Six Suspects (3 page)

'I know there are some sceptics in the audience who think this
encounter with Bapu is a hoax. I used to be a non-believer too. But
no longer. Let me share something personal with all of you.' Veer
Bedi's voice modulates to a conspirational tone. 'Five years ago, I
lost my sister in a car accident. We were very close and I missed
her terribly. Two months ago, Baba Aghori Prasad Mishra made
contact with her. Through him, I spoke to my sister, learnt about
her journey to the afterlife. It was the most amazing, transformative
experience of my life. And that is why I am here to vouch
personally for Aghori Baba. I can guarantee that what you are
going to witness today is a once-in-a-lifetime experience, something
that will change you for ever.'

There are murmurs of agreement from the audience.

'As you all know, we very much wanted Mahatma Gandhi's
family to join us today, but they have chosen to distance themselves
from this momentous event. Nevertheless, we have been
helped by powerful benefactors who knew the Mahatma
intimately. They have lent us items belonging to him which you
can see arranged in the centre of the stage. There is the wooden
charkha
, the spinning wheel with which he spun the
khadi
cotton
cloth which he always wore. Next to it lies his favourite walking
stick. There is his pair of trademark round spectacles, and that
bundle contains some letters written personally by the Great
Mahatma.

'Before I invite Baba Aghori Prasad Mishra to come on to the
stage, let me remind you of the etiquette for the séance. When
the spirit enters the medium it is a critical and delicate moment.
There should be no noise, no disturbance of any kind. That is why
your mobile phones have not been allowed inside. Please maintain
absolute silence throughout the show. On behalf of United
Entertainment I would also like to thank our sponsors this evening
– Solid Toothpaste, for solid white teeth, and Yamachi
Motorcycles, way to go! I also thank our media partners, City
Television, who are beaming this event live to millions of viewers
in India and across the globe. We'll take a very short commercial
break here, but don't go anywhere, because when we return, Baba
Aghori Prasad Mishra will be on stage.'

A babble rises in the hall. Someone says loudly, 'I see dead
people,' which leads to considerable tittering. The mirth lingers
for a while before fading under the weight of nervous
anticipation.

Veer Bedi's voice returns after exactly five minutes. 'Welcome
back to United Entertainment's
An Encounter with Bapu
. The time
has now come, ladies and gentlemen, for which you have been
waiting breathlessly. Hold on to your hearts, because you are
about to witness the most amazing spectacle in the history of
mankind. I am now going to invite on stage Baba Aghori Prasad
Mishra.'

A machine sprays dry ice across the stage, adding to the
eeriness of the atmosphere. Through the mist appears a shadowy
figure, clad in a white
dhoti
and saffron
kurta
. Baba Aghori Prasad
Mishra turns out to be slim and of average height. He seems to be
in his late forties, with dark knotted hair piled high on top of his
head, a dense black beard and piercing brown eyes. He looks like
a man who has seen the world, who has conquered his fears.

The baba walks up to the edge of the stage and bows before
the audience, holding his hands together in a gesture of salutation.
'
Namaste
,' he says. His voice is soft and soothing. 'My name is
Aghori Prasad Mishra. I am going to take you on a journey. A
journey of spiritual discovery. Let us begin with what our holiest
book, the
Gita
, says. There are two entities in this world: the
perishable and the imperishable. The physical bodies of all beings
are perishable, but the
atma
, the soul, is imperishable. Weapons do
not cut this soul, fire does not burn it, water does not make it wet,
and the wind does not make it dry. The soul is eternal, all-pervading,
unchanging, immovable and immortal.

'But the most important thing about the soul, and I am
quoting the
Bhagavad Gita
again, is that just as the air takes the
aroma from the flower, the soul takes the six sensory faculties
The Bureaucrat
19
from the physical body it casts off during death. In other words, it
continues to have the faculties of hearing, touch, sight, taste, smell
and mind. That is what makes it possible to communicate with a
soul.

