“One mustn’t try to be what one can’t, behanji. You have everything. You should be happy you can sing a little, and keep your husband and your friends happy. You can’t be a professional singer, behanji, and you shouldn’t try to be one.” Mrs. Chatterjee was silenced briefly by his audacity and wondered what had made him say it. For the first time in days, she saw him through the haze of her personal anxieties; for a few moments she said nothing. Then she said:

“Perhaps you’re right.” Her eyes, though, had tears in them.

When Mr. Chatterjee heard of this exchange, he was very angry. In spite of all they had, he’d never felt he’d given his wife enough. And because she sang, and sometimes sang before him, it was as if she gave him back something extra in their life together, and always had. It wasn’t as if she had the presence or the personality or the charm that some of the wives in her position had; it wasn’t as if she was an asset to the society they moved about in. Her singing was her weakness, and it was that weakness that made him love her more than he otherwise would have.

“How dare he say such a thing?” he said, genuinely outraged. He was angry enough to forget, temporarily, the little factions that had come into being in the company. “I will speak to him. As if he can get away just like that, disclaiming all responsibility.” Without really meaning it, he added, “You can always get another teacher, you know.”

Two days later, he delayed setting out for his office, and deliberately waited for the guru to arrive. Barely had the music lesson begun, and the recognisable sounds of voice and harmonium emerged from the room, than Mr. Chatterjee looked in, fully suited, and ready to go. The guru, seeing him, this vision of executive energy, bowed his head quickly in mid-song, privileged that the Managing Director should have stopped to listen to him for a few moments. Mr. Chatterjee was impatient today, and wasn’t taking in the Surdas bhajan; he had a meeting with the Board.

“Ji saheb,” said the guru, stopping.

“Guruji,” said Mr. Chatterjee, “please don’t say things that will upset my wife. That is not your job. You are here to give her songs and improve her singing. If you can’t do that properly…”

“What did I say, Chatterjee saheb?” asked the guru, interrupting him, and noticeably concerned. “Saheb, she has ten new songs now…”

“Don’t evade the issue,” snapped Mr. Chatterjee. “You told her, didn’t you, that she could never be a real singer. What is your responsibility, then? Do you take a hundred rupees a turn just to sit here and listen to her?”