Dr Diwan sighs. 'You will have to be candid with me, Mr Kumar, if I am to treat you. Tell me, were you abused as a child?'

Mohan Kumar sits up and stares at Dr Diwan irritably. 'Let's cut out all this Freudian bullshit. Just tell me how I can avoid turning into Mahatma Gandhi.'

Dr Diwan smiles. 'There are many individuals in the world, Mr Kumar, who would do anything to turn into Mahatma Gandhi.'

'Then they are stupid, Doctor. You must understand, people didn't like Gandhi, they feared him. He appealed to an instinct they wanted to keep buried. He advised against sex, drink, wealth. I mean what is the fun of living if you cannot have any of these things?'

'There are more important things in life, Mr Kumar.'

'Look, I have not come here for a debate on Gandhian philosophy.' Mohan begins tying his shoelaces. 'But you will have earned your fee if you can tell me what triggers my sudden transition to this Gandhi character.'

'Well, there's no evidence to suggest any biological cause for Dissociative Identity Disorders. In almost all the cases that I have seen, the transition from one personality to another is usually triggered by a stressful event.'

'So if I were to avoid stress, I can prevent the transition?'

'In theory, yes. But I must warn you that the alternate personality can take control of the individual's behaviour at any time. And, what is even more important, over time one personality tends to dominate the others.'

'I assure you, Doctor, I won't let Mahatma Gandhi dominate me.' He stands up. 'Thank you for your time.'

'It was interesting meeting you, Mr Kumar,' Dr Diwan replies.

'Although we didn't quite see eye to eye on the treatment, I hope you now have more clarity about your illness.'

'An eye for an eye ends up making the whole world blind, Doctor,' Kumar says gravely and gently pats the doctor's arm.

'Oh my God!' Dr Diwan exclaims.

Mohan chuckles. 'Just kidding. But that is exactly the kind of thing I say when I switch to Gandhi. That will not happen any more. Good bye, Doc,' he says and saunters out of the clinic.

Dr Diwan watches his receding figure with a puzzled expression.

Immediately after returning from Dr Diwan's clinic, Mohan Kumar becomes more careful than an accountant with tax inspectors on his tail. He tiptoes through the house like a ballet dancer, smooth and light-footed, avoiding collision with doors and walls and keeping clear of the temple room by at least twenty feet. He bans all crackers from the house and issues strict instructions to Brijlal to drive at no more than forty kilometres per hour and to avoid sudden braking. He examines each and every book in his library and incinerates every title which might have even a semblance of a connection to Gandhi, in the process destroying such rare volumes as a first edition of India of My Dreams and a biography of Martin Luther King with the tag-line 'American Gandhi'. He increases his alcohol intake to three shots a night and, to ensure that Gandhi doesn't intrude even in his dreams, starts taking Valium tablets just before sleeping.

Shanti accepts Mohan's reversion to his old, difficult self with the robust fortitude of a martyr. Gopi goes back to preparing meat dishes and putting ice and soda in Sahib's room at night.

Mohan is in his bedroom with his second glass of whisky, examining the papers pertaining to Rai Textile Mill, while outside the window an unseasonable thunderstorm rages. The rain comes down in sheets and thunder shakes the roof. He hears the phone ring and picks it up.

'Hello?'

'Hello, Kumar.'

A tiny prick of resentment stabs at his heart every time Vicky Rai addresses him by his surname, but, like a pragmatic bureaucrat, he has learnt to swallow his pride.

'Yes, Sir,' he replies.

'I am just calling to remind you about the board meeting tomorrow.'

'Oh yes, Sir. I received Raha's report today. In fact, I was going over it right now,' he says.

'We will be banking on you to push through the retrenchment proposals. The job cuts are essential, you know, to restructure the textile company.'

'Without doubt, Sir. We need to cut a hundred and fifty jobs at least. Don't worry, I will ensure that the restructuring proposal is passed without any difficulty. Of course, it won't be unanimous. The unions will oppose the lay-offs tooth and nail. Dutta, as usual, will indulge in some theatrics. But what can one union guy do against five from the management? We will steam-roll him into submission.'

'I am sure you can take care of that bastard. Good night, Kumar.'

As Mohan puts the phone down, there is a knock on the door. At first he doesn't hear it, so heavy is the rain outside. But the knock is insistent. With an irritated frown he gets to his feet, puts on his slippers and opens the door.

Brijlal stands in front of him, his eyes bloodshot, his clothes completely drenched.

'What are you doing here?' Mohan demands.

'It is all over… It is all over,' Brijlal mumbles, shivering slightly.

Mohan wrinkles his nose. 'You are reeking like a pig. Are you drunk?'

'Yes, Sahib, I am drunk.' The driver gives a hollow laugh. 'What do you expect from country hooch? It will smell. But it gives a kick which your expensive imported whisky can never give.' He lurches into the room.

'Out… out,' Mohan gestures, as if reprimanding a dog. 'You are spoiling the carpet.'

Brijlal doesn't heed the instruction and advances towards the bed. 'I am only spoiling your carpet, Sahib, but you have spoilt my life. Do you know what day it is today?' He speaks in a slurred, off-key voice.

'Yes. Today is Sunday, the second of December. What's so special about it?'

'Today my Ranno was to get married. Today I should have been listening to the sound of shehnai. My house should have been ringing with laughter and happiness, but instead I have been listening to the sobs of my wife and daughter. All because of you.'

'Me? What did I do?'

'You are the one who had me accosted like a common thief and paraded before the whole of Khan Market. You are the one who demanded the return of the money. So I had to take the dowry back from the groom's family. I have never been more humiliated in my life. And what was my fault? The bottles were going to be destroyed in any case. If I made some money from them, what harm did I cause anyone? You big sahibs cheat your wives and have affairs with other women. You booze and gamble and don't even pay tax. But it is poor people like me who get insulted and arrested.'

'Enough, Brijlal. You have lost your senses,' Mohan says sternly.

The driver continues as if he has not heard him. 'The relationship between master and servant is a very delicate one, separated by a lakshman rekha. You crossed the line, Sahib. The groom's family has called off the wedding completely. Now you tell me what should I do? Allow my Ranno to remain a spinster all her life? How can I face my wife, who slaved day and night in preparation for the wedding?'

'I am warning you, Brijlal. You are really exceeding your limit.'

'I know I am exceeding my limit, but you, Sahib, have exceeded all decency. You deserve to be stripped naked, hung upside-down and then lashed with a whip till you feel the pain which I am feeling now.'

'Enough, Brijlal,' he bellows. 'I am ordering you to leave right now.'

'I will go, Sahib, but only after settling the score. You have wealth and power, but I have this.' He inserts his hand into his kurta and draws out an old knife. Its dull steel fails to catch the chandelier's light.

Mohan Kumar sees the knife and gasps. Brijlal advances further into the room; Mohan shrinks away till his back collides with the window overlooking the garden. A bolt of lightning rips across the sky, causing the window panes to shudder.

'You are drunk, Brijlal,' he appeals again. 'If you take any foolish action now you might regret it later.'