HE RANG THE DOORBELL ONCE, and waited for the door to open. It was an ornate door, with a rather heavy, ornamental padlock. When the old, smiling maidservant opened it, there was a narrow corridor behind her that revealed a large hall and further rooms inside, like shadows contained in a prism.

It was a particularly beautiful flat. He sat on the sofa, as the maidservant went inside and said, “Memsaab, guruji aaye hai.” He glanced at the Arabian Sea and Marine Drive outside; and then looked at the brass figure of Saraswati, from whose veena all music is said to emanate, on one end of a shelf. When ten minutes had passed, he briefly consulted his watch, its hands stuck stubbornly to their places, and then desultorily opened a copy of Stardust. Now and again, he hummed the tune of a devotional.

After another five minutes, a lady emerged, her hair not yet quite dry. “Sorry Masterji,” she said, but, glancing quickly over her shoulder, was clearly more concerned about the “fall” of her sari.

The “guruji” shifted uncomfortably. Although he was, indeed, her guru (and without the guru, as the saying goes, there is no knowledge), he had also the mildly discomfited air of a schoolboy in her presence and in this flat: this had to do not only with the fact that she was older, but with the power people like her exercised over people like him.

“That’s all right, behanji,” he said; from the first day, she had been his “respected sister.” “We’ll have less time for the lesson today, that’s all,” he said, chuckling, but also asserting himself subtly. Then, to placate her, he said quickly, “Maybe I arrived a little early.”

This morning was quiet, except for the activity in the kitchen that indicated the essentials were being attended to. In the bedroom, next to the huge double bed, the harmonium had already been placed on the carpet by the bearer, John. The air inside had that early-morning coolness where an air conditioner has not long ago been switched off.

“A glass of thanda paani,” he said after sitting down. This request materialised a couple of minutes later, the glass of cold water held aloft on a plate by John, while Mrs. Chatterjee turned the pages of her songbook unhurriedly, glancing at bhajan after bhajan written in her own handwriting. They were too high up—on the fourteenth floor—to hear the car horns or any of the other sounds below clearly; the sea was visible from the windows, but too distant to be audible. Sometimes her husband, Mr. Chatterjee, would be present—and he’d shake his head from time to time, while sitting on the bed, listening to the guru and his wife going over a particular phrase, or line. Sometimes he was content doing this even while taking off his tie and waiting for tea, his office-creased jacket recently discarded on the bed, beside him.