THAT NIGHT, as they were getting into bed, Mr. Chatterjee said, “That went quite well.” It wasn’t clear to what he was referring at first, but it was likely he meant the party itself. Mrs. Chatterjee was removing her earrings. “And the songs?” she asked pointedly, making it sound like a challenge, but only half serious.

“Those were nice,” he said. To her surprise, he began to hum a tune himself, not very melodiously—she couldn’t tell if it was one of the songs she’d sung earlier—something he did rarely before others, although she’d heard him singing in the bathroom, his voice coming from behind the shower. He seemed unaware that anyone else was listening. Seeing him happy in this way—it couldn’t be anything else—she felt sorry for him, and smiled inwardly, because no one, as he was so successful, ever felt sorry for him, or thought of his happiness.

“We must have one of these ‘musical evenings’ again,” he said simply, following an unfinished train of thought, as if he were a child who spoke impulsively, trusting to intuition. Yet, if he were a child, he was one who had the power to move destinies. Not in a god-like way, perhaps, but in the short term, materially. But she loved his child-like side, its wild plans, although it tired her at times. She said nothing.

*   *   *

IN HIS CHILD-LIKE WAY, he could be quite hard. Not with her; but no investment justified itself to him except through its returns. That was because he couldn’t run a company on charity or emotions; or his own head would roll. Nor did he believe that the country could be run on charity or emotion.

She, in the long hours that he was away, leaned more and more on the guru. It wasn’t that she felt lonely; but no one leading her kind of life in that flat, her husband in the office, could help but feel, from time to time, alone. The best she could think of someone like the guru, given his background, was as a kind of younger brother, “kind of” being the operative words—not as a friend; certainly not as the guru he was supposed to be. There was one guru in her life, and that was her husband. But she needed Mohanji. She might spend a morning shopping at Sahakari Bhandar, but needed to, also, learn new songs. And yet her mind was focussed on a hundred other things as well. When her focus returned to her singing, it was sometimes calming, and sometimes not.

One day she said to him mournfully: