by Vikas Swarup
‘Did you go to Mr Acharya’s house last night, or do you want to deny even that?’
‘I did go to Acharya’s house. But I didn’t kill him. To be more precise, I didn’t even meet him. I kept pressing the doorbell, but no one responded. So I just came right back to the hospital.’
‘So you did not find his dead body inside his bedroom?’
‘No. I never entered his bedroom. In fact, I still can’t believe that he is dead.’
‘Then have a look at this photo,’ he says, sliding a glossy print across the table.
It is the ‘official photo’ of the murdered man taken by the police photographer. I see a pale, waxen face beneath a mantle of silvery hair. It does look like Vinay Mohan Acharya. He is lying in a pool of blood, dressed in an off-white silk kurta pyjama. His eyes are open, but he is quite dead, his features frozen in an agonised grimace, a knife with a wooden handle jutting out of his bloodstained chest.
An involuntary shudder passes through my body as I gaze at the photo. Even though I have witnessed the murdered body with my own eyes, I cannot shake off the air of unreality about Acharya’s death, as though I still expect him to walk into the police station and declare, ‘You have failed the seventh test!’
The one thing I don’t feel is regret. Acharya had committed a horrific crime and deserved to die. But who had killed him, and why? This was a mystery yet to be solved.
I slide the photo back to ACP Khan. ‘Who discovered the body?’
‘It was Dr Kabir Seth, Mr Acharya’s personal physician. Acharya was in Mumbai the whole of last week, admitted to the Tata Memorial Hospital. He arrived back in Delhi only yesterday. Last night, at twenty-two fifty hours, he telephoned Dr Seth, complaining of feeling uneasy and asking him to come over to Prarthana. When Dr Seth reached the house just before midnight, he found Mr Acharya lying dead in a pool of blood and immediately alerted the security at the gate, something that you should have done, if you did not murder Mr Acharya.’
‘What makes you think I murdered Acharya?’
‘Well, let’s see. At least twenty people in Shastri Hospital heard you screaming on the phone at Mr Acharya at twenty-two hundred hours, threatening to kill him. You arrived at his house in pouring rain at twenty-two fifty-eight hours. The guard at the gate personally spoke to Mr Acharya on the intercom and received instructions to let you in.’
‘Yes, I heard him too.’
‘Well, then you yourself confirm that he was alive at twenty-three hundred hours. The medical examiner has listed the time of death as being not earlier than twenty-two hundred and not later than twenty-three fifteen. Since Mr Acharya was very much alive at twenty-three hundred hours, it means he was killed between twenty-three hundred and twenty-three fifteen. You were the only one inside the house during that period. So only you could have killed Mr Acharya.’
‘How do you know I was the only one inside the house? The real killer must have been hiding there.’
‘Prarthana is a fortress. Even a bird cannot dare to fly in without permission. On Saturday, eleventh of June, there were only two visitors who entered the premises. One was Rana, Mr Acharya’s aide, who came to the house at nineteen thirty hours, spent an hour with Mr Acharya, and then left at twenty thirty-five hours. The other person was you.’ He pauses to consult his notes before resuming. ‘After arriving back from Mumbai at ten hundred hours, Mr Acharya did not leave the house the entire day. He had lunch at his usual time of thirteen thirty hours, and dinner at nineteen hundred hours. Then he dismissed all his servants for the night, telling them he did not want to be disturbed under any circumstance. All the servants left at twenty thirty hours. Rana left five minutes later, at twenty thirty-five. After that no one entered the house till your arrival. The security at the gate is absolutely certain of this. Which means, when you entered Prarthana, you and Mr Acharya were the only persons inside the house. Ten minutes later he was dead and you were in an auto, making your getaway.’ He pauses and gives me that same fixed-gaze treatment. ‘So why did you kill Mr Acharya? From what I know of him, he was a gentle and kind man. A fountain of philanthropic generosity.’
‘He was a monster,’ I hiss through clenched teeth. ‘You don’t know anything about him. He destroyed Neha’s life. And now he’s destroyed mine. All because of those wretched seven tests.’
‘What seven tests?’
I take a deep breath and begin. ‘It all started when he accosted me in the Hanuman temple that winter afternoon…’
Speaking continuously for more than an hour, I tell him everything, starting from that fateful meeting in Connaught Place to the acid attack on Neha.
