'Total lie.' A slim man sitting next to Mohan in kurta pyjamas and thick black-rimmed glasses speaks up in a gravelly voice. 'According to the figures compiled by the workers' union on the production achieved, we believe the company should have made a profit of rupees two crores.'
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.