'By the grace of the Almighty, I have had the privilege of interacting
with several spirits over the years. But none touched me as
deeply as the spirit of Mahatma Gandhi. The term "Mahatma"
itself means "Great Soul". Bapu has been guiding my personal
spiritual evolution for the last five years. I feel his presence every
waking minute. So far this has remained a private dialogue
between the Mahatma and me. Today I will share his blessings
with the entire world. So it is a vital journey that we will undertake
today. The journey of the soul. But also a journey of hope.
Because at the end of the journey you will know that death is not
the end of life, but the beginning of another life. That we are
eternal and immortal.

'I will now commence my meditation. Soon the spirit of Bapu
will enter me and speak through me. I request all of you to listen
attentively to the message Bapu gives us today. But remember, if
the communication is broken midway, immense harm will be
done, both to the spirit and to me. So as Veer Bedi sahib has
advised you, please, please maintain pin-drop silence.'

The dry-ice machine goes into action once again, and a thick
cloud of vapour obscures the Baba momentarily.

When the mist dissipates, the Baba is sitting cross-legged on
the mat, chanting incantations in a language which resembles, but
is not, Sanskrit. The spotlight changes from white to red. The
Baba's chanting subsides gradually and he closes his eyes. A serene
calmness descends on his face. He becomes perfectly still, as
though in a trance.

All of a sudden there is a burst of light on the stage and a sliver
of white smoke sallies forth into the hall. There is a collective
intake of breath from the audience.

'Firecracker powder!' Mohan Kumar snorts.

Equally suddenly the spinning wheel whirrs into action. It
appears to do so without any external agency, with the Baba
sitting a good six feet away from it. The audience watches transfixed
as the spinning wheel revolves faster and faster.

'Must be radio controlled, with the remote in Veer Bedi's
hands,' mutters Mohan Kumar, but Rita takes no notice. She is
bending forward in rapt attention, her fingers gripping the arm
rest.

As the spinning wheel continues to rotate, the walking stick
and pair of spectacles stir into motion and rise from the floor. They
ascend higher and higher towards the ceiling in a synchronized
gravity-defying supernatural duet. There are gasps of disbelief
from the assembly.

Mohan Kumar feels a prickling sensation in his palms.
'Invisible wires, hooked to the ceiling,' he opines, but his voice
lacks conviction. Rita simply gapes.

As suddenly as it had begun, the spinning wheel abruptly
grinds to a halt. The walking stick falls down with a clatter. The
spectacles hit the floor and shatter.

There is a long pause, and for a moment Mohan thinks the
Baba has gone to sleep. Then his body begins to shudder uncontrollably
as though in the grip of a violent fever.

'Oh God, I can't see this,' Rita wails. At that very moment
comes the sound of a voice unlike anything Mohan Kumar has
heard before.

'I wish to tender my humble apology for the long delay in
reaching this place,' the voice says. 'And you will readily accept
the apology when I tell you that I am not responsible for the delay
nor is any human agency responsible for it.'

The voice is grating yet oddly affecting, clear, resonant and so
androgynous that it is impossible to tell whether it belongs to a
man or a woman. It comes from the lips of Aghori Baba yet does
not appear to be his.

A deathly silence falls over the audience. They feel themselves
to be in the presence of a superior force, one they can neither see
nor fully comprehend.

'Do not regard me as an animal on show. I am one of you. And
today I want to talk to you about injustice. Yes, injustice,' the voice
continues. 'I have always said that Non-violence and Truth are like
my two lungs. But Non-violence should never be used as a shield
for cowardice. It is a weapon of the brave. And when the forces of
injustice and oppression begin to prevail, it is the duty of the brave
to—'

Before the sentence can be completed, the rear door of the
auditorium bursts open and a bearded man wearing loose white
kurta
pyjamas storms into the hall. His long black hair is in
disarray and his eyes shine with unnatural brightness. He
rushes towards the stage, chased by a couple of policemen wielding
sticks. Aghori Baba turns silent in the face of this sudden
intrusion.

'This is a perversion!' the bearded man cries as he reaches the
edge of the stage, standing directly in front of Mohan Kumar.
'How dare you dishonour the memory of Bapu through this
commercial spectacle? Bapu is our legacy. You are making him
into a brand of toothpaste and shampoo,' he shouts angrily at
Aghori Baba.

