Rita fumbles underneath the pillow and retrieves a pack of Virginia Slims and a lighter. She lights up a cigarette expertly and draws on it, releasing a ring of smoke which is immediately sucked in by the A-C. 'Did you get tickets for Tuesday's show?' she asks.
'Which show?'
'The one in which they will make contact with the spirit of Mahatma Gandhi on his birthday.'
Mohan looks at her curiously. 'Since when did you start believing in this mumbo-jumbo?'
'Séances are not mumbo-jumbo.'
'They are to me. I don't believe in ghosts and spirits.'
'You don't believe in God either.'
'No, I am an atheist. Haven't visited a temple in thirty years.'
'Well, neither have I, but at least I believe in God. And they say Aghori Baba is a great psychic. He can really talk to spirits.'
'Humph!' Mohan Kumar sneers. 'The baba is no psychic. He is just a cheap tantric who probably feasts on human flesh. And Gandhi is no international pop star. He is the Father of the Nation, for heaven's sake. He deserves more respect.'
'What's disrespectful in contacting his spirit? I'm glad an Indian company is doing it, before some foreign corporation trademarks Gandhi, like basmati rice. Let's go on Tuesday, darling.'
He looks her in the eye. 'How will it look for a former Chief Secretary to be seen attending something as outlandish as a séance? I have to think about my reputation.'
Rita sends another ring of smoke spinning towards the ceiling and gives a shrewd laugh. 'Well, if you find nothing wrong in having these afternoon trysts with me, despite having a wife and a grown-up son, I don't see why you cannot come to the show.'
She says it lightly, but it stings him. He knows she wouldn't have said this six months ago when he was still Chief Secretary. And he realizes that his mistress, too, has changed. Even the sex was different now, as if Rita was holding something back, knowing that his power to mould things in her favour had diminished, if not disappeared.
'Look, Rita, I am definitely not going,' he says with injured pride as he puts on his jacket. 'But if you insist on going to the séance, I will get you a pass.'
'Why do you keep calling it a séance? Think of it as just another show. Like a movie premiere. All my friends are going. They say it will be a page-three event. I've even bought a new chiffon sari to wear that evening. Come on, be a sport, darling.' She pouts.
He knows Rita is nothing if not persistent. Once she sets her heart on something, it is difficult to dissuade her, as he discovered to his cost with the Tanzanite pendant she demanded on her thirty-second birthday.
He gives in gracefully. 'OK. I will arrange two passes. But don't blame me if Aghori Baba makes you retch.'
'I won't!' Rita jumps up and kisses him.
So it is that at seven twenty-five p.m. on 2 October, Mohan Kumar finds himself alighting reluctantly from his chauffeured Hyundai Sonata at Siri Fort Auditorium.
The venue for the séance resembles a fortress under siege. A large contingent of police in full riot gear are trying their best to control an unruly mob of protestors shouting angry slogans and holding up a variety of placards: 'THE FATHER OF THE NATION IS NOT FOR SALE', 'AGHORI BABA IS A FRAUD', 'BOYCOTT UNITED ENTERTAINMENT', 'GLOBALIZATION IS EVIL'. On the other side of the road, a battery of TV cameras are lined up, filming sombrelooking anchors making breathless live broadcasts.
Mohan Kumar pushes through the mêlée, one hand guarding the wallet in the inside pocket of his off-white linen suit. Rita, looking svelte in a black chiffon sari and corset blouse, follows him in stiletto heels.
He recognizes India's best known TV journalist, Barkha Das, standing directly in front of the wrought-iron entrance gate. 'The most revered name in the pantheon of Indian leaders is that of Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi, or Bapu as he is fondly known to millions of Indians,' she announces into a hand-held mike. 'United Entertainment's plans to make contact with his spirit on the solemn occasion of his birth anniversary have drawn ire across the country. The family of Mahatma Gandhi has termed it a national disgrace. But with the Supreme Court refusing to intervene, it appears that even this most sacred of names will be sacrificed today on the altar of commercial greed. This distasteful séance will take place after all.' She purses her lips and makes a grimace familiar to her prime-time audience.
Mohan Kumar nods his head in silent agreement as he inches closer to the gate. Suddenly the journalist's bulbous mike is thrust in his face. 'Excuse me, Sir, do you believe in spirits?'
A cameraman standing discreetly to the reporter's left immediately swings in his direction, training a Sony Betacam on him.
'Shit!' Mohan Kumar swears under his breath as he flinches instinctively from being filmed on national television. Rita preens by his side, hoping to catch the camera's viewfinder.
'Do you believe in spirits, Sir?' Barkha Das repeats.
'Only of the drinking kind,' he replies wryly, striding past the entrance to join the long queue of ticket-holders snaking through a door-frame metal detector.
'Great answer!' Rita beams and gently squeezes his arm.
Looking at the eager, expectant faces milling around him, Mohan feels vaguely distressed. The inexhaustible capacity of the gullible to be cheated has never ceased to amaze him. He frets at the slow progress of the queue, not having stood in one for the last thirty-seven years.
After an interminable wait, during which he has his ticket scrutinized by three different checkers, his body scanned for guns and metal and his mobile phone confiscated for later return, Mohan Kumar is finally permitted to enter the brightly lit foyer of the auditorium. Liveried waiters hover, serving soft drinks and vegetarian canapés. In the far corner, a group of singers sitting cross-legged on a raised platform sing 'Vaishnav Janato', Mahatma Gandhi's favourite bhajan, to the accompaniment of tabla and harmonium. He brightens as he spots several well-known personalities mingling in the crowd – the Auditor General, a Deputy Commissioner of Police, five or six Members of Parliament, an excricketer, the President of the Golf Club and quite a few journalists, businessmen and bureaucrats. Rita breaks away from him to join a group of her socialite friends, who greet each other with little whoops of fake delight and feigned surprise.
The middle-aged owner of a textile mill, from whom Mohan Kumar had once extracted a hefty bribe, walks past him, studiously avoiding eye contact. Six months ago the man would have fawned on me, he thinks bitterly.
It is another quarter of an hour before the doors of the auditorium open and an usher directs him to the front. He has obtained the very best seats, right in the centre of the first row, courtesy of an IT company on whose board of directors he is now serving. Rita looks suitably impressed.
The hall fills up quickly with Delhi's glitterati. Mohan glances at the people around him. The ladies look vulgar in their brocaded silks and permed curls, the men faintly ridiculous in their Fabindia kurtas and Nagra jutis.
'You see, darling, I told you everyone who is anyone would come.' Rita winks at Mohan.
The audience coughs and fidgets and waits for the show to begin, but the velvet curtain draped over the stage refuses to budge.
At eight thirty p.m., an hour behind schedule, the lights begin to dim. Soon the hall is plunged into spooky darkness. Simultaneously, strains of the sitar fill the air and the curtain begins to rise. A single spotlight illuminates the stage, which is bare save for a straw mat on the floor. Arrayed in front of the mat are a number of items – a hand-driven spinning wheel, a pair of spectacles, a walking stick and a bundle of letters. A simple banner at the rear is emblazoned with the blue-and-white logo of United Entertainment.