Near Vasant Vihar, the car is briefly held up by a small wedding procession crossing the road. A rag-tag band leads the party, tuneless trumpets blaring a filmi tune. The twenty-odd guests are dressed rather drably, with some even sporting slippers. An anaemic-looking groom dressed in a gaudy sherwani sits astride an equally anaemic-looking horse. Brijlal looks at the procession with the peculiar contempt the poor have for the poorer. His own daughter's wedding will be a lavish affair, he imagines. He will somehow manage to raise the twenty-five thousand and then he will get Sahib to book the Officers' Club on Curzon Road as the marriage venue. There will be a uniformed brass band as well as a live singer. A row of orderlies will carry Petromax lanterns lighting up the night. He can already see the groom's wedding procession walking in through the hallowed gates of the Officers' Club. The hall is glittering like a palace. The melodious sound of shehnai pours into the night. Inside, the elegant pavilion is loaded with sweet-smelling jasmine and marigolds. The guests enter the venue and look around in wonderment at the finery and luxury. The groom's father shakes his head. 'Where have you brought us, Brijlal? Is this the right address?' 'Yes,' he says. 'This is the right address. This where my Ranno is getting married to your son. All thanks to the blessings of my Sahib. There he is.' He points out Mohan Kumar, looking regal in a cream sherwani suit and a pink turban. As if on cue, the band begins playing a song, but for some reason Sahib is screaming at him: 'Look where you are going, you idiot… Stoppppp!' and he finds the big brass trumpet almost blaring in his face, shattering his ear drum and knocking him down.

By the time he wakes up from his reverie, it is too late. His head is lying on the steering wheel and the car is up against a The Possession of Mohan Kumar 91 lamppost which is now bent at an impossible angle. There is a small spidery crack in the left corner of the windscreen. His fingers touch something sticky on the steering wheel. He raises his face, looks in the rear-view mirror and discovers blood oozing from the corner of his mouth. He has cut his lip. He shakes his head vigorously, as if to clear it, and steps out of the car to inspect the damage. The front of the Hyundai has taken the brunt of the collision. There is a deep dent in the front fender where the metal has been scrunched up. He suspects the radiator may also have been hit.

Brijlal begins shivering. In twenty years of driving, this is the first time he has made such a mistake. Now he is finished. Sahib will take his hide off. This is the end of his career as a driver, of his dream of getting Ranno married, of a government job for Rupesh.

Then he notices Mohan Kumar on the back seat, eyes closed, looking very still, almost dead. Brijlal's first instinct is to run away, to collect his wife and Rupesh and Ranno and make a dash for the railway station. He will board the Lucknow Mail to his ancestral village, hide out for a few weeks till the matter cools. Then he will settle down in some other city, get another job, look for another groom.

By now the entire wedding party is gathered around the car. The trumpeter touches his arm: 'Kaise hua, bhai? What happened?' The groom also dismounts from his horse and begins inspecting the car. A perspiring constable arrives, parting the crowd with his stick and cries of 'Move! Move!'

Brijlal edges towards the outer periphery of the circle of onlookers, but cannot tear his eyes from Mohan Kumar. He sees the groom open the rear door and sprinkle a few drops of water on Mohan's face from a mineral-water bottle. Sahib stirs and makes a grimace of pain.

'Where am I?' Mohan asks in a weak voice.

'You are in your car, near Vasant Vihar Police Station,' the constable informs him. 'Your car has had an accident. Do you want me to call an ambulance?'

'Accident?' Mohan asks. He gets to his feet groggily and steps out of the vehicle. It is too much for Brijlal. He cuts through the throng and falls at Mohan's feet. 'I am very sorry, Sahib. Please excuse me, I have caused you grievous harm.' He sobs like a young boy.

Mohan lifts up the driver by the shoulder. Brijlal closes his eyes tightly, expecting a hard slap, but finds Mohan gently wiping his tears with his finger. 'And who are you?'

'I am Brijlal, Sahib. Your driver.'

'Has this fellow lost his memory?' the constable asks the groom.

'No. My memory is perfectly intact,' Mohan replies. He looks at the constable intently. 'Aren't you the one who hit me with a lathi?'

'Hit you? Are you out of your mind? This is the first time I have seen you.'

'The use of brute force is not right. Especially from a defender of the law.'

'Has your Sahib gone completely nuts?' The constable looks quizzically at Brijlal.

'It is all my fault,' Brijlal wails.

'It is not your fault, Brijlal,' Mohan says. 'There is a divine purpose behind every physical calamity. Will you now please see if the car is still in working order or whether we should try and look for a taxi.'

Brijlal does not know whether to laugh or cry. 'Yes, of course, Sahib,' he says in between sobs and gets into the driver's seat. With trembling hands, he inserts the ignition key and is surprised to find the engine purring smoothly. He reverses the car, brakes and jumps out. 'It is working, Sahib,' he cries. The onlookers begin to leave, their interest in the car strictly commensurate with the damage sustained by it.

Brijlal holds open the rear door, and Mohan gets in. 'Will you be so kind as to tell me where we were going?'

'To Rita Memsahib's house.'

'And who is she?'

'You will remember everything, Sahib, once you meet her.'

Mohan Kumar alights next to Rita's house looking totally lost. Brijlal directs him to the first-floor flat, presses the doorbell, and then, feeling awkward, returns to the car.

Rita opens the door, dressed in a pink nightgown, and Mohan is overpowered by the strong scent of her perfume. 'You are late, darling,' she drawls, and attempts to kiss him on the lips.

Mohan Kumar draws back as though stung by a bee. 'Don't… don't. Don't touch me, please.'

'What's wrong with you?' Rita raises her eyebrows.

'And who might you be?'

'Ha,' she laughs. 'Now you pretend you don't even know me.'

'I really don't. My driver has brought me here.'

'I see,' Rita says with exaggerated politeness. 'Well, Mr Kumar, my name is Rita Sethi. I happen to be your mistress and you come to my house twice a week to have sex with me.'

'Sex with a woman! Oh my God!'

'This is getting tiring, Mohan. Come on, cut it out.'

'You see… you see, Miss Sethi, I have taken a vow of brahmacharya requiring complete celibacy. I cannot have sex with any woman.'

'Have you joined some theatre company?' Rita asks crossly. 'Why are you putting on this act of behaving like Mahatma Gandhi?'

'But I am Gandhi.'

'Gandhi?' Rita bursts out laughing. 'I wouldn't mind being called the mistress of Gandhi.'

'Well, then I should have mentioned this to you a long time ago, but there are seven social sins, Ritaji,' he says, blushing slightly. 'Politics without Principle, Wealth without Work, Knowledge without Character, Commerce without Morality, Science without Humanity, Worship without Sacrifice and Pleasure without Conscience.' He reels them off on his fingers. 'This last one applies to the relationship between a man and his mistress. I hope you understand the import of what I am saying.'

'Yes, I understand very well. It means sex without love. You have simply been using me all this while, without really loving me. Now you have tired of me and want to leave me, hence all this drama,' Rita says bitterly. 'Fine. Leave me. You always were a selfish bastard, concerned only about yourself. I don't know why I wasted my time with a jerk like you. Out.' She points to the open door.