Although no expert on classical music, the piece playing was very familiar to me. The soprano aria from Mozart’s Magic Flute had been on a compilation my ex-girlfriend, Isabella, had introduced me to, when we’d both lived in London. Every chord of the piece was seared into my consciousness. Hearing it again so unexpectedly made me feel strangely ambushed.

Dipesh ushered me inside, through a small hallway and into a large, high-ceilinged gallery. As unexpected but familiar as the Mozart, it was a temple to Tibetan Buddhist art. Down each side, wall hangings – thangkas – were blazing cascades of color. From each end, rows and rows of Buddha statues gazed down, their presence as powerful and ineffable as the gathering crescendo.

Dipesh gestured for me to stay as he went to find Dalberg. Looking from one thangka to the next, I realized that every one of them was no ordinary temple wall- hanging, but a superlative antiquity hundreds, maybe over a thousand years old. The elaborate brocade frames were faded with age. But the central representation of each Buddha, or yidam, a different aspect of enlightenment, was vivid beyond time. Cobalt-blue yidams like the Mahakala conveyed a wrathful power as palpable as the serenity of an exquisite green Tara in silk appliqué. Although there was no God or gods in Buddhism, the yidams of our tradition represented different facets of enlightenment. The symbols, colors and energetic impacts of these representations conveyed meaning beyond words. Portals through which our limited consciousness might approach a particular dimension of the enlightened mind, and even begin to resonate with it. And in resonating with one aspect, one resonated with the whole. It was a psychology of immense sophistication, a rapid pathway of non-duality by which we might find our way from the mud of the swamp to the transcendent lotus on its surface.

Caught up in both the images and the aria, it was a while before I became aware that I was being observed. Dalberg stood in the doorway. Tall, slