All the devotees have now touched the swami’s feet. Sumitraben comes out bearing a silver thali with silver katoris filled with delicacies for the swami. Someone places a low stool before his throne. She puts the thali on it along with a silver, lota-like tumbler and another silver tumbler brimful of cold almond milk. She stands before the swami with folded hands till he has taken his first mouthful. Then she glides back to the inner room to look after her guests. The room is set with a long, food-laden table that runs down its middle. Prakash stands in a corner with a silver thali piled with food. Should he have heaped so much on his plate? But did he have a choice? There were so many bowls and tureens on the table with different preparations, that even a spoonful or small piece of each had added up to the bounty before him. He applies himself to it now, with the hope that he might be able to demolish the whole lot before anybody notices. But he is less than halfway through when Sumitraben’s voice interrupts from very close at hand.

‘Meet Prakash Jadhav,’ it says. ‘A very fine painter. Just starting out, but very powerful work.’

Prakash’s fork drops. He stares wide-eyed, first at Sumitraben and then at the spectacled man to whom she has addressed the above. The man nods gravely. A bearer materializes from somewhere, bows low and presents Prakash with a new fork. Prakash looks down quickly. The fallen fork has disappeared. Sumitraben puts a hand on the spectacled man’s arm and leads him towards the food-laden table. She returns to Prakash and says in a low voice, ‘I’m going to introduce you to a couple of other people—all collectors. Just smile, don’t show surprise.’

She makes solicitous inquiries of her guests, a word here, a word there, gliding through the crowd like a silken serpent. Prakash returns to his plate, shovelling food fast down the hatch. Every bit of it is beautiful to look at and subtly flavoured; but his eyes and palate are in no state to appreciate its refinements. His tongue is dry, his intestines knotted.

‘Meet Prakash Jadhav.’ Before him stands a middle-aged, ravaged-looking woman with a huge red tika on her forehead. The woman’s eyes are on the jalebis on her plate over which is piled a large mound of rabdi, but she makes her mouth smile. She is clearly not interested in who or what Prakash is, but such is Sumitraben’s power over her, that she forces her gaze to rise from the jalebis and take in Prakash. ‘Prakash has a very interesting background. I must tell you about it one of these days. Coming from such a background, the spirituality of his paintings is astounding. Of course, they are still a little raw, but that’s part of their power. I’ve bought one already.’