Pratap got into the old style elevator of the 14-storey building in Connaught Place. He was going to pay the premium of his Relevance Life Insurance at the office on the 8 th floor. Built during the days of the British Raj, the building which looked quite ghostly had elevators with grille doors. Pratap drew both the grilles shut and pressed on number 8 on the panel. As the lift was about to raise itself with a thud, a shabbily dressed man with a grisly beard crept into it through the grille. “How did you that?” asked Pratap whose rationalism couldn’t accept a solid body making its way through iron bars. “I am a ghost,” said the fellow traveller. “Oh, I see.” Pratap looked at the guy with his rationalist eye and wondered what this phenomenon could be. E=mc 2 . Mass can be converted into energy. But not this way. Pratap was still exercising his rational brain when the ghost started sobbing louder than the noise produced by the crawling lift. “Hey,” said Pr
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