ACP Khan listens to me with utmost attention, taking notes in a slim notebook. When I finish, he lets out a breath of air, rubs the bridge of his nose contemplatively and quotes an Urdu couplet: ‘Katl bhi hue hain hum aur kasoorwar bhi hum the/Apne hi katil se ishq me giraftar bhi hum the’ (‘I am the murdered man as well as the culprit/My crime: that I was in love with my own murderer’).
‘Acharya was not in love with me, and neither was I in love with him,’ I correct him.
‘We’ll see about that,’ he says when a sub-inspector enters the room and salutes him smartly. ‘Jai Hind, sir. A lot of media people have gathered outside. What should I tell them, sir?’
ACP Khan sighs in exasperation and nods. ‘Tell them I’m coming to brief them.’
He gets up from his chair and turns to Pushpa Thanvi. ‘Watch her.’ Then, with long strides, he leaves the room.
Now that she is alone in the room with me, Pushpa’s face crinkles into a smug grin. She goes to the window, lifts the heavy curtain and peeks out. ‘They are all here.’ She lets out a little giggle.
‘Who all?’
‘Aaj Tak, Zee News, Star, IBN-7, NDTV, Sunlight, ITN … Looks like finally I’ll be able to fulfil my dream of being on TV.’ She takes out a compact mirror and quickly checks her teeth.
* * *
ACP Khan is gone for over an hour. When he returns, his body language is quite different. ‘I hope you used the interval wisely to repent,’ he says, standing over me.
I sit staring pensively at the cement floor, picking at the threads of my sky-blue salvar suit. He smiles in a sad sort of way and quotes yet another Urdu couplet: ‘Voh kaun hain jinhen tauba ki mil gai fursat/Hamein gunaah bhi karne ko zindagi kam hai’ (‘Who are the fortunate ones who have the luxury to repent/I don’t have time enough even to commit sin’).
He sits down in his chair and resumes briskly. ‘We’ve just located Mr Acharya’s will.’
‘And?’
‘And he’s donated his entire personal wealth to charity. So, if you were expecting to inherit a fortune, I’m sorry.’
‘Acharya was against the culture of inheritance. He had only promised to make me his CEO, not his heir.’
‘I’m afraid I have more bad news for you.’
‘What now?’
‘Forensics has just confirmed that the blood on your sneakers matches Mr Acharya’s. You took the precaution of washing your shoes to rinse off the blood, but in doing so you failed to notice the blood that had seeped into the crack between the upper and the sole. We found it.’
My heart pulses violently and the blood rushes to my head. I am about to say something when he raises his hand. ‘Wait. It gets worse. Forensics has also confirmed that the fingerprints on the knife that was used to murder Mr Acharya match yours.’
‘That’s totally impossible! I never touched the knife.’
‘Perhaps this might refresh your memory,’ he says, holding up the murder weapon encased in a plastic bag. Now that I see it at close quarters it does seem eerily familiar. I can make out KK Thermoware imprinted on the wooden handle, and a bolt of recognition strikes me like a punch in the gut. It’s the same knife I had bought from the street hawker on the night I was attacked by those three hoodlums outside Japanese Park.
‘This is what is technically called an open-and-shut case,’ ACP Khan observes as he sn
aps shut his notebook. ‘So save yourself a lengthy interrogation and sign a confession statement.’ He looks at me hopefully.
I shake my head. ‘I did not murder Acharya. But now I have a good idea who killed him.’
‘Well, let’s hear it.’
‘It’s Rana. He alone had access to that knife with my fingerprints.’
‘How?’
‘Don’t you see? Acharya had me attacked by those goons outside Japanese Park as part of the third test. They took away my knife and must have returned it to Acharya or Rana. And that same knife has now been used to murder Acharya. Which means only Rana could have done it.’
‘But Rana left Prarthana at twenty thirty-five and did not return till midnight.’
As I ponder the problem I am struck by another idea. ‘What if this isn’t murder, but a suicide?’
He looks at me intently. ‘Have you now decided to go in for an insanity plea?’
‘What if this is a suicide?’ I repeat. ‘Remember the seventh test? Acharya said it will be the hardest of them all. Well, this is it.’
‘You’re not making any sense.’
