I don’t know what I’m doing, Mary had written. It’s impossible to explain. I can only talk about surrender.

Mary has changed her name. Now her name is Rani.

‘Took me ages to figure out who the fuck Rani was supposed to be,’ Kurt had said, laughing. But there was something weird about his laughter, Vincent had noticed, and it’s not clear now whether or not Rani is expecting him or what the exact terms of their relationship might be.

The rickshaw accelerates into space, grinding its gears. Kurt is visibly anxious, and it pleases Vincent to see a glint of weakness in the American’s otherwise imperturbable confidence.

They rush through the morning light. A squall of horns. The driver berates another driver. For the first time since he arrived in India, Vincent is overwhelmed by happiness.

The ashram is in a secluded back street lined with large stately houses and banyan trees that drop their roots straight down through the air like living ropes. There is a misunderstanding about the fare, a brief altercation between Mark and the second driver, which Kurt smooths away by paying the extra amount himself. And then the four men are standing at the gates, in green, almost aquatic light. A sense of peace, of coolness, like a parallel universe, even before they have entered the place.

Shree Rajneesh Ashram, the gate says.

‘Cool.’

Beams of dusty sunlight slanting down through the trees. A few exotic-looking Europeans in orange and pink are standing around talking in their serious accents or hugging one another. Big smiles, everyone a bit stoned-looking. Europeans with no underpants on, according to Kurt. Underpants block the energy.

Above them, dozens of green parrots screech and dart between the trees.

And then just like that, they are beyond the gates, among more people, a crazy bunch of westerners all wandering around with the same loose looks on their faces.

Flute music drifts over from somewhere. Vincent feels like laughing. He feels like a fucking Beatle. He flashes a comical peace sign at Kurt, wide-eyed, but it doesn’t seem to register. Kurt is preoccupied; he’s headed for a glass-fronted office to the right. Mitch and Mark have wandered away in another direction. Further in, the place seems like a maze, a rabbit warren.

From a darkened doorway, Vincent sees two women emerge. Beautiful women. They are both wearing orange headscarves and clean orange aprons above light-pink shirts. They come walking towards him, perfectly in step with each other, and one of them is carrying something ceremoniously in front of her. But what?

A decapitated head.

For half a second, the image is real.

But no. It’s a watermelon.