'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 that witch has put you under her spell.'

'Look, Shanti.' He raises his index finger. 'We have had this argument many times. You will get nothing by agonizing over it. Has Gopi put ice and soda in my bedroom?'

'Yes,' she sighs in resigned acceptance of an imperfect marriage. 'If you are determined to finish your liver, what can we do? Go and drink as much as you want.'

'I will,' he says and begins climbing the stairs to the first floor.

Nearly three weeks pass. The incident in the auditorium becomes a distant memory for Mohan Kumar. He immerses himself in his former routine, attending board meetings, examining projects, advising clients. He accepts the offer of yet another consultancy on behalf of a corporate house; puts in a round of golf on Sundays at the Delhi Golf Club and spends two afternoons a week at his mistress's house. He wills himself to believe that everything is normal, but cannot shake off a nagging doubt at the back of his mind. It is like a hazy picture trying to acquire definite shape, a finger of memory attempting to push its way into his consciousness. He tosses and turns at night, finding it difficult to sleep. He wakes up on the floor one morning, in the bathroom on another, without any recollection of how he got there. He pauses in mid-sentence during board meetings, sensing words and phrases fluttering at the tip of his tongue but remaining maddeningly inarticulate. Lying in bed with Rita, he suddenly feels like an old, large animal and loses all desire. He knows something is wrong, but cannot pinpoint what.

He goes to his doctor for a check-up, but Dr Soni, his family physician, is unable to find anything wrong. 'All your vital signs are good, Mohan. The MRI scan is perfectly normal. I believe it is simply a case of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.'

'What's that?'

'When someone suffers a traumatic event, like seeing a murder in front of his eyes, the brain tries to cope with the psychological stress. This can lead to symptoms such as nightmares, flashbacks and insomnia. I am going to prescribe some sleeping pills. You should be fine in a week's time.'

Four days later, while Mohan is having his breakfast, Brijlal enters the kitchen where Shanti is busy whipping yoghurt. He touches her feet. 'Bibiji, I need your blessings. A boy came to see my daughter yesterday.'

'Oh, so Ranno is getting married?' Shanti asks in pleasant surprise.

'Yes, Bibiji. The boy is also from Delhi, belongs to our caste and, most importantly, is a class four government employee, working as a peon in the Railway Department. His father is also a peon. I only hope they don't demand too much dowry. I have made them my best offer. Let's see if they accept.'

'I am sure things will work out all right,' says Shanti. Taking a quick peek to see if Mohan is still sitting at the dining table, she whispers to Brijlal, 'Today your Sahib will be visiting that witch Rita, won't he?'

'Yes, Bibiji,' Brijlal replies with a nervous grimace, feeling half guilty himself.

'Just keep a watchful eye on Sahib. See that he eats and drinks properly. I am worried about his health. He has not been himself lately.'

'Yes, Bibiji.' Brijlal nods in agreement. 'Even I find his behaviour rather strange at times.'

'If only he had not met Rita,' Shanti says bitterly. 'Sometimes I feel like going to her house and asking her why is she so intent on destroying my family.'

'Don't demean yourself by talking to her, Bibiji,' Brijlal counsels. 'In God's kingdom, justice may be delayed, but is never denied. You will see, she will be punished eventually.'

'I hope you are right, Brijlal.' Shanti looks briefly towards the ceiling and resumes her whisking.

Mohan's office is a depressingly grey building in Bhikaji Cama Place, a chaotic warren of offices and shops. Finding an empty parking slot is a daily headache for Brijlal. Today he is forced to park in the narrow alley behind the Passport Office. After securing the car, he loiters, chatting with the other drivers, playing a game of rummy, sharing his discontent at rising prices, falling morals. At lunchtime he receives a call on his mobile phone. It is the boy's father, saying that he approves of Ranno, and demanding an extra twenty-five thousand rupees as dowry. 'I accept,' Brijlal says and rushes to a nearby temple.

Mohan comes out of the office promptly at three p.m. for the afternoon tryst with his mistress. As soon as he gets into the car, Brijlal offers him a box of laddoos.

'What are the sweets for, Brijlal?' he smiles.

'As a result of your blessings, Sahib, I have managed to get an excellent groom for my daughter Ranno.'

'That's good. Shanti told me that you were looking for a boy.'

'He is a government servant, Sahib. But there is only one problem.'

'Yes?' Mohan responds warily.

'They want an extra thirty thousand as dowry. I was wondering, Sahib, if you could lend the money to me.' He shakes his head. 'Brijlal, I've already given you fifteen thousand as advance pay. There is no way I can spare any more.'

'God has given you so much, Sahib. I am asking for very little.'

'Giving you any more would be to your own detriment. Why do you people need to spend so much on weddings anyway? There is nothing to eat in your houses, yet you want to ape the rich when it comes to marrying your daughters. Now don't disturb me. I have to read this report.' He opens his briefcase and takes out a ring-bound manila folder. Brijlal's face falls.