'Please calm down, Sir. Do not get agitated,' Veer Bedi
materializes on stage like a magician's rabbit. 'We'll take a quick
commercial break while we deal with this situation,' he
announces, to no one in particular.

The protestor takes no notice of him. He inserts a hand inside
his
kurta
and produces a black revolver. Gripping it tightly, he
points it at Aghori Baba. Veer Bedi swallows hard and hastily
retreats into the wings. The policemen appear to be immobilized.
The audience is in a stupor.

'You are worse than Nathuram Godse,' the bearded man says
to Aghori Baba, whose eyes are still closed, though his chest is
heaving up and down in a sign of laboured breathing. 'Godse
merely killed Bapu's body. But you are desecrating his soul.'
Without further ado, he pumps three bullets into the
sadhu
.

The sound of gunfire crashes through the hall like a giant
wave. There is yet another burst of light on the stage and Aghori
Baba's head slumps down on his chest, his saffron
kurta
turning
crimson.

Pandemonium erupts in the auditorium. Screams cascade down
the aisles as people rush frantically towards the exit. 'Help, Mohan!'
Rita shrills as she is pushed off her seat by the jostling mob behind
her. She tries valiantly to retrieve her handbag, but is sucked into the
crowd which surges like an angry river towards the door.

Mohan Kumar, still sitting in his chair feeling dazed and lost,
senses something graze his face. It is soft, like a ball of cotton, yet
slimy, like the underside of a snake. 'Yes, let's go,' he says
abstractedly to Rita, who can no longer be seen. But before his lips
have closed, the foreign object has insinuated itself into his mouth
at lightning speed. He gulps and senses it sliding down his throat,
leaving a bitter residue on his tongue, like the uncomfortable
aftertaste of swallowing an insect. He spits a couple of times, trying
to get rid of the bitterness in his mouth. There is a mild flutter
in his heart, a tremor of protest, and suddenly his body is on fire.
A pulsing, throbbing energy crackles through him, from his brain
all the way to his feet. Whether it is coming from outside or inside,
from above or below, he doesn't know. It has no fixed centre, yet
it sweeps everything into a vortex, boring deeper and deeper to
the very core of his being. He convulses violently, as though in the
grip of a frenzy. And then the pain begins. He experiences a heavy
blow on his head, a blunt needle being plunged into his heart, and
large hands groping his chest, mangling his guts. The pain is so
excruciating, he thinks he will die. He screams in agony and terror,
but the sound is washed out by the din in the hall. A blur of
motion is all he sees, as people scream and fall, tripping over each
other. And then he blacks out.

When he opens his eyes, the hall is silent and empty. Aghori Baba's
lifeless body is slumped over the straw mat, looking like a hilly
outcrop in a sea of blood. The wooden floor is littered with shoes,
sneakers, sandals and high heels, and someone is tapping his
shoulder. He turns around to see a policeman with a stick looking
at him intently.

'Hey mister, what are you doing here? Haven't you seen what
has happened?' the constable barks.

The Bureaucrat
23

He stares at him blankly.

'Are you dumb? Who are you? What is your name?'

He opens his mouth, but finds it difficult to speak. 'My . . .my
. . . my . . . na . . . name . . . is . . .'

'Yes, what is your name? Tell me,' the policeman repeats
impatiently.

He wants to say 'Mohan Kumar' but the words refuse to come
out. He feels fingers squeezing his larynx, remoulding his vocal
cords, shackling his words. They twist inside his gullet, are mashed
around and made someone else's. 'My name is Mohan . . .
Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi,' he hears himself say.

The constable raises his baton. 'You look like a decent man.
This is no time for jokes. I'll ask you once again. What is your
name?'

'I told you. I am Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi.' The words
come more easily this time, more confident and self-assured.

'Bastard, are you trying to fool me? If you are Mahatma
Gandhi, then I am Hitler's father.' The policeman grunts as his
stick arcs down and Mohan Kumar's shoulder explodes in pain.
The last thing he hears before losing consciousness again is the
wail of a police siren.