‘Look, Acharya was the one who set those ruffians on me outside the Japanese Park so he could get hold of the knife with my fingerprints. Then he lured me to his house with that acid attack on Neha. The moment I started walking towards the house, he stabbed himself with the same knife, just so that I could be framed for his murder. This is easily the biggest crisis of my life. Hence the final test. QED.’
‘You can tell these fanciful theories to your state-appointed lawyer,’ ACP Khan laughs, and signals to the lady constable, signifying that the interrogation is over for now. ‘Take her to the female lockup.’
‘Jai Hind, sir-ji.’ Pushpa offers Khan a limp salute and pokes me in the forehead. ‘Chalo. Let’s go.’
She escorts me down a short corridor. We pass the male lockup, where a couple of unshaven, unkempt men are slumped behind the door. They watch me with dull curiosity. I clamp my nose, unable to bear the strong smell of liquor that radiates from them like incense smoke.
At the other end of the corridor is the female lockup, mercifully empty. Pushpa unlocks the sturdy cell door, allows me to step inside and clangs it shut with such force that the metallic echo rattles in my ears like thunder. I stand for a moment staring at the dim, dirty light filtering through the grille of the iron door, blinking back tears, absorbing the fact that I had finally become a prisoner.
On paper, police custody means that an accused is kept in a police station under police surveillance temporarily till the next judgement. In practice it means being held prisoner in a fetid, oppressive cell that reeks of human misery. The walls of the female lockup are stained with mildew, graffiti and years of dirt. The floor is bare, rough concrete. There is no window and no sunlight, making it a dark, gloomy place even in the middle of the day. The bed is a lumpy, lice-infested cotton mattress. Worse of all, the bathroom is not separated from the rest of the cell. Behind a low wall is an Indian-style toilet with no mug, no toilet paper, no running water. It gives off the rancid stench of excrement and urine of previous occupants. A metal bucket in the corner actually has faeces smeared all over it. The smell is so distinct, so overwhelming, I can taste it.
I have borne the ordeal of arrest and interrogation with determined fortitude, but I cannot bear to stay in this horrible, stinking cell. It makes me want to die. I know that, if I remain in this hellhole for more than twenty-four hours, I will lose my sanity.
The oppressive drabness of the walls closes in on me. I try so hard but I just can’t breathe. I drag myself to the cell door and grip the iron bars. ‘Help me!’ I scream like a deranged inmate in a mental hospital. ‘Get me out of here! Please, for God’s sake.’
‘Kya hai?’ Pushpa Thanvi appears momentarily. ‘Why are you making such a racket?’
‘I can’t stay here.’
‘What did you expect? The Sheraton?’
‘I … I have to go to the toilet.’
‘So why don’t you?’ she barks. ‘There’s one right behind you.’
‘I can’t go here. Please, can you at least take me to a proper toilet outside?’
‘No,’ she declares with the finality of a judge delivering a verdict. ‘Those in lockup have to use the toilet inside the lockup.’
‘I’m begging you,’ I weep. ‘Please show me just this much consideration.’
ACP Khan hears my plaintive cries and comes striding down the corridor. He sees my tear-streaked face and nods in silent understanding. ‘Okay, as an exception, I’ll allow you to use the toilet that the women constables use. Pushpa,’ he says to the lady constable, ‘take her, but keep her under lock and key throughout.’
‘Jee sir-ji,’ Pushpa says stiffly, clearly unhappy at being overruled.
She leads me around a rectangular open courtyard with a large guava tree in the middle. The courtyard is ringed by a dozen rooms. I read the wooden nameplates hanging in front of each: Barrack, Computer Room, Interrogation Room, Investigating Officer’s Room, Wireless Room, Evidence Room …
The ladies’ toilet is located at the northwestern end of the courtyard, towards the back of the building, facing the Women’s Resting Room, where five women constables are sitting around, watching a serial on TV. Pushpa unlocks the toilet door with a key and rudely shoves me inside. ‘Just thump on the door when you are done. I’ll be right opposite watching Ladies Special with my friends.’
As the key turns in the lock from outside, I am overtaken by a stomach-wrenching wave of shame and degradation. What has my life come to? I ask myself again and again. Now I have to beg someone even to take a pee.
