MEANWHILE, MR. CHATTERJEE had dealt with the problem at his end, after making, first of all, several late-night telephone calls to some of the foreign shareholders and directors. He had to shout to make himself heard, sometimes keeping his wife from sleep. “Are you sure, Humphrey?” he asked, putting the onus of responsibility on the Englishman. And then, “Yes, I can see there’s no other way…” Two days later, he met Sengupta, the man he’d employed four years ago, and appointed to the Board last year, face-to-face across the large rosewood table. “R.C.,” he said, referring to him by his initials (he himself was “A.K.”—Amiya Kumar—to his colleagues), “you know why we’re here. If there was any dissatisfaction or disagreement, we could have thrashed it out between ourselves. But that was not to be.” As if digressing philosophically, he observed, “Brite has had a grand history, it has a present, and a future. No person is more important than that future.” Interrupting himself, he sighed. “Anyway, I’ve spoken to Dick and Humphrey, and they agree that even the project that was your undertaking is going to fold up. It shows no signs of promise. It was a mistake.” Sengupta had said nothing so far, not because he felt he was in the wrong, but because he thought his position, because of what he’d done and the way he’d done it, was a weak one; changes were necessary, but he could see now that he should have gone about looking for them in a more knowing way. “One thing I want to say before I resign, A.K.,” interjected Sengupta, looking at the bright space outside the large glass windows, “is that I’ve had a wonderful few years at Brite, and I regret it couldn’t be for longer. However, I don’t always agree with the company’s style of functioning—it’s not democratic.” “Companies aren’t democracies, R.C.,” said Mr. Chatterjee, with the exaggerated patience of a man who was getting his way. “You weren’t elected to the Board, I appointed you to it. The election was a formality. Anyway, if you wanted to effect some changes, you should have waited a couple of years. You were certainly in the running.” Sengupta shook his head and smiled. “I don’t know about that. Some of us make it, some of us don’t—it’s a bit of luck and a bit of merit, and a bit of something else.” He looked at his hands. “I know my opportunity won’t come again; that’s all right. But—another thing—I don’t think our personal world should encroach upon our business world, should it? I’m a great admirer of Ruma, a simple soul, a very pure person, but do you think that those costly parties with all that music and singing are necessary?” “Social gatherings and parties have always been part of company policy; they raise its profile and perform all kinds of functions, you know that. The music came at no extra cost,” Mr. Chatterjee observed firmly. R. C. Sengupta waved a hand. “You’re right, you’re right, of course! But the teacher, excellent singer, what’s his name, I heard you were going to sponsor some show or performance to showcase him. Of course, I don’t know if what I’ve heard…” Mr. Chatterjee bristled. “Who told you that? That’s absolute rubbish. He teaches my wife—I think it’s unfair to draw either of them into this.” He paused and reflected. “An idea may have been floated at one time, as such things are, but it was revoked.” He straightened some papers on the table. “I personally thought it was a good idea. More and more companies are doing it, you know. Music is a great but neglected thing, a great part of our tradition. We should extend patronage where it’s due. It can do Brite no harm.” He looked at his watch. “We’re late for lunch,” he said.