'My third submission,' Mohan Kumar repeats as he dips his head below the table and brings up a large packet wrapped in brown paper, 'is this.' He tears off the wrapping to reveal a wooden spinning wheel. 'Ladies and Gentlemen,' he announces, pausing for theatrical effect, 'I present to you the charkha.'

There are gasps from the board members. 'The spinning wheel was invented in India as a device for spinning yarn from fibres, but somehow got lost to us,' Mohan Kumar continues. 'I had to search in almost fifty shops in Chandni Chowk before I found this one. I claim that in losing the spinning wheel we lost our left lung. I believe that the yarn we spin from this device is capable of mending the broken warp and woof of our lives. The charkha is the panacea for all the ills afflicting this company and, indeed, this country. A plea for the spinning wheel is a plea for recognizing the dignity of labour. I am sure our friend from the unions will agree.' He looks pointedly at Dutta, who watches him, mouth agape.

'Yes… Yes, of course,' Dutta mumbles. 'Forgive me, Mohan Kumarji. All along we thought of you as a snake, but you are actually our saviour.'

A buzz goes around the boardroom. Hurried consultations are held. Eventually Vicky Rai stands up. 'It appears that we do not quite have unanimity on the restructuring plan. I will ask Mr Raha to further refine the proposal. We shall notify you of the date for the next board meeting. Thank you.'

He gives Mohan Kumar a withering look and leaves the room, slamming the door shut.

Over the next week, Mohan Kumar devotes himself to various causes. He participates in rallies by the Justice for Ruby campaign, sits outside the Supreme Court with activists protesting against the proposed increase in the height of the Sardar Sarovar Dam, attends a candle-light vigil at India Gate for peace between India and Pakistan, and leads a group of angry women picketing country liquor shops. He also replaces his reading spectacles with wire-rimmed, round 'Gandhi' glasses and the media instantly dubs him 'Gandhi Baba'.

On Sunday, while going to a protest march against the creation of Special Economic Zones, Mohan's car gets caught up in heavy traffic in Connaught Place. As it inches towards the red light, his eyes are drawn to the posters adorning a cinema on his left. Full of lurid images of semi-naked women, they bear titles like 'ALL NIGHT LONG', 'A VIRGIN'S TROUBLES' and 'MAN-EATING BEAUTY'. A diagonal strip on the posters proclaims, 'Full of love and sex. Morning show ten a.m. Special Rates.' A tag-line underneath states boldly: 'Sex needs no language.'

'Ram, Ram,' Mohan mutters. 'How has the government allowed such filth in a public place?'

Brijlal sighs knowingly. 'My Rupesh has also been coming to these morning shows. These posters are nothing. I am told in the films they show full naked women.'

'Really? In that case stop the car.'

'What, Sahib, right here?'

'Yes, right here.'

Brijlal manoeuvres the car to the kerb alongside the cinema and Mohan steps out.

The cinema is an old, grey building, with a cloistered, mouldy aura. The paint on the walls is peeling off and the tiles on the floor have been badly defaced. But the frescoes on the ceiling and the Corinthian pillars in the atrium are still intact, decaying reminders of its former grandeur. The morning show is about to start and there is a fair-sized crowd milling around the ticket window. It is a hormonally driven audience, exclusively male, looking for instant gratification. There are even boys in the queue as young as twelve or thirteen. They fidget nervously and puff up their chests in a desperate bid to look older. Mohan Kumar marches straight to the ticket window, oblivious to the protests of those in the queue. The cashier, a middle-aged man with a pencil moustache, sits in a small airless room with wads of pink, light-green and white tickets in front of him. 'Hundred for Dress Circle, seventy-five for Balcony, fifty for Front Stalls. Which ticket do you want?' he asks in a bored voice, without even bothering to look up.

'I want all your tickets.'

'All the tickets?' The cashier raises his head.

'Yes.'

'The special rates for group bookings do not apply to morning shows. Are you bringing a group from some boys' hostel?'

'No, I want all the tickets only for the purpose of destroying them.'

'What?'

'You heard me correctly. I want to destroy your tickets. Aren't you ashamed of yourself, showing such filth, spoiling the morals of the youth of this country?'

'Hey mister, don't talk to me about all this. Go talk to the manager. Next, please.'

'Please call the manager. I refuse to leave till the manager meets me,' Mohan says firmly.

The cashier glowers at him, before getting up from his stool and disappearing through a green door. Presently a short, corpulent man enters the room.

'Yes, what is it? I am the manager.'

'I want to talk to you,' says Mohan.

'Then please come to my office. It is the first room to your right when you come up the stairs.'

The manager's room is larger, with a faded green sofa and a wooden desk which is totally bare except for a black telephone. Framed posters of bygone films adorn the walls.

The manager hears out Mohan Kumar patiently. Then he asks him, 'Do you know who owns this cinema?'

'No,' says Mohan.

'It is Jagdamba Pal, the local MLA. I am sure you don't want to tangle with him.'

'And do you know who I am?'

'No.'

'I am Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi.'

The manager breaks into hysterical fits of laughter. 'Arrey bhai, that Munnabhai film with Gandhi has come and gone. Your dialogues are one year too late.'

'Laugh, Mr Manager, but I would like to see your face when you see your own son entering through the turnstiles. I believe that the reckless indulgence of passions promoted by the films you screen encourages unrestrained licence and corruption amongst our youth. I am afraid I cannot turn a blind eye to this entirely avoidable calamity.'

The manager sighs. 'You are a decent man, but also a foolish one. If you insist on going ahead with your protest, be prepared to face the consequences. Don't blame me if the MLA sets his goons on you.'

'A true satyagrahi does not fear danger. From tomorrow I am going to sit outside and fast until you agree to stop showing these filthy films.'

'Be my guest,' the manager says and picks up the phone.

The next morning Mohan Kumar arrives at the theatre clad in his Gandhi dress – a white dhoti and kurta with a cap on his head. He picks a spot directly in front of the ticket window and sits down on the ground, propping up a simple placard which declares, 'WATCHING THIS FILM IS A SIN'.

The men in the queue look at him curiously. Some bow before him, some drop coins at his feet, but not one drops out of the line. By nine fifty, the ticket window is closed and a 'House Full' board is placed in front of it.

Shanti arrives a little later. 'Why don't you come home now?' she asks anxiously. 'The film has already started.'

He gives her a dry smile. 'Another film will start soon. I am sure someone will listen to me. If I am able to convince even one man that what he is doing is wrong, I will feel that I have succeeded in my mission.'

'But how will you succeed, when no one even knows that you are fasting?'

'My fast is a matter between God and myself, Ba. But you don't worry. I am sure others will join me in this crusade in due course.'

'Then at least drink this juice I brought for you.' Shanti offers him a flask.

'When a man fasts, it is not the gallons of water he drinks that sustains him, but God, Ba. You go home now.'

With a final forlorn look at him, Shanti leaves with Brijlal. Mohan continues to sit on the ground, watching the ebb and flow in Connaught Place, the harried-looking office executives in jackets and ties, the young women with happy glistening faces out for a shopping spree, the hawkers selling belts, sunglasses and pirated books. The roar of traffic is deafening.