The guru’s hands had grown clammy. “I won’t listen to such nonsense again,” said Mr. Chatterjee, shutting the door behind him. “Please switch off the air conditioner, behanji,” the guru said after Mr. Chatterjee had gone. “I’m feeling cold.”

*   *   *

IT WASN’T AS IF the guru began to dislike Mr. Chatterjee after this. He took his words, in part, as a childish outburst, and they couldn’t quite hurt him. One thing he understood anew was how little Mr. Chatterjee knew about music, about the kind of ardour and talent it required. But why should he? Mr. Chatterjee’s lack of knowledge of music seemed apposite to his position. If he’d been a musician, he wouldn’t be Mr. Chatterjee.

The guru knew that if he wasn’t careful, the Chatterjees might discard him; Mrs. Chatterjee might find herself someone else. He’d also begun to feel a little sorry for her, because of what he’d said; he could have replied, perhaps, that, given the right training from early childhood, she might have been a better-known singer, or, if she’d been in the right place and at the right time, she might have become one; there had been no need to quite expose her like that.

For the following two days, Mrs. Chatterjee, going around in her chauffeur-driven car from the club to the shops in the mornings, couldn’t bring herself to hum or sing even once; the driver noted her silence. She’d suddenly realised that her need to sing had been a minor delusion, that she and her husband and the world could get by without it—she hadn’t been honest with herself; and no one had been honest with her. She remained polite with the guru when he came—they’d started to watch each other warily now, in secret—but went through the new bhajans with him without any real involvement, glancing again and again at her watch to see when the hour was up. Then, after a few more days, she realised she was taking herself too seriously; the force of the guru’s words diminished, and she began to, once more, look forward to the lesson.

*   *   *