All at once the group pounces on Vikram. They pull him to the floor, struggling to hold him down, while he thrashes, screaming. ‘I’m gonna kill that fucking cunt!’

K has Vikram’s huge right arm pinned to the mattress. He is using all his strength just to hold it there. The German guy has the other arm. The Japanese man has thrown himself across Vikram’s chest. Others are struggling to hold his legs. The old woman has been kicked in the face. Blood is flowing from her nose, and she seems to be crying. Meanwhile, the woman from Adelaide has begun to scream. It is a very high-pitched sound. She stops to take a breath and begins again. Anala hasn’t moved. He looks thoroughly unfazed. Vikram writhes and spits. ‘I’m gonna murder that motherfucker.’

Then his eyes close and he goes quiet.

Everyone waits. Is it a trick?

Slowly, K releases his grip. Nothing.

Vikram has passed out.

Stunned silence. Devam is shaking. The old woman is moaning in the corner of the room. She is sucking her thumb like a child.

Time passes. K doesn’t know how long. Five minutes? Ten? Boredom takes over.

People sit slumped around the enormous figure. What has happened?

Finally, Vikram opens his eyes.

‘What happened?’ he says. His voice is soft, bewildered, like a child’s. And then, almost silently, he begins to cry.

Veena strokes his head. Carefully, they all come over to him again. They form a circle, lay their hands on him, take turns to wipe the snot and tears from his face. Someone begins to hum, to chant. Vikram’s eyes are the eyes of a baby. Even Devam is here now, sitting beside his attacker, his own eyes closed. K is between a French woman and the tall German man. He takes Vikram’s hand in his own. Now they are all swaying back and forth and everyone is chanting. Someone turns up the volume on the music. Drumming sounds. Flute. When K opens his eyes again, he sees that the circle is disintegrating. People are standing around, swinging their arms. Some are lurching spastically. The music quickens. Vikram is on his feet, swaying gently back and forth. The music changes again. People begin to dance. Veena is taking off her clothes. Then the German woman disrobes. Then Devam begins stepping awkwardly from his pants. Eventually, K undresses, too. Soon even the old lady is naked, her large breasts swinging. Her face is still smeared with blood, but her nose has stopped bleeding. K is dancing alongside the German woman. He’s forgotten her name. She has a look of rapture on her face. Bodies. Music. Exhalation. Gratitude. Boredom. Love. It goes on and on and on. ‘I’m here to chop off your head,’ Bhagwan said. K thinks of Yamini, carrying a watermelon, like a severed head, like an omen. People begin to fall to the ground, exhausted. At some point they begin moving over the top of one another, a blind mass, and K has his face pressed between someone’s thighs. It’s difficult to breathe. Something is sticking into his leg. Someone’s cock. He takes it in his hand and begins stroking it. There are breasts in his face. Large, purple nipples. He begins sucking. The taste of blood. It’s the old woman. She is old enough to be his grandmother. She is saying something, but it’s not a word, as far as he can tell. People are moaning, writhing. There is the mindlessness of flesh, the thick smell of bodies, of sweat and sperm. It’s almost impossible to tell who is who, and it doesn’t matter anyway.