I sit down on the cracked toilet seat, close my eyes and try to imagine myself somewhere else. A sunny Sunday afternoon, with wispy white clouds drifting across a perfect blue sky. In the distance, mist rising from the pine-clad mountains. I’m curled up under an oak tree with a book of poetry. Behind me Ma and Papa are sitting on wicker chairs, laughing and chatting. Alka and Neha are lounging on the grass, soaking up the sunshine. It is a place without fear, without sadness, without the police. I lose myself in this long-lost world till I am jerked out of my fantasy by someone banging loudly at the door. I hear Pushpa Thanvi’s grating voice, bringing me back to reality with a thud: ‘Arrey, are you taking a dump or dressing for a party? It’s been half an hour!’
When I return to the cell, there is a tiffin waiting for me, containing dinner. It is an unexpected treat, consisting of galouti kebabs and chicken biryani. Pushpa reveals that the food has come from ACP Khan’s house. ‘What black magic have you done to him that he is being so generous to you?’ she asks cattily.
ACP Khan’s kindness brings tears to my eyes, makes the lockup slightly more bearable. Still, I spend the night propped up against the wall rather than risk lying on the lice-infested mattress.
* * *
Morning brings a new day and a welcome visitor, Ma. We meet in the visitors’ room, under Pushpa’s eagle-eyed watch.
‘How are you, beti?’ Ma asks with such concern, that I don’t have the heart to tell her the truth.
‘I am fine, Ma. Everything is fine. How’s Neha?’
‘She is recovering well. She sends you her love.’
A tear leaks out of my eye and, before I know it, I am sobbing my heart out. Ma draws me to her chest and begins caressing my head, silently pouring in her love and affection. We remain like that for close to ten minutes, a telepathic communion that requires neither words nor unnecessary gestures. And I can sense something pass from her to me, a protective reassurance that I am not alone, a healing, spiritual energy that drains the tension and negativity out of me.
That morning I understand for the first time the true depth of the mother–daughter bond, its fierce intensity, its indestructible nature and, above all, its redemptive power.
* * *
Just before noon, the state-appointed lawyer also makes a belated appearance. Mr Trilok Chand is a small, scrawny
man, dressed in an ill-fitting black coat, who inspires as much confidence as a homemade sanitary napkin.
‘I have seen your case file,’ he tells me in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘and it doesn’t look very good.’
‘For me or the police?’ I am compelled to ask.
‘For you. The evidence against you is quite strong. The murdered man’s blood was on your shoes, the knife that killed him has your fingerprints. You lied to the police about not entering the house. You had motive, means and opportunity, the three things needed to secure a murder conviction.’
‘You sound more like the public prosecutor than my defence lawyer.’
‘You don’t need a lawyer,’ he says, licking his chapped lips. ‘You need a crooked judge.’
* * *
The most startling development of the day comes at 3 p.m. ACP Khan summons me to his office, where he has one eye on the desk phone and another on the LCD television tuned to Sunlight TV. Shalini Grover is standing in front of Kyoko Chambers, which is ringed with police vehicles.
‘This is easily the biggest story of the year,’ she intones breathlessly into the mike. ‘Two days after the sensational murder of industrialist Vinay Mohan Acharya, when police raided the posh headquarters of the ABC Group to uncover more clues about his grisly death they discovered something completely unexpected. Inside Mr Acharya’s locked safe, which was kept in his private office, investigators stumbled onto a cache of secret documents that make the WikiLeaks revelations seem like a juvenile prank.’ The camera cuts to a sound bite by a crime branch sleuth: ‘We are still examining all the data recovered from his safe, but preliminary analysis leads us to believe that there is a link between Acharya and Atlas Investments.’
‘No!’ I gasp.
‘Yes,’ Shalini contradicts me. ‘Sunlight can declare with complete certainty that Vinay Mohan Acharya has been unmasked as the mastermind behind Atlas, the elusive front company that is at the centre of virtually every scam that has happened in recent times.’
ACP Khan uses the remote to switch off the TV. ‘Amazing, isn’t it?’ He turns to me. ‘This man donates all his wealth to charity, and then we discover that his wealth was obtained illegally. Acharya pretended to be the epitome of rectitude, but was in actual fact the biggest scamster the country has ever produced.’ In a flash he latches onto yet another telling couplet: ‘Oh virtuous, how I worshipped thee/But you turned out to be a sinner bigger than even me.’
