'Before leaving, may I proffer another bit of advice?' he says. 'May I request you to maintain chastity? Chastity is one of the greatest disciplines, without which the mind cannot attain requisite firmness.'

Rita gapes at him, her face darkening. 'You swine,' she hisses and delivers a stinging slap to his left cheek.

Mohan Kumar stumbles backwards, his shoulder crashing into the door frame. 'That was totally unnecessary,' he mutters, nursing his cheek. 'Nevertheless, if it pleases your fancy, you may exercise your violent instincts on my right cheek as well.' He turns his face to the other side.

Rita literally propels him out of the door and on to the staircase. 'Good riddance to you, Mr Mohanbhai Pseudo Gandhi,' she shouts before slamming the door shut.

'Correction, my dear. It is Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi,' she hears him say as he tramps down the stairs.

'What happened, Sahib?' Brijlal asks. 'You have come out very quickly today.'

'We are not coming back here ever again, Brijlal,' he replies.

'Bibiji will be very happy.'

'Who is Bibiji?'

'Your wife.'

'My wife? I have a wife?'

Mohan Kumar wanders through his house like an amnesiac trying to piece together the jigsaw of his past. The first person he meets is Shanti, beaming with the exuberant cheerfulness of a newlywed bride. 'Brijlal tells me you just broke off from that witch Rita. Is it true?'

'Yes. I am not going back to Miss Rita Sethi.'

'Then just give me a minute,' Shanti says and disappears into the small room next to the kitchen which has been converted into a temple. She returns with a small steel plate in her hand. 'Let me do a little tika.' With the ball of her middle finger, she rakes his forehead with a pinch of vermilion paste.

Mohan appears mystified. 'What is this for?'

She blushes. 'For starting our married life afresh from today.'

He shrinks back. 'Let me tell you, Shanti, that I have taken a vow of complete celibacy. So please do not have the expectations of a married man from me.'

'You can sleep in your own room,' she says evenly. 'The lifting of that witch's shadow from this house is boon enough for me. In God's court there is some justice, after all.' He raises his finger like a teacher. 'I will now devote my life to fighting injustice. I will use truth as my anvil and non-violence as my hammer.'

'Arrey, what's got into you? You are speaking just like Gandhiji.'

'Then do you mind if I start calling you Ba?'

'You can call me anything. Just don't call that witch ever again.'

Mohan Kumar commences a rigorous new routine, sitting in the temple every morning with Shanti, praying and singing bhajans. He gives up his suits and shirts in favour of simple cotton kurta pyjamas and develops a penchant for Gandhi caps. He stops dyeing his hair, eats only vegetarian food, becomes a complete teetotaller, substitutes sugar with jaggery and insists on having a litre of goat's milk every day.

He discards his mobile phone, stops going to the office completely and spends his time reading the Gita and other religious books, and writing letters to the newspaper on issues such as corruption and immorality, but which are never published because he signs them 'Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi'. His favourite pastime, however, is to collect each and every piece of information on the Ruby Gill murder case, which he pastes diligently into a scrapbook.

'Why this sudden interest in Ruby Gill?' Shanti asks him.

'She was my greatest disciple,' he answers. 'She was doing her doctorate on my teachings before her life was tragically cut short.'

'The entire neighbourhood is talking about Sahib's transformation,' Brijlal confides in Gopi. 'Some people say he has gone mad. He has started imagining himself to be Mahatma Gandhi. Why doesn't Bibiji take him to see a good mental doctor?'

'All rich people are slightly mad, Brijlal. Besides, Bibiji prefers him this way,' the cook replies.

'But madness is a serious illness, Gopi. Today he is calling himself Mahatma Gandhi, tomorrow he might start calling himself Emperor Akbar.'

'Arrey, what difference does it make what he calls himself, Brijlal?' Gopi says. 'At least he is doing things which we consider right. Best of all, he does not trouble us any longer.'

'Yes, that is true. So what should I do?'

'Pretend to be Gandhiji's driver, just as Bibiji pretends to be Gandhiji's wife.'

It is Diwali, the Festival of Lights. Mohan Kumar's house is lit up with strings of tiny twinkling bulbs. The night sky is a riot of colour as brilliant pink and green flowers continue to explode with abandon. Every few seconds a rocket goes screaming into the atmosphere. The bursting of crackers reverberates in the air like thunder.

The garden has been taken over by an army of children, clapping and whooping with delight.

Seven-year-old Bunty, the son of the neighbourhood sweeper, is busy lighting a rocket with his eight-year-old friend Ajju, the cobbler's son. The rocket is placed inside an empty coke bottle.

'Ey, Ajju, let's see what will happen if we hold the bottle sideways instead of straight,' Bunty suggests.

'Arrey, the rocket will go sideways instead of straight up,' says Ajju.

'Then let's try sending it sideways, into the gate. I will tilt the bottle and you light the rocket.'

'OK.'

Bunty holds the glass bottle in his hand, pointed towards the entrance, while Ajju strikes a match and lights the fuse. With a few little sparks the rocket streaks towards the gate, leaving a cloud of smoke inside the bottle. In mid-flight, however, it reverses its trajectory and heads towards the house. Bunty and Ajju watch in horror as the rocket dives straight through an open window on the first floor.

'Oh my God, Bunty, what have you done?' Ajju asks, cupping his mouth with his palm.

'Shhh!' whispers Bunty. 'Don't tell anyone. Let's grab a couple of cracker packets and run before they catch us.'

A little while later, Shanti steps into the garden with Gopi in tow, holding a tray of lighted clay lamps and a box of sweetmeats. She picks up a diya from the tray and places it in the centre of the decorative pattern she has specially drawn on the concrete floor of the gazebo.

A cracker bomb bursts with deafening noise in the western corner of the garden. The cook looks with displeasure at the crowd of children dancing with delight on the grass. 'Look at these idiots, Bibiji,' he tells Shanti. 'They are not bursting crackers, they are burning money. Our money. One bang and a hundred rupees go up in smoke.'

Shanti rubs her eyes, smarting from the noxious fumes of the cracker, and coughs briefly. 'I prefer sparklers, Gopi. These loud crackers are not for old people like me.'

'I don't know why Sahib allowed all these street children into our house and gave them crackers worth five thousand. See how they are trashing our garden. Tomorrow I will have to do the cleaning,' he grumbles.

'Arrey, Gopi, have a heart,' Shanti says. 'These poor children have probably never exploded so many crackers in their life. I am glad Mohan invited all of them to celebrate Diwali here. This is the first good thing your Sahib has done in thirty years.'

'Yes, that is true,' Gopi concedes. 'Last year in Lucknow, Sahib spent his entire Diwali gambling. Today he sat in the temple and did Laxmi puja with you, and even maintained a fast for the first time ever. Hard to believe he is the same man.'

'I just hope he remains this way,' Shanti says as she begins distributing the sweetmeats to the children. 'Come, come, take this prasad,' she calls out.

Brijlal and his son Rupesh are also in the garden. 'So what is the latest on Ranno's wedding?' Shanti asks the driver.

'With your blessings, Bibiji, Ranno's wedding has been fixed for Sunday, 2 December,' Brijlal beams. 'I hope you and Sahib will grace the occasion with your presence.'