Six Suspects by Vikas Swarup

dollars off you for the wedding?'
    'Yeah. It was necessary. She's not from a rich family.'
    'And you think you're going to marry this girl?'
    'Of course. Two weeks from today, on 15 October. All
preparations have been made, including a nice white horse! I tell
you, Biddy, I just can't believe my luck.'
    He twisted his lips. 'I'm sorry to say, dude, but you've been
had.'
    'What do you mean?'
    'I mean this girl whose glossies you showed me is not Sapna
Singh, cannot be Sapna Singh.'
    'But why?' I asked, perplexed. 'Do you know her?'
    'Every Indian knows her. These photos are of the famous
actress Shabnam Saxena. I even have her poster in my dorm.'
    'No, no. This is my fiancée. That chick Shabnam probably
looks like Sapna.'
    Biddy gave me the look Johnny Scarface gives me when I ask
for a raise.
    'There . . . there must be some mistake,' I tried again.
    'There is no mistake,' Biddy said firmly. 'These photos are of
Shabnam Saxena. In fact I'm certain that one of the photos is a
still from International Moll , a big hit starring Shabnam. Don't
mind my using one of our Indian proverbs, Larry, but as we say: Nai na dekhunu langala . You shouldn't get ready to take a bath
before seeing the river.'
    The plane suddenly felt like it was diving straight to the
ground. I became dizzy and gripped the armrest tightly.
    I snatched the folder back from Biddy. 'What you've been
telling me is just a bunch of bunk. You're more full of shit than a
constipated elephant!' I declared and didn't talk to him for the
rest of the flight.
    Deep inside me, I felt like crying.

MOTIVES
    'Never judge a man's actions until you know his motives.'
    Anonymous

8
The Possession of Mohan
Kumar
    M OHAN K UMAR emerges from Siri Fort Auditorium at eleven
p.m. with a sore shoulder and a splitting headache. He steps
into the courtyard and blinks in astonishment at his surroundings.
The venue for the Gandhi séance resembles a war zone. Wooden
desks and chairs lie splintered like firewood. The ground is strewn
with clothes, shoes, socks, bags and loops of naked wire. There is
an eerie silence all around. The television cameras and protesting
hordes have been replaced by police cordons and grim-faced
constables, who wave him through the tall iron gates which have
themselves been ripped off their hinges.
    He walks unsteadily towards the car park, where his silver
Hyundai Sonata is the lone private car, surrounded by a phalanx
of police jeeps with red and blue beacons.
    A thin, gaunt man with a pencil moustache runs towards him.
'Sahib, you have come!' he cries with obvious relief. 'They said a
murder has taken place inside. You should have seen the way
people were running out. Two died in the stampede. Are you OK,
Sahib?'
    'Of course I am OK, Brijlal,' Mohan Kumar replies tersely.
'Where is Rita madam?'
    'I saw her leaving with another lady in a black Mercedes.'
    'That's odd.' He purses his lips. 'She should have waited for
me. Anyway, let's go.'
    The chauffeur hurriedly opens the left rear door of the car.
Mohan Kumar is about to get in when he notices something just
below the handle. 'What is this, Brijlal?' he demands. 'How did
this big scratch come here?'
    Brijlal inspects the door panel with a puzzled look. 'One of the
constables must have grazed this with his stick. I am sorry, Sahib.
I left the car to look for you. Please excuse me.' He lowers his
gaze.
    'How many times will I excuse you, Brijlal?' Mohan Kumar
asks harshly. 'You are becoming more and more negligent in your
work. I should take the cost of repairing the door from your salary
– then you might learn your lesson.'
    Brijlal does not say anything. He is well acquainted with
Sahib's foul temper, which is famous throughout Uttar Pradesh.
    He has been with Mohan Kumar for twenty-seven years and
treats him with the same mixture of deference and devotion
that he accords Lord Hanuman. In his universe, Mohan Kumar is
no less than God, a powerful patron who holds the key to his
happiness and well-being. It