Free Six Suspects by Vikas Swarup

the
roadside, went to the same municipal school, which Lallan
dropped out of in Class Six while I continued right through to
Intermediate. He was my partner in everything, from hustling
shoes from the temple to teasing the neighbourhood girls. I called
him my best friend, but in reality he was closer than a brother to
me. A lesser person would have blurted out the truth when
confronted by the Butcher of Mehrauli, but Lallan stuck to his
code of loyalty, adamantly refusing to confess.
    What happened subsequently in the police lock-up is a dark
memory which still gives me nightmares. Lallan was stripped,
strung up by a rope, and then kicked, caned and flogged for three
consecutive nights while his aged father pleaded and begged and
cried and grovelled in front of the police station. But Lallan still
refused to squeal on me.
    On the fourth day, he disappeared. The police claimed they
had released him. We searched for him everywhere, even as far
afield as AIIMS and Saket, but found no clue to his whereabouts.
    We discovered his bloated, mangled body three days later,
lying in a shallow ditch near Andheria Bagh. Flies were buzzing
over the sores on his chest and maggots were crawling out of his
pus-filled eyes as though he was a common slum dog.
    Lallan's death was my wake-up call. It brought home to me the
stark fact that I couldn't even take life for granted. So I gave up
stealing mobile phones and resolved to make something of myself.
But what you make of your life is a function of who you are. If I
had a family pedigree and political connections, my university
degree would have landed me a cushy job in some air-conditioned
office, or at least made me a peon in a government department. But
when your mother is a lowly sweeper earning 1,200 rupees per
month and you are an ex-thief, your career options are limited. For
a brief while I worked as a book-keeper at a grocery store, then as
fleet supervisor at a transport company, and finally as a servant for
the Bhusiyas. I was a failure in all three. The easy life as a mobilephone
thief had spoiled me. I couldn't see myself counting cartons,
sniffing diesel or serving tea for a living.
    So I have decided to go back to the only job I do well – stealing
mobiles.
    Stealing a mobile phone is not as easy as it seems. It really is a
fine art. Just as a pickpocket takes your wallet from right under
your nose, the mobile thief makes away with your phone. Far from
a crude snatch-and-grab operation, it is more like a disappearance
trick, a sleight of hand. One moment you have the mobile in front
of you and the next moment it is gone. Like magic.
    It is also an art which you never lose. A cricketer can be off
form, but not a thief. I know it is only a question of time before I
nick another mobile and score a century.
    Today is 26 January, Republic Day. And I am hiding behind the
HP petrol pump on the Mehrauli–Badarpur Road and breathing
heavily. I have just stolen my first mobile phone in a year.
    I had gone to visit a friend who lives in the tenements behind
the Star Multiplex and was walking back to the bus stop. It was
late evening and the neon lights of the street lamps were shrouded
in the hazy glow of winter. While I was waiting at a red light,
rubbing my hands to keep them warm, a red Maruti Esteem
pulled up in front of me. The driver was a wiry man with curly
hair and a square jaw. What struck me about him was the way he
gripped the steering wheel, as if it would come unstuck any
minute. In the peak of winter he was sweating like a pig. The man
radiated tension like a blower radiates heat. There was a mobile
phone on the dashboard and the window was open halfway. Pure
habit took over from there. Just as the light changed to green, my
hand darted inside with the speed of a bullet. The driver stared
ahead unblinkingly, his knuckles turning white. He engaged the
gear and the car surged forward, leaving me standing on the pavement
with a very stylish mobile phone in my hands. It was