“But you must practise,” he’d say; and when a particular murki or embellishment wouldn’t come to them, he’d perform a palta or a vocal exercise, saying, “Practise this: it’s for that particular murki,” as if he were a mountebank distributing charms or amulets for certain ailments.

*   *   *

MR. CHATTERJEE’S OFFICE HAD a huge rosewood table; now, on the third anniversary of his being made Chief Executive of this company, a basket of roses arrived; after a couple of files were cleared away, it was placed on a table before him, and a photograph taken by a professional photographer arranged by Patwardhan, the Personnel Manager. “Okay, that’s enough; back to work,” he said brusquely, after the camera’s shutter had clicked a few times. Once the photograph was developed and laminated, its black-and-white colours emphasised, rather than diminished, the roses.

The guru loved this photograph. “Chatterjee saheb looks wonderful in it—just as he should,” he said, admiring it. “He must have a wonderful office.” He ruminated for a little while, and said, “Brite detergent—he owns it, doesn’t he, behanji?” “He doesn’t own it,” said Mrs. Chatterjee, tolerant but short. “He runs it.” The guru nodded, not entirely convinced of the distinction.

He continued to give her new songs, by the blind poet Surdas, and by Meera, who would accept no other Lord but Krishna. During these lessons, he came to know, between songs, in snatches of conversation, that Mr. Chatterjee had got his two-year extension at the helm of the company. He took this news home with him and related it proudly to his wife.

Two days later, he brought a box of ladoos. “These aren’t from a shop—” he pointed out importunately. “My wife made them!” Mrs. Chatterjee looked at them as if they’d fallen from outer space. There they sat, eight orbs inside a box, the wife’s handiwork.

“Is there a festival?” asked Mrs. Chatterjee. In the background, John, the old servant, dusted, as he did at this time of the day, the curios in the drawing room.

“No, no,” said the guru, smiling at her naiveté and shaking his head. “She made them for you—just eat them and see.” She wasn’t sure if she wanted to touch them; they looked quite rich.

“I’ll have one in the evening,” she consoled him. “When Chatterjee saheb comes. He’ll like them with his tea.” But in the evening, Mr. Chatterjee demurred.