26 March

It's tough being a celluloid goddess. For one, you have to
look gorgeous all the time. You cannot fart, you cannot spit
and you dare not yawn. Otherwise the next thing you
know, your big fat wide-open mouth will be staring at you
from the glossy pages of
Maxim
or
Stardust
. Then, you
cannot go anywhere without a horde at your heels. But the
worst thing about being a famous actress is that you get
conned into answering the most incredible questions.

Take, for example, what happened yesterday on the
return flight from London. I had just entered the first-class
cabin of the Air India 777, wearing my latest bottle-green
Versace jacket over denim jeans with a studded belt and
dark Dior glasses. I settled down in my seat – 1A, as always
– and draped my Louis Vuitton crocodile-skin handbag on
the seat next to me – 1B, vacant as usual. Ever since that
unfortunate incident on the flight to Dubai with the
drunken passenger who tried to paw me, I get my producers
to reserve and pay for two first-class seats, one for me and
the other for my privacy. I kicked off my Blahniks, took out
my iPod, adjusted the ear plugs and relaxed. I have
discovered that sitting with my ears plugged is the best way
to keep pesky fans and autograph-hunting air hostesses and
pilots at bay. The ear plugs allow me to observe my
environment, while absolving me of the need to respond to
it.

So there I was, immersed in my private digital ecosystem,
when in walked the air hostess with another woman
and a little boy in tow.

'I'm sorry to disturb you, Shabnamji,' the air hostess
intoned in the manner they use when they want to coax a
favour out of a passenger, like asking him to move to a
different seat. 'Mrs Daruwala here has something very
important to tell you.'

I glanced at Mrs Daruwala. She looked just like the Parsi
ladies in films – large, fair and florid. She was dressed in a
fuchsia sari and smelt of talcum powder. Definitely
economy class.

'Shabnamji, oh Shabnamji, what an honour it is for us to
meet you,' she gushed in a sing-song voice.

I put on my polite but distant expression, the one that is
meant to convey, 'I have no interest in you but am
tolerating you, so make it quick.'

'This is my son, Sohrab.' She pointed to the boy, who
was dressed in an ill-fitting blue suit complete with a bow
tie. 'Sohrab is your biggest fan in the whole world. He has
seen each and every one of your films.'

I raised my eyebrows. Half the movies I have done carry
an Adult certificate. So either the mother was a liar or the
boy was a midget.

Mrs Daruwala's face turned grave. 'Unfortunately, my
dear Sohrab has got chronic leukaemia. Blood cancer. We
were getting him treated at Sloan-Kettering, but the doctors
have given up now. They say he has only a few months to
live.' Her voice cracked and tears started flowing down her
cheeks. I realized that the script had changed and
immediately switched my expression to Caring and
Solicitous, the one I employ when I do those publicity visits
to cancer patients and the AIDS hospice.

'Oh, I am so sorry to hear this.' I pressed Mrs
Daruwala's hand and smiled beatifically at her son. 'Sohrab,
would you like to talk to me? Here, why don't you come
and sit down next to me.' I removed my handbag from the
adjacent seat and placed it at my feet.

Sohrab accepted the offer immediately, plonking himself
down on 1B as if he had been travelling first class all his life.
'Mummy, can you leave us alone for a while?' he said
peremptorily in the tone of a boss dismissing his secretary.

'Yes, of course, son. But don't trouble Shabnamji.' Mrs
Daruwala wiped her tears and beamed at me. 'This is like a
dream come true for him. Just give him some precious
moments of your time. Sorry, again, eh.' Then she went
waddling back to her seat.

I looked at Sohrab, who was gaping at me like an
obsessed lover. His intense gaze was a bit unsettling. I
wondered what had I got myself into.

'So how old are you, Sohrab?' I asked, trying to put him
at ease.

'Twelve.'

'That's a nice age to be. You are learning a lot and also
have a lot to look forward to, don't you?'

'I have nothing to look forward to. Because I will never
be thirteen. I will be dead in three months' time,' he replied
in a completely deadpan manner, without any trace of
emotion. Frankenstein couldn't have said it any better.

'Oh, don't say that. I am sure you will be fine,' I said
and gently patted his arm.

