The guru smiled, almost as if he were a child who’d entered forbidden territory; as if, through the bhajan, he’d entered a space, and a mind, generally reserved for official appointments and more weighty transactions than these; how else could he obtrude upon such a space?

*   *   *

TWO MONTHS LATER they had a party in the flat; it came in the wake, ostensibly, of a new diversification for the company, but it actually had little to do with that. There were parties every two weeks, sometimes for no good reason, except to satisfy the addiction to the same set of faces; though these events were justified as being necessary for off-duty chatter among colleagues and associates and, more important, because there was a persuasive myth that it was an extension of business activity. Usually, however, the party turned out to be none of these, but an occasion for bad jokes, bickering, and mild drunkenness and indigestion.

This party was a little different, though; Mrs. Chatterjee was to sing tonight. Of course, she could be found standing by the door, a weak smile on her face, responding to the exclamations of “Ruma!” and “Mrs. Chatterjee!” and “Where’s Amiya?” as guests walked in with little nods and smiles, half her mind on the kitchen. They didn’t know yet that she was to be a prima donna that evening; going in, however, they noticed a harmonium and tablas kept on one of the carpets, and continued to circulate loudly among themselves, exploding noisily at moments of hilarity.

No one was surprised, or took more than a cursory note of the instruments; “musical evenings” were less and less uncommon these days, and were seen to be a pleasant diversion or a necessary hazard in polite society. Meanwhile, people cupped potato wafers and peanuts like small change in their hands; and a platter of shami kababs passed from person to person. The guru had come earlier, and was sitting with members of his family—his wife, his mother, his cousin, a shy and thin man who’d play the tabla today, and his son—cloistered in the air-conditioned guest room, semi-oblivious of the noise outside; they were having their own party, chattering in their own language, holding glasses of Limca or Fanta in their hands, unmindful of the party outside.