He went on to explain how stress or anxiety has a very real physiological response that affects one’s voice. How he could hear her tightening muscles that lead to the loss of range at times.

‘It worked for this assignment, though. It gave you the quality that you needed to infuse in the character. But it won’t work for every song.’

Why did his opinion matter so much, Meera thought to herself. She had had her performance critiqued and, for the most part, praised by the who’s who of the music industry. Experts had analyzed her talents and offered insights that even she couldn’t fathom. And yet, there she was, listening to an amateur, hanging on to his every word. It soon dawned upon her that while others were commenting on her performance, Abhimanyu had a glimpse into her soul. Of course, it was obvious that he could place his finger on that one thing everyone else was blind to – because the songs were meant for him. Listening to him speak about her craft was like watching a person unravelling a difficult puzzle that had been painstakingly designed, exhilarating and overwhelming at the same time.

‘How was politics?’ she asked him a few minutes later. She had very little idea of what he had been up to, and when he mentioned standing for elections, Meera genuinely wanted to know if he had enjoyed the experience. She thought she knew him well enough to know that he was not suited for it, but all this apart, she wondered if she could have been wrong.

‘It’s not for me.’

‘I am surprised you went in that direction, Abhimanyu. I wouldn’t have imagined—’

‘Err, apologies. I forgot to ask, would you like some wine?’ the absent-minded chef interrupted Meera and looked apologetically at the couple. He had come around to their table and was speaking in a hushed tone, not wanting to let his wife find out he had erred again. A sudden pang engulfed Abhimanyu. He hadn’t touched alcohol since he had left India.

‘I am fine, thank you.’

Meera could feel his discomfort. Usually, he would have asked for her preference, but he now looked as though he wanted the man gone right away. She noticed how his forearms had lost their sculpted definition. There was no point in asking him about how he had been coping in the last few years, or how he was still coping; the proof was right in front of her, in the flesh.

‘Kamal loved cricket,’ she started in a deliberate way after the chef returned to the kitchen, ‘you’d seen that, of course.’