Janaki stands outside the main gate of the auditorium, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Coming straight from work, she has had barely enough time to wash her face and comb her hair. Her lack of interest in the evening’s programme is clearly written on her face. It’s a boring extension of her work that is taking her away from what she’d rather be doing—sitting for Ashesh. As she waits for Sharada, she smiles to herself with the memory of his tapering fingers, their precise movements, the sprinkling of grey in his fine hair and the incline of his neck as his searching gaze fixes first on her and then on the canvas.

The auditorium is fairly full by the time they enter. Janaki cranes her neck every which way to catch the action. She has been briefed to begin her piece with a succulent description of the scene, meaning who was there and what they were wearing—handbags, watches, footwear included. Next she must devote space to an admiring account of Sumitraben’s mist-like sari and her signature pearls. She must also give her piece a negative edge by commenting snidely on the East–West clash of rosewater sprayed on guests and the sophisticated perfumes they are wearing.

She realizes there is a fracas taking place up front. She quickly jots down details. The front row is filled with special invitees whom Sumitraben has personally welcomed and ushered to their seats. Now Kamaladevi, the empress of classical music, arrives, flanked by her sons, supporting herself with a walking stick. She never attends concerts, but not to invite her is an unforgivable sin. Her appearance here is not for the love of music, but to find fuel for an old fire.

Pandit Mishra always makes a point of naming her as the guru to whom he owes everything that he is. Many years ago, he had been her favourite disciple. But they fell out. The ill feeling has grown and festered to such an extent that she has recently announced to her inner circle of sycophants that she will no longer tolerate being named his guru. She has come today to make sure he does not and to create a scene if he does.

Kamaladevi stands before Sumitraben as an urgent seating problem. Swami Shivanand notices Sumitraben’s embarrassment and whispers to his disciples to give up their seats. They instantly slide down like shadows to sit on the floor at his feet. Sumitraben smiles graciously and leads the empress and her sons to the vacated seats.