Brijlal says nothing and walks out of the room like a zombie.

A week passes. Mohan Kumar resumes his drinking and meateating with such vengeance that his household comes to the conclusion that the brief interlude without alcohol was an aberrant decision, itself taken perhaps under the influence of alcohol. He stops talking to Shanti completely, and looks at her with such revulsion that she avoids crossing his path. Gopi is warned against bringing bottle gourd into the house, let alone cooking it.

Mohan resumes going to the office, and tries to speak to his mistress, but Rita Sethi resolutely refuses to take his calls, which causes him great consternation. And then he gets his bank statement, which leads to an apoplectic fit.

Sister Kamala's face tightens, making her look rather schoolmatronly. 'Now let me get this straight, Mr Kumar. You are telling me that we have illegally withdrawn the sum of two million rupees from your account with HSBC Bank, right?'

'Damn right,' Mohan Kumar mutters, wiping sweat from his brow with a blue handkerchief. 'I got this statement in today's mail. Look at it.' He thrusts a sheet of paper at her. 'It says cheque number 00765432 for rupees twenty lakhs was credited to the account of the Missionaries of Charity. Well, I never gave you that cheque. So there's obviously some fraud involved here.'

Sister Kamala adjusts the blue sash of her crisp white sari with studied nonchalance. 'In that case we will have to refresh your memory.' She looks at the woman with glasses standing beside her chair wearing a similar dress. 'Sister Vimla, can I have the documents please?'

Sister Vimla pushes the round glasses on her nose a notch higher and places a green ring-binder on the table.

Sister Kamala flips open the binder. 'Would you care to have a look at this, please, Mr Kumar. This is a photocopy of the cheque you gave us ten days ago, on 7 November. Is this your signature or not?' she asks.

Mohan Kumar scans the document with the suspicious air of a probate attorney examining a will. There is a long pause, and then he exhales. 'It does look like my signature. A very good forgery, I must say.' He jabs a finger at Sister Kamala. 'This is a serious matter, you know. You could go to jail.'

'So you say that your signature is forged. Fine.' She flips to the first page. 'Would you have a look at this photograph now? Is this you or has this photo been forged too?'

Mohan Kumar looks at the glossy colour photograph under a plastic sheet. There is a longer pause. 'It… it does look like me,' he says weakly.

'Yes, Mr Kumar. It is you. You came to us on a Wednesday. You sat in this very room, on this very chair and gave us the cheque, telling us how much you admired Mother Teresa and her work. You said that possession of inordinate wealth by individuals is a crime against humanity and then you wrote us a cheque for twenty lakhs. Sister Vimla took this photo for our monthly bulletin, to keep a record of the largest single donation this branch has ever received.'

'But… but I have no recollection of coming here.'

'But we have full recollection, and full proof,' Sister Kamala says triumphantly.

'Is there no way I can get my money back?' he pleads.

'We have already cashed the cheque. The funds will help us run our hospice for the terminally ill, expand the orphanage and open a small school for children up to Grade Six. Think of what you will earn back in goodwill and blessings from all those who will be helped by your donation.'

'I don't need any goodwill. I just want my money back. I am a very senior IAS officer.'

'And also a very venal one. Sister Vimla did a full background check on you. Aren't you the Chief Secretary who was declared the most corrupt officer in Uttar Pradesh by the Civil Service Association?'

'That's rich. You take my money and also insult me! Now are you returning my money or do I need to go to the police?'

'You don't need to go to the police, Mr Kumar. You need to go to a doctor,' Sister Kamala says. 'And now, if you will excuse us, it is time for our prayer.'

'But…' Mohan tries to interject.

Sister Kamala firmly shuts the door and turns to her aide. 'Loco.' She draws circles over her right ear with her index finger. 'Completely loco.'

Dr M. K. Diwan's clinic in Defence Colony is pleasantly furnished with a relaxing couch upholstered in blue, some easy chairs, abstract paintings on the alabaster walls and an artificial silk fig tree in the corner which looks surprisingly real. The décor gives the feel of a drawing room rather than an office. Dr Diwan is a tall man in his late forties, with a brusque manner and a clipped British accent.

'Why don't you kick off your shoes and lie on the couch?' he advises Mohan Kumar, who is standing diffidently next to the wall.

Mohan obeys reluctantly. He lies down, supporting his head with a bolster. Dr Diwan pulls an easy chair next to the couch, and sits down with a black leather-bound diary and a silver pen in his hands.

'Good, now let's hear what's troubling you.'

'Doctor, some unknown force has insinuated itself in my body like a persistent toothache. I have started walking, talking and acting like another person.'

'And who is this other person?' He pauses. 'You won't believe me.'

'Try me,' the doctor says drily.

'It is Gandhi… Mahatma Gandhi.'

He expects Dr Diwan to laugh, but Delhi's best-known clinical psychologist doesn't even raise an eyebrow. 'Hmmm,' he says, fiddling with his pen. 'And who is speaking to me right now?'

'Right now I am Mohan Kumar, IAS, former Chief Secretary of Uttar Pradesh, but at any moment I might start talking like Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi.' He leans towards the doctor. 'It all started with that Gandhi séance I should never have attended. Do you think this could be a case of demonic possession?'

'Demons exist only in films. And films are not real, Mr Kumar.'

'Then am I going mad?'

'No, not at all. Even perfectly sane people can act a bit differently at times.'

'You don't understand, Doctor. The malady is extremely serious. It makes me do crazy things, like wearing khadi and that ridiculous Gandhi cap. Like breaking all the bottles in my whisky collection. Like becoming vegetarian and blowing twenty lakhs of my hard-earned money on the Missionaries of Charity.'

'I see. Now when exactly do these episodes happen?'

'I don't really know. I… I mean one minute I am myself and the next minute I have become this other person, blabbering some nonsense about God and religion.'

'And you have full memory of what you did as this other person when you revert to your real self?'

'At first I had no recollection. There was simply a gap in my memory. But now, I am slowly beginning to decipher the stupid things I do as Gandhi.'

Dr Diwan interrogates him for another half-hour before making his diagnosis. 'I believe you are suffering from what we call Dissociative Identity Disorder. In films they call this a split personality.'

'You mean my personality has split into two – Mohan Kumar and Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi?'

'More or less. In DID, the usual integrity of the personality breaks down and two or more independent personalities emerge. A person with the illness is consciously aware of one aspect of his personality or self while being totally unaware of, or dissociated from, other aspects of it. Would you mind submitting yourself to a clinical hypnosis session?'

'And what will you do?'

'We will explore your unconscious with a view to understanding whether past events and experiences are associated with your present problem.'

'Will you ask very personal questions?' he asks with a worried look.

'We will have to. The whole idea of hypnosis is to bypass the critical censor of the conscious mind.'

'No. I will not submit to a hypnosis session,' he says firmly.