Six Suspects by Vikas Swarup Page A

was Sahib, after all, who got him his
first job at the State Electricity Board. Sahib then got him
upgraded to a permanent job as peon in the State Sugarcane
Cooperative. It was Sahib too who had encouraged him to learn
to drive, thanks to which he had been employed as a chauffeur
in the Secretariat office in Lucknow, a job which carried not
only a higher pay-packet but even overtime. For twenty years, he
had driven Mohan Kumar's official white Ambassador. When
Mohan retired six months ago, Brijlal still had three years of
service left, but he, too, took voluntary retirement and joined
Mohan Kumar as his personal chauffeur, in the ultimate act of
devotion to his Sahib.
    In taking premature retirement Brijlal believes he has made a
tactical move. He is convinced that there is much Sahib can still
do for him and his family. There is one final favour, in particular,
he wants from Sahib – a government job for his son Rupesh.
Brijlal is of the firm belief that government service, with its
security of employment, is the panacea for all the problems of the
poor. It is his dream to get Rupesh employed as a driver in the
Delhi government. Mohan Kumar has promised to do just that,
once Rupesh obtains a driving licence. A government job for
Rupesh and a suitable groom for his nineteen-year-old daughter
Ranno is all Brijlal wants, the sum total of his dreams and desires.
In pursuit of these goals, he will happily suffer insult and abuse
from his Sahib.
    'Now are you going to just stand there cooling your heels like
a fool or will you take me home?' Mohan Kumar demands as he
slides into the back seat.
    Brijlal closes the rear door and takes his position behind the
wheel. Before starting the car, he switches off his mobile phone.
He knows how irritated Sahib becomes if it rings while he is
driving.
    The auditorium blurs in the rear-view mirror as the car moves
away. Mohan Kumar has his gaze fixed resolutely outside the
window. A ghostly moon hangs in the distance, casting a pale light
on the tops of buildings. The traffic has thinned out by now, with
even the DTC bus service winding down. They reach the house in
just under twenty minutes. As the car enters the wrought-iron
gates of 54C Aurangzeb Road, Brijlal's heart fills with pride.
Mohan Kumar's residence is an imposing two-storey neocolonial
villa, with a white marble façde, a covered latticed
portico and a magnificent lawn containing a gazebo. It has an outhouse
with three servant quarters which are occupied by Brijlal
and his family, Gopi, the cook, and Bishnu, the gardener. But what
thrills Brijlal the most is the rent, rumoured to be in the region of
four hundred thousand rupees a month. He gets goosebumps just
thinking about this amount. To him, it represents the pinnacle of
achievement and forms the practical bedrock of his exhortations
to Rupesh. 'Work hard, my son, and you might one day become
like Sahib. Then you, too, could have a house whose monthly rent
costs what your father took eight years to earn.'
    Mohan Kumar's wife, Shanti, is waiting in the portico wearing
a red cotton sari. She is a small, middle-aged woman with greying
hair which makes her look older than she is. Her normally
pleasant face is etched with worry lines. 'Thank God you have
come,' she cries as soon as the car draws to a halt. 'Brijlal had me
worried sick when he called to say you were inside that hall.'
    Mohan casts an angry glance at his driver. 'I have told you
repeatedly, Brijlal, not to broadcast my programme to all and
sundry. Why did you have to call Shanti?'
    'I am sorry, Sahib.' Brijlal lowers his eyes again. 'I was really
worried about you. I thought I should let Bibiji know.'
    'You do that again and I will take your hide off.' He slams the
car door shut and strides into the house. Shanti hurries after him.
    'Why did you have to go to that horrible séance?' she asks.
    'None of your business,' he replies brusquely.
    'It is all the doing of that chhinar ,' Shanti mutters. 'I don't
know how