by Vikas Swarup
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.'
'Of course, Brijlal,' Shanti replies. 'Ranno is like our own daughter.'
'What is that, Bibiji?' Rupesh calls out in alarm, pointing his finger at the first-floor window from which black smoke is billowing out.
Shanti looks up and the box of sweetmeats drops from her hand. 'Hey Ishwar, that looks like a fire in Mohan's bedroom. And he is sleeping inside. Run, save your Sahib,' she screams as she begins running towards the house.
Gopi, Brijlal, Rupesh and Shanti rush up the stairs to Mohan's bedroom and find it locked from inside. 'Open up, Sahib,' Brijlal hollers, banging at the door, but there is no response from Mohan.
'Oh God, he must already have fainted from the fumes,' Shanti quavers.
'Let's break down the door,' Gopi suggests.
'Get back . . . get back,' Rupesh cries. He rears back and is about to crash his shoulder into the door when it opens suddenly, hitting him with a blast of heat. Mohan Kumar staggers out. His face is bright red and there is black ash on his clothes and hands.
While Gopi, Brijlal and Rupesh run into the bedroom and try to douse the fire, Shanti tends to her husband, who is choking and wheezing.
'Aah . . . aah.' He opens his mouth, taking in gulps of air.
Rupesh emerges from the bedroom with black soot all over his face. 'We managed to put out the fire, Bibiji,' he declares. 'Luckily, it had not spread beyond the curtains.'
'Thank God you woke up in time,' Shanti says to Mohan.
He blinks repeatedly. 'What is happening?'
'There was a fire in your room.'
'Fire? Who could have done that?' He looks around suspiciously.
'Must have been the handiwork of one of the street kids in the garden,' Gopi avers.
'Street kids? What the hell are street kids doing in my house?' Mohan demands.
Gopi and Brijlal look at each other quizzically.
A little while later, Mohan comes down to the dining room in fresh clothes. 'I am hungry. Where is my dinner, Gopi?' he asks the cook.
'It is ready, Sahib, exactly as per your instructions,' says Gopi as he lays a dish on the dining table accompanied by a casserole containing freshly made rotis.
Mohan takes a morsel and immediately spits it out. 'This is not meatball curry,' he says, curling his lips in distaste. 'What kind of nonsense food is this?'
'Lauki kofta, cooked specially without onions and garlic.'
'Is this some kind of sick joke? You know how much I hate bottle gourd.'
'But now you only eat saatvik vegetarian food.'
'You were always without brains, Gopi. Now it appears that you have become hard of hearing as well. Why would I ever ask you to cook this lousy dish? Now either bring me my meat or chicken dish or get ready for immediate sacking.'
Gopi goes out scratching his head and returns with Shanti.
'So you are no longer a vegetarian?' she asks him warily.
'When did I stop being a non-vegetarian?' he sneers.
'Two weeks ago. You told us that you would stop eating meat and drinking alcohol.'
'Ha!' he laughs. 'Only a lunatic would take such a decision.'
'I have already become one, living in this house,' Gopi mutters as he begins clearing the plates from the dining table.
Mohan suddenly looks at Shanti, his brow furrowing. 'What did you say about my drinking? I hope you have not touched my whisky collection?'
'You had all the bottles destroyed a fortnight ago,' Shanti replies evenly.
He gets up from the dining table as if touched by an electric cattle prod and rushes into the pantry which serves as a makeshift cellar. He emerges, ashen-faced, and starts another desperate search through the kitchen, opening each and every cupboard, rifling through the shelves, even checking inside the oven. Finally he slumps down on a chair. 'All my bottles are gone. How could you do that? I had painstakingly acquired those bottles over twenty years. Do you know how much that stock was worth?'
'Well, it was you who gave the order.'
'Now you have really pissed me off,' he hisses, eyes glinting with menace. 'Did I destroy them or did you destroy them behind my back? Come on, out with the truth, woman.'
'Why would I destroy them? I have suffered them for thirty years. It was you,' Shanti says, her face crumbling. 'You are the one who was saying this morning that no one with any wisdom would ever touch alcohol or any intoxicants.'
'Are you mad, woman? No one with any wisdom would ever destroy perfectly good bottles of foreign whisky. Who took them out of the cellar?'
'It was Brijlal.'
'Call that swine.'
Brijlal is summoned and questioned thoroughly. He sticks to the story he has been rehearsing for a fortnight. He had been asked to destroy the bottles by Bibiji. He had taken them to the municipal drain and smashed each and every one of them on the concrete pavement, discarding the glass shards in the rubbish bag which the garbage truck had subsequently carted away.
'Didn't you think of checking with me, first?'
'Well, Sahib, Bibiji said it was your order. Who am I to question Bibiji?'
'This Bibiji is the root cause of trouble in this house,' Mohan says, gnashing his teeth. 'I need a drink right now.'
'Why are you changing the perfectly sensible decision you took to become a teetotaller?' Shanti implores him. 'I maintained a fast all these years only for you to kick this evil habit. When you said you were giving up drinking, I thought God had finally opened your eyes, given you good sense.'
'Good sense is what you need, woman,' he shouts and turns to Brijlal. 'Take me immediately to Khan Market. I cannot sleep without having a drink.'
'But it is Diwali today, Sahib. The market is closed.'
'Then go and steal a bottle from somewhere,' he snaps at the driver, picking up a dinner plate from the counter and throwing it against the wall, where it shatters into pieces.
'Take him, Brijlal,' Shanti cries. 'Take him to some bar before he destroys everything.'
'It is impossible to stay in this house,' Mohan declares and stomps out of the kitchen.
The next morning he asks Brijlal to drive him straight to Modern Liquors in Khan Market. The owner, Mr Aggarwal, greets him warmly. 'Welcome, Kumar Sahib. Do you have some more bottles for us?'
'What do you mean?'
'You sold your vintage collection to us a few weeks ago. I was wondering if there was more. We will pay top price for every bottle.'
'You are mistaken. All my bottles were destroyed.'
'Then someone has cheated you, Sir. I paid twenty-five thousand rupees for your collection.'
'I see.' Kumar strokes his chin and summons Brijlal to the shop. 'Is this the man who sold you the bottles?' he asks Mr Aggarwal.
<
br /> 'Exactly, Sir. He is the man.'
'I think it is time you told me the real story behind the bottles, Brijlal,' Mohan says coldly.
Trembling with fear, the driver blurts out the truth.
'What did you do with all that money?' Mohan demands.
'I used it for Ranno's dowry, Sahib.'
Mohan's rage bubbles over. He raises his hand and slaps the driver. 'You ungrateful dog! You eat my salt and then stab me in the back? Now go and get it back, each and every penny of it. If you don't return my full twenty-five thousand, I will turn you over to the police.'
Brijlal clutches Mohan's feet, tears streaming from his eyes. 'But Sahib, this will ruin my Ranno's wedding. You can deduct it from my salary every month, but please don't ask me to break my daughter's heart.'
'You should have thought of the consequences before you embarked on your little transaction. I want my money by this afternoon. Otherwise get ready to spend the night in jail.'
Brijlal walks into Mohan's study at noon and hands him a brown envelope.
Mohan counts the notes and gives a satisfied grunt. 'Good. Twenty-five thousand. You have now made amends, Brijlal. Let this be a lesson. Another foolish mistake like this and I will have no qualms about dismissing you. Then you won't even have a roof over your head.'
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 Diw
an 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.
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.'