As they pass, the woman with the watermelon catches his eye, smiles, holds his gaze, as if daring him to say something. It’s a look that is bright with secret knowledge. Vincent turns to watch her, struck now with a powerful sense of déjà vu. It’s as if a slide has clicked into place in a projector, and come into focus. A memory of Astra looking at him, just like that.

This is more like it, he thinks. Fucking hell. Maybe he has come to the right place, after all.

He finds Kurt in a blast of air-conditioning, in the office on the corner, waiting to talk to an Indian woman. The woman is sitting on a platform behind a glass desk, smiling, dark-eyed, playful. There are a number of other women, westerners mostly, all dressed in orange, talking softly to other people in European accents, but this little Indian woman is clearly the boss.

Finally, it’s Kurt’s turn. Vincent follows him over. They sit down beside each other.

‘Do you know someone called Ma Deva Rani?’ Kurt asks.

He has memorised the full name, but he turns the piece of paper to show the woman Mary’s letter. He has carried it with him all the way from California, he tells her. Also, he has a photo, which he takes out. Mary with her arms in the air.

The woman laughs warmly. Yes, she does know Rani. But Rani is in the middle of a group and cannot be disturbed.

‘Would you like to leave a message?’ she asks.

‘Sure,’ Kurt says. ‘Yeah, great,’ and he writes down the name of their hotel, The Celestial Lake, and their room number.

Then the woman turns to Vincent.

‘So here you are,’ she says unblinkingly, as if she has known him from somewhere and has been waiting for him. ‘You are from Australia, yes?’

How does she know? he wonders. He checks his T-shirt, which is plain blue and gives nothing away. ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘I am.’

‘Very good,’ the woman says, watching him closely.

They have missed discourse this morning, she informs them. Discourse begins at 8am.

‘Come tomorrow,’ she says. ‘It costs five rupees.’ Somehow it doesn’t feel like they’re being given a choice. They pay, and receive little tickets. Then she instructs them to each write a letter of introduction to Bhagwan, and to come back in three days’ time, at a quarter to six in the evening, for darshan.

‘Darshan? What’s that?’ asks Vincent.

‘A meeting with Him.’ the woman explains, suddenly serious. ‘An auspicious view. I think you’re ready for sannyas, yes? Laxmi will arrange it.’

Laxmi. It seems that she is referring to herself in the third person. ‘But please wash first,’ she says. ‘You must not smell of smoke or perfume or anything else. This is very important. He is very allergic.’

He being Bhagwan. The guru. The living God.

‘Oh yeah. Okay. No worries.’