'I will not be fine,' Sohrab replied. 'But that is not
important. What is important is for me to know something
before I die.'

'Yes, what is it that you want to know?'

'Promise me that you will reply.'

'Of course. Promise.' I flashed my veneers at him. Things
would be simpler now, I thought. I'm a pro at dealing with
my little fans. All they want is to know the name of my
favourite film, hear about my forthcoming projects and
whether I have any plans to star with their favourite actors.
'Go right ahead, Sohrab.' I snapped my fingers. 'I am ready
for your question.'

Sohrab leaned towards me. 'Are you a virgin?' he
whispered.

It was as clear a confirmation as I could get that sitting
next to me was Psycho Junior.

Of course that was the end of my conversation with the
little twerp – I sent him packing pronto. The air hostess also
received a tongue-lashing from me, which ensured that no
more terminally ill passengers interrupted my flight from
then on.

Later, when my anger had cooled, I reflected on
Sohrab's question. He was crude and rude enough to ask
me, but I am sure the twenty million Indians who claim to
be in love with me would be no less keen to know the
answer.

Men in India classify women into two categories –
available and unavailable. The sacred cows are their mothers
and sisters. The rest are fodder for their voyeuristic dreams
and masturbatory fantasies. Any girl who wears a T-shirt in
this country is considered loose. And I am seen most often
in figure-hugging costumes, bosom thrusting at the camera,
hips bumping and grinding to some catchy beat. No wonder
I have been described as the ultimate wet dream. And the
more unattainable I seem, the more desirable I become.
They write me letters in blood, threatening to immolate
themselves if I don't send them an autographed photo.
Some send me semen samples, in discoloured patches on
tissue paper. Marriage proposals come for me by the
thousand, from village idiots and lonely call-centre
executives. A men's magazine has made me a standing offer
for a nude photo-shoot and sent me a blank cheque. Even
women send me
rakhis
proclaiming me as their sister,
hoping to enlist my support in keeping their men from
straying. Pre-pubescent girls write me flattering letters,
28
SUSPECTS
asking me to pray for them to become similarly endowed.

38-26-36 is my magic number. In an age of silicone
synthetics I represent natural beauty and bounty. I am pure
anatomy, and yet my appeal transcends my vital statistics. I
exude an orgasmic sweetness which arouses and inflames
men. They don't see me. They see only my breasts, get lost
in them, become tongue-tied, agree to my every whim and
fancy. Call it cynical exploitation of the repressed id, or the
unfair prerogative of celebrity, but it has given me all I
wanted from life, and then some.
Despite all the changes of appearance, life is indestructibly
powerful and pleasurable. So said Friedrich Wilhelm
Nietzsche, my Master. I have been extracting every bit of
pleasure from life over the last three years, but is it
compensation enough for the misery I endured in the
nineteen years previously?

31 March

I was invited today as Chief Guest to a function to honour
the memory of Meena Kumari, the 'Tragedy Queen', who
died this day thirty-five years ago. It was a terribly boring
programme, laced with the same unctuous speeches one
hears at every award ceremony, and it made me wonder. Is
an actor's persona confined only to what is seen on the
screen? Cinema is so one-dimensional, just a stream of light,
which Jean-Paul Sartre described as 'everything, nothing
and everything reduced to nothing'. If I were to be judged
solely by my films, history would remember me simply
as a vacuous glamour doll. But I am much more than a
trifling celluloid dream. And when my diaries are
eventually published (with suitable editing, of course), the
world will acknowledge this too. I have already thought
of an excellent title for the book:
A Woman of Substance:
The Shabnam Diaries
.

19 April

Aishwarya Rai got married today. Thank God! She will
probably quit films now. That means one less competitor for
me. Last year's
Trade Guide
, in its annual top ten heroines
in the Indian film industry, placed me at Number Four, just
behind Aishwarya, Kareena and Priyanka. Now I'm Number
Three.

But in the eyes of my fans I am already Number One.
They know that I have got this far in the industry under my
own steam, without the benefit of having been Miss
Universe or the backing of a
filmi
dynasty behind me.

Be that as it may, my goal for this year is crystal clear:

To become Number One.

To become Number One.

