He goes to his doctor for a check-up, but Dr Soni, his family physician, is unable to find anything wrong. 'All your vital signs are good, Mohan. The MRI scan is perfectly normal. I believe it is simply a case of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.'
'What's that?'
'When someone suffers a traumatic event, like seeing a murder in front of his eyes, the brain tries to cope with the psychological stress. This can lead to symptoms such as nightmares, flashbacks and insomnia. I am going to prescribe some sleeping pills. You should be fine in a week's time.'
Four days later, while Mohan is having his breakfast, Brijlal enters the kitchen where Shanti is busy whipping yoghurt. He touches her feet. 'Bibiji, I need your blessings. A boy came to see my daughter yesterday.'
'Oh, so Ranno is getting married?' Shanti asks in pleasant surprise.
'Yes, Bibiji. The boy is also from Delhi, belongs to our caste and, most importantly, is a class four government employee, working as a peon in the Railway Department. His father is also a peon. I only hope they don't demand too much dowry. I have made them my best offer. Let's see if they accept.'
'I am sure things will work out all right,' says Shanti. Taking a quick peek to see if Mohan is still sitting at the dining table, she whispers to Brijlal, 'Today your Sahib will be visiting that witch Rita, won't he?'
'Yes, Bibiji,' Brijlal replies with a nervous grimace, feeling half guilty himself.
'Just keep a watchful eye on Sahib. See that he eats and drinks properly. I am worried about his health. He has not been himself lately.'
'Yes, Bibiji.' Brijlal nods in agreement. 'Even I find his behaviour rather strange at times.'
'If only he had not met Rita,' Shanti says bitterly. 'Sometimes I feel like going to her house and asking her why is she so intent on destroying my family.'
'Don't demean yourself by talking to her, Bibiji,' Brijlal counsels. 'In God's kingdom, justice may be delayed, but is never denied. You will see, she will be punished eventually.'
'I hope you are right, Brijlal.' Shanti looks briefly towards the ceiling and resumes her whisking.
Mohan's office is a depressingly grey building in Bhikaji Cama Place, a chaotic warren of offices and shops. Finding an empty parking slot is a daily headache for Brijlal. Today he is forced to park in the narrow alley behind the Passport Office. After securing the car, he loiters, chatting with the other drivers, playing a game of rummy, sharing his discontent at rising prices, falling morals. At lunchtime he receives a call on his mobile phone. It is the boy's father, saying that he approves of Ranno, and demanding an extra twenty-five thousand rupees as dowry. 'I accept,' Brijlal says and rushes to a nearby temple.
Mohan comes out of the office promptly at three p.m. for the afternoon tryst with his mistress. As soon as he gets into the car, Brijlal offers him a box of laddoos.
'What are the sweets for, Brijlal?' he smiles.
'As a result of your blessings, Sahib, I have managed to get an excellent groom for my daughter Ranno.'
'That's good. Shanti told me that you were looking for a boy.'
'He is a government servant, Sahib. But there is only one problem.'
'Yes?' Mohan responds warily.
'They want an extra thirty thousand as dowry. I was wondering, Sahib, if you could lend the money to me.' He shakes his head. 'Brijlal, I've already given you fifteen thousand as advance pay. There is no way I can spare any more.'
'God has given you so much, Sahib. I am asking for very little.'
'Giving you any more would be to your own detriment. Why do you people need to spend so much on weddings anyway? There is nothing to eat in your houses, yet you want to ape the rich when it comes to marrying your daughters. Now don't disturb me. I have to read this report.' He opens his briefcase and takes out a ring-bound manila folder. Brijlal's face falls.
Near Vasant Vihar, the car is briefly held up by a small wedding procession crossing the road. A rag-tag band leads the party, tuneless trumpets blaring a filmi tune. The twenty-odd guests are dressed rather drably, with some even sporting slippers. An anaemic-looking groom dressed in a gaudy sherwani sits astride an equally anaemic-looking horse. Brijlal looks at the procession with the peculiar contempt the poor have for the poorer. His own daughter's wedding will be a lavish affair, he imagines. He will somehow manage to raise the twenty-five thousand and then he will get Sahib to book the Officers' Club on Curzon Road as the marriage venue. There will be a uniformed brass band as well as a live singer. A row of orderlies will carry Petromax lanterns lighting up the night. He can already see the groom's wedding procession walking in through the hallowed gates of the Officers' Club. The hall is glittering like a palace. The melodious sound of shehnai pours into the night. Inside, the elegant pavilion is loaded with sweet-smelling jasmine and marigolds. The guests enter the venue and look around in wonderment at the finery and luxury. The groom's father shakes his head. 'Where have you brought us, Brijlal? Is this the right address?' 'Yes,' he says. 'This is the right address. This where my Ranno is getting married to your son. All thanks to the blessings of my Sahib. There he is.' He points out Mohan Kumar, looking regal in a cream sherwani suit and a pink turban. As if on cue, the band begins playing a song, but for some reason Sahib is screaming at him: 'Look where you are going, you idiot… Stoppppp!' and he finds the big brass trumpet almost blaring in his face, shattering his ear drum and knocking him down.
By the time he wakes up from his reverie, it is too late. His head is lying on the steering wheel and the car is up against a The Possession of Mohan Kumar 91 lamppost which is now bent at an impossible angle. There is a small spidery crack in the left corner of the windscreen. His fingers touch something sticky on the steering wheel. He raises his face, looks in the rear-view mirror and discovers blood oozing from the corner of his mouth. He has cut his lip. He shakes his head vigorously, as if to clear it, and steps out of the car to inspect the damage. The front of the Hyundai has taken the brunt of the collision. There is a deep dent in the front fender where the metal has been scrunched up. He suspects the radiator may also have been hit.
Brijlal begins shivering. In twenty years of driving, this is the first time he has made such a mistake. Now he is finished. Sahib will take his hide off. This is the end of his career as a driver, of his dream of getting Ranno married, of a government job for Rupesh.
Then he notices Mohan Kumar on the back seat, eyes closed, looking very still, almost dead. Brijlal's first instinct is to run away, to collect his wife and Rupesh and Ranno and make a dash for the railway station. He will board the Lucknow Mail to his ancestral village, hide out for a few weeks till the matter cools. Then he will settle down in some other city, get another job, look for another groom.
By now the entire wedding party is gathered around the car. The trumpeter touches his arm: 'Kaise hua, bhai? What happened?' The groom also dismounts from his horse and begins inspecting the car. A perspiring constable arrives, parting the crowd with his stick and cries of 'Move! Move!'
Brijlal edges towards the outer periphery of the circle of onlookers, but cannot tear his eyes from Mohan Kumar. He sees the groom open the rear door and sprinkle a few drops of water on Mohan's face from a mineral-water bottle. Sahib stirs and makes a grimace of pain.
'Where am I?' Mohan asks in a weak voice.
'You are in your car, near Vasant Vihar Police Station,' the constable informs him. 'Your car has had an accident. Do you want me to call an ambulance?'