The warden is a fleshy man with heavy jowls and greying hair. Mohan stands before him in his prison uniform, bristling with restrained anger. The warden gives him a greasy smile. 'Welcome, Sir. It is very rare that we have the privilege of hosting senior civil servants.'

'You know that I shouldn't be here at all,' Mohan fumes. 'That magistrate who remanded me to judicial custody for four months deserves to have his head examined. Anyway, I hope you have received a call from my batchmate, the Police Commissioner?'

Yes, Sir,' the warden nods. 'Police Commisssioner Sahib has already instructed us to take good care of you. So I have put you in a high-security cell with Babloo Tiwari.'

'Babloo Tiwari? The notorious gangster?'

The warden nods.

'And how is that a favour?'

'You will see, Sir. In Tihar, nothing is as it seems. Come, let me show you to your cell.'

He escorts Mohan along long narrow corridors, a fat bunch of keys jingling in his hand. The jail seems clean and well maintained, but with a cloying odour, a cross between the astringent smell of a hospital and the bilious smell of a butchery. They pass through a courtyard where prisoners stand in line, doing exercises. 'Here at Tihar, we try our best to reform the prisoners. We have introduced programmes such as vipassana and yoga. We also have an excellent library and reading room,' the warden says proudly.

The cell is located at the southern end of the jail. 'All our cells are seven by ten feet,' the warden says as he unlocks the thick iron grille door. 'This one is the largest, two cells combined into one, actually. And see what it has.' They step inside and Mohan blinks in astonishment. The cell has wall-to-wall beige carpeting, a small colour TV, and even a minibar. There is a bunk bed, with a man in prison uniform sleeping on the lower berth, wrapped in a brown blanket.

'Welcome to jail, VIP style,' the warden grins.

'I should be grateful for small mercies.' Mohan permits himself half a smile. 'But I would have preferred to be alone. Why don't you transfer this fellow Tiwari to another cell?'

'Look, Sir, this is not a hotel where I can allot rooms at my discretion,' the warden says testily. 'Babloo Tiwari is in this cell because he has even better connections than you.' He gently pats the sleeping prisoner's shoulder. 'Tiwariji, please wake up.'

The prisoner sits up, rubbing his eyes. He is a short man, with a round, clean-shaven face and long, straight hair which falls over his forehead. He stretches his arms and yawns. 'What are you doing here, Jailer Sahib?' he asks in a sleepy voice.

'I have come to introduce you to your new cellmate. Meet Mr Mohan Kumar, IAS.'

Babloo Tiwari looks at him curiously. 'Aren't you the guy they are calling Gandhi Baba?'

Mohan remains silent, but the warden nods his head. 'Exactly, Tiwariji. It is our privilege to host such a distinguished personality in our jail.'

'I hope he doesn't start trying to reform me,' Babloo grumbles. 'By the way, Jailer Sahib, did you get me the new SIM card for my mobile?'

'Shhh,' the warden whispers, looking left and right. 'Even walls have ears. I will have it sent tomorrow.'

The iron door clangs shut, creating vibrations which rattle in Mohan's head long after the warden has gone. Babloo Tiwari sniffles and extends his right hand. 'How do you do?' Mohan sees an arm tattooed with anchors and snakes, but he also notices a grid of broken veins and puncture marks on the shrivelled skin. Curling up his lip, he makes no effort to shake the gangster's hand.

'Suit yourself,' Babloo says and takes out a Nokia from his front pocket. He dials a number and, with one leg propped over the other, his free hand scratching his scrotum, begins speaking softly.

Mohan reluctantly climbs up to the top bunk. The sheet is covered in stains and the thin mattress is lumpy. There is dampness in the room which seems to seep in through the walls. A cold draft blows in through the door, forcing him to pull up the blanket. But it is badly frayed and makes him itch. He suppresses an urge to burst into tears.

Lunch is served at noon on a steel plate; it consists of four thick rotis, vegetable stew and a bowl of watery dhal. Mohan finds the food bland and unappetizing and pushes away the plate after eating just one roti. Below him, Babloo Tiwari doesn't even touch the food.

Mohan lies in bed, pretending to read a magazine, while hunger gnaws at his belly. At some point he falls asleep, dreaming of butter chicken and whisky. When he opens his eyes there is a glassful of golden liquid floating before him. A disembodied head materializes alongside the glass. It is Babloo Tiwari, peeking up from below. 'Would you care for a glass of this?'

'What is it?' he condescends to ask.

'Scotch. Twenty-five years old.'

Almost involuntarily, his tongue flicks over his dry lips. 'Well, I wouldn't mind a sip,' he admits, ashamed of his own weakness.

'Cheers, then,' says Babloo. 'You can keep your gandhigiri for outside the cell.'

They clink glasses and break the ice.

The cell is unlocked again at four p.m. 'Come,' Babloo says. 'Let's go for some fresh air.'

They walk into a courtyard, half the size of a football pitch, where nearly fifty prisoners are milling around. They are of all ages and sizes: some are wizened old men with flowing beards and some look as young as fifteen. There is a group playing volleyball, another gathered around a radio set and a few men just sitting and chatting. The deferential way in which the other prisoners greet Babloo Tiwari clearly establishes him as their leader. Only a group of three men sitting huddled together in a corner takes no notice of him.

'Who are they?' Mohan asks.

'Don't talk to them. Don't even go near them. They are foreigners belonging to the dreaded Lashkar-e-Shahadat who were involved in last year's attempted bombing of the Red Fort.

'Shouldn't they be put in a separate area, if they are high-risk terrorists?'

Babloo smiles. 'Arrey bhai, even you are now in the high-risk category.'

Mohan nods. His gaze falls on a striking, middle-aged man, sitting alone on the steps. He has Einstein's hair and Hitler's moustache.

'Who is that cartoon?' he nudges Babloo.

'Oh him, he is our chief source of entertainment,' Babloo says. 'Let me show you. Hey, you,' he calls out. 'Come here.'

The man shuffles towards them. He is tall and reed-thin, and has a furtive look about him.

'We have a new visitor. Won't you welcome him?' Babloo asks in Hindi.

'Welcome to the Gulag Archipelago,' the man announces in perfect English, holding both hands together.

'What is your name?'

'My name is Red.'

'What are you in jail for?'

'Atonement.'

'And what do you think will be your punishment?'

'One hundred years of solitude.'

'Who is your best friend here?'

The Possession of Mohan Kumar 127

'The boy in the striped pyjamas.'

'Thank you. You can go now.'

'So long, see you tomorrow,' the man says. He tilts his head, stretches his arms and begins running towards the centre of the field like an aeroplane in flight.

Mohan is intrigued. 'Is his name really Red?'

'No,' Babloo grins. 'His name is L. K. Varshney. He used to be a Professor of English Literature at Delhi University. One day he discovered his wife in bed with his best student. So he killed his wife and is now in jail, pending trial. He will probably be sentenced to life. They say he used to be half mad when he was a professor. Tihar has made him completely mad. Now he always speaks in this funny kind of way.'

'And what are you in jail for?'

'For everything. I have committed almost every crime in the Indian Penal Code and all my cases are awaiting trial. But they won't be able to prove anything. I stay in Tihar because I prefer to stay here. It is safer than being outside.'