Sumitraben looks at him with a faint smile and urges him with a light touch on the arm to return to his food. Later she introduces him in different ways to two more people. Each time Prakash puts his entire will into not registering surprise. Suddenly Sumitraben deserts his side and disappears. The swami has risen from his throne. She stands before him with folded hands.

‘Where is that young artist of yours?’ he asks in a stentorian voice. Everybody stops talking. Sumitraben makes a sign to Prakash. His limbs answer her call promptly but he has no control over their trembling. He stands before the swami, quaking; bends to lay his head on his feet, quaking. The swami extends his right hand, palm upturned. A disciple places a rudraksha mala on it. He puts the mala around Prakash’s neck and lays his hand on his head in blessing. It is a sight filled with such divine power that the guests watch in awe. This is not some common or garden swami. He is guru to some of the mightiest men in the country. He travels all over the world spreading the message of Shivashakti—the power of Shiva. He drives around India in a custom-made car gifted to him by an American disciple. Equipped with a powerful air conditioner, it has six doors and a body plated with gold. Prakash is overwhelmed by the idea that he has now entered this aura. He remembers his grandmother. She used to tap her forehead with her forefinger and say, ‘When a man has this on his side, he can reach any height without doing a thing.’ She would say it in the context of his father who was clever enough to have become a Supreme Court judge but remained an advocate in Shingne because he didn’t have that thing in the forehead on his side.

After blessing Prakash, the swami moves. He is ready to leave. ‘I shall see your work at leisure,’ he says. ‘There is an increasing demand for spiritual paintings here and abroad. I have left some books with Sumitraben. Simple books, easy to understand. Read them. They will give you spiritual guidance in executing your work.’