To become Number One.

20 May

A ruckus has been going on in the flat since this morning. A
team of six workers in blue overalls has invaded my
bedroom and bathroom and is intent on destroying my
peace. Supervising them is Bhola, shouting instructions as
though he is some PWD engineer. It was his idea to get new
lights fitted in the bathroom, the recessed ones in which
you cannot see the bulbs. They look really pretty, especially
with the dimmer turned down, just like stars in the night
sky. In the bedroom, he is having my old Firozabad
chandelier replaced by a spanking new Swarovski crystal
one and rectifying some faulty wiring.

I must say I have been pleasantly surprised by Bhola.
One of the perks of stardom is the discovery of long-lost
aunts and uncles, distant cousins and never-before-seen
nephews. Bhola is one such distant relative. He turned up at
my flat one bright morning, claiming to be my Aunt
Jaishree's son from Mainpuri, and beseeched me to get him
a role in a film. I took one look at him and burst out
laughing. With his slick oiled hair, bulging tummy and rustic
manners he seemed more suited to agriculture than culture.
But I took pity on his awkwardness and employed him as
my assistant secretary cum Man Friday, promising him a
role in a film if his performance proved satisfactory. It's
been two years since then. I think even he has given up on
his dream of becoming an actor, but he has really flowered
as a sidekick. Not only is he useful in keeping troublesome
fans and autograph-hunters at bay, he is also good with
electronics and computers (a technology that still
intimidates me). In addition, he has shown wonderful
financial acumen. I have gradually started trusting him with
my accounts, though I still cannot trust him with my dates.
That task continues to be performed by my secretary
Rakeshji, whom I share with Rani.

Bhola has no special gift, no real talent. He is utterly
mediocre. But then the world is made up of ordinary
people. Totally ordinary people, whose only job is to serve
the extraordinary, the exceptional, the glorious . . .

31 May

My fingers ache. I have just finished signing nearly nine
hundred letters. It is a ritual I have to perform four
times a year, another small price for stardom.

The letters are replies to fans who write to me from all
corners of the world, from Agra to Zanzibar. Five thousand
letters arrive every week, twenty thousand a month. Out of
these Rosie Mascarenhas, my publicist, selects
approximately a thousand for personal replies, which consist
of a standard boilerplate text expressing my happiness at
communicating with my admirers, some blah, blah, blah
about my forthcoming projects, and closing with best
wishes for the health, happiness and prosperity of my fans.
The letters are accompanied by a glossy photograph
showing a close-up of me – a nice demure one for female
fans and children, and a moderately hot one for the adult
male fans. Rosie suggested the autopen option to me, in
which a machine reproduces my signature on every letter,
saving me the hassle of personally signing them, but I
overruled her. As it is, I belong to the unreal world of films
where everything is fake. I want my signature at least to be
real. I think of the glow on my fans' faces when they open
my letter and see my picture. There will be screams of
surprise and delight. The letter will then be shown to
family, friends and relatives. The entire neighbourhood will
bask in its halo for a while. It will be talked about for days,
discussed, debated, kissed and sobbed over. It may be
photocopied, laminated, framed and, quite possibly, even
worshipped.

The pain in my fingers disappears.

As a rule Rosie does not open letters marked 'Personal'
or 'Confidential'. These come directly to me and have
provided me with hours of amusement. India is the most
star-struck nation on earth. Every second person wants to
become an actor, come to Mumbai and make it big in
Bollywood. These wannabees write to me from dusty
villages and corner
paan
shops, from malaria-infested
swamps and tiny fishing hamlets. They write in broken
Hindi and pidgin English, in faltering sentences and
floundering syntax, wanting simply to share their dreams
with me and asking me for advice, assistance, and sometimes
money. Most letters are accompanied by photographs in
which they preen and pout, simper and smoulder, and try to
compress all their wonderment, longing, commitment and
desperation into a freeze frame which they hope will melt a
producer's heart. But however hard they try, their rough
edges cannot be hidden by the indiscriminating lens of the
camera. Their essential crudity and vulgarity spills out of
the poses which proclaim not only the silliness of their
subjects but also their abject helplessness.