'I could.'

'The doctors say I have DID, but I know it is really a case of possession. I need an exorcist, not a psychotherapist. Do you know how to take a spirit out?'

'Yes. I am half a torale. I can get rid of the shadow.'

'Then do so. I want my life back. In return I'll give you whatever you want.'

'Can you give me some money?'

'How much?'

'Two times nine thousand.'

'That's eighteen thousand. That's a lot of money. What do you want it for?'

'To buy tickets to go back to my village.'

'Let's do a deal. If you can cure me, the money is yours.'

'Then lie down.'

'Here, on the ground?'

'Yes. And take off your shirt. I need to put some red clay on your chest and face.'

'Now that you've saved my life, how can I refuse your instructions?' He strips off his kurta and vest and lies down on the hard ground, unmindful of the ants which are crawling over his legs and the twigs digging into his back.

The tribal unzips his black canvas bag and takes out a lump of red clay, which he mixes with pig fat. He then draws a fine herringbone design on Mohan Kumar's chest and daubs a few horizontal lines on his face.

'What are you doing?' Mohan worries.

'I am summoning the spirits, who will draw away the embekte. Now close your eyes and don't speak.'

The tribal takes out a charm necklace made of bones and drapes it around Mohan's neck. Then, putting his left hand on Kumar's head, and holding a small white bone in his right, he begins chanting, swaying back and forth in a circular motion, faster and faster.

Mohan feels an excruciating pain, as though a corkscrew is being twisted inside his brain. He groans in agony, feeling his skin being peeled off. And then he passes out.

When he opens his eyes, the tribal is still sitting by his side, gazing at him intently.

'Is it done?' Mohan asks.

'Yes. I took the embekte out of your body.'

Mohan presses his temples and finds that the pain has gone. He feels cleansed, whole. He sits up and begins putting on his clothes. 'You have done something which no one else could do. That spirit was causing me a lot of trouble, even though it was that of a very famous man.'

'Man?'

'Yes, the spirit which possessed me was that of Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi. Surely you have heard of Mahatma Gandhi?'

'No, you are mistaken. It was not a man who possessed you, it was a woman.'

'Woman? How do you know?'

'I talked to it. It was very stubborn.'

'What was her name?'

'Ruby Gill.'

'Ruby Gill!' Mohan exclaims. He feels the bulk of the pistol in his kurta pocket and becomes thoughtful. 'So all along it was Ruby Gill leading me on, pretending to be Mahatma Gandhi… It's beginning to make sense now.'

The tribal tugs at his sleeve. 'Will you give me the money?'

'Yes, yes, of course.' He opens a black leather wallet and takes out a wad of thousand-rupee notes. 'You asked for eighteen; I am giving you twenty. This can buy you a ticket even to London!'

The tribal accepts the money and bows in gratitude. 'You are very kind.'

Mohan Kumar scrubs his face with a handkerchief, removing traces of the red clay. Standing up, he dusts his dhoti. 'This is the last time I am wearing this silly dress.'

He steps out from the thicket on to the lawn and looks at his watch. It is a quarter past eleven. The party appears to be in full swing. There are at least half a dozen girls in the pool and the bar area is thronged with guests. He strides quickly towards the gazebo.

'Do you have Chivas?' he asks the bartender, who nods. 'Then give me a large Scotch, neat.'

He gulps down the whisky in one shot, wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his kurta and asks for a refill. Spotting the CEO of Rai Textile Mill, he pats him jovially on the back. 'So, Raha, how are things?'

Raha turns around, adjusts his steel-rimmed glasses, and is surprised to see Mohan Kumar. 'I didn't expect to see you at this party, Mr Kumar,' he says coldly.

'Let bygones be bygones, Raha. I was suffering from a medical disorder, but I am fully cured now. In fact, I will explain it all to Vicky. Have you seen him?'

'He has just gone inside the house with Shabnam Saxena.'

Mohan drains his second glass and starts walking towards the house. The blonde model who had tried to kiss him is standing in the way, sipping what looks like a strawberry daiquiri. 'Ooh, Ghandi Baba, you are back,' she coos.

He smiles at her. 'Yes, I am back. And I am keen for some experiments in untruth. When do you want to begin?'

She comes within kissing distance of him. 'How about right now?'

'I need to sort out a few issues first. But good things come to those who wait.' He winks and pinches her bottom.

She squeals.

15 Acquisition

'HOWDY! I'm Rick Myers,' I introduced myself, feeling as uncomfortable in the Armani suit I had bought from Connaught Place as an elephant in underpants.

The host, dressed in an equally smart dark suit and purple tie, clasped me in a bear hug as though he was my long-lost brother. I got worried he might start fingering the Glock in the inside pocket of my jacket. 'Welcome to Number Six,' he said. 'Lizzie told me you were coming.' Squinting at me, he tapped his chin. 'Haven't we met somewhere, Mr Myers?'

I had recognized him immediately from the scar running down the left side of his face. He was the hombre who had fired me from the call centre. 'I doubt it,' I said. 'I got this name just yesterday.'

'Yesterday? What do you mean?'

I corrected myself. 'I mean I arrived in your country just yesterday. So the chances of us having met are slim to none, and slim just got up and left.'

'I really like your sense of humour, Mr Myers. I am in the same line as you – film production. Perhaps we can do business together.' He pointed to the man standing next to him. 'Let me introduce you to my father, Mr Jagannath Rai, Home Minister of Uttar Pradesh.'

The pop was a heavy-set, hairy man, with a round face and a thick, curled-up moustache. He folded his hands in greeting, looking greasy as fried lard.

I stepped into the garden and was awestruck at how huge and beautiful the farmhouse was. The three-storey house was made entirely of marble, there was a lawn the size of three baseball pitches, a swimming pool as big as Lake Waco, a temple, and a gazebo lit up like the fourth of July. Far in the distance I could even make out a jungle. The place was bigger than the Governor's mansion in Austin, but I couldn't figure out why it was called a farmhouse. I could see neither any animals nor any farmers on the property.

There were more people on the lawn than you could shake a stick at. And they all looked like big guns in their expensive threads. Music played from large loudspeakers. Waiters hovered around with all kinds of goodies. I remembered Lizzie's warning and decided to check first if any of those Al Qaeda dudes were snooping around. I peered into the forest, looked behind all the trees and that's when I saw a man in a blue suit sneaking across the lawn, close to the boundary wall, with a packet in his hands. Suddenly I felt like a real FBI officer. I began following him, like Mel Gibson tracked those baddies in Lethal Weapon. I was hoping to confront him with my gun, when he entered the little temple in the corner of the lawn. I saw him fold his hands and bow his head before the Indian gods. It seemed he had only come to offer prayers.

Disappointed, I decided to get a drink and began moving towards the gazebo where the bar was set up. Near the pool a bunch of journalists armed with cameras and flash guns were hanging around, snapping pictures of some pretty young things who were posing like film stars on the red carpet. I immediately started searching for Shabnam. A lanky man with a camera in one hand and a twitch in one eye goggled at me. 'Excuse me, are you Michael J. Fox?'