THE RAIN SLASHED DOWN OUTSIDE, on Park Street, as I chatted with Paul Chung in his crowded ground-floor Kolkata flat. His Blackberry, on the coffee-table between us, chirruped every few minutes. “They’re from a guy I don’t even know,” he said. “He got my number from someone a year ago, sent me a message about something, and now he’s been sending me these bizarre messages all morning.”

Chung picked up his phone and leaned over to show me what was on its little screen: “These Indians r cowards they attack on unarmed ppl, they are scared to fight in battle ground so they torture us so that we tell China not to harm them.”

He scrolled down, showing me another: “Remember me? We r treated like dogs.” And another: “I m possessed. Do u know how to break spell of black magic. I am under influence of black magic tantra frm the past 40+ yrs. I am Indian Chinese. Pls pray?”