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.
3 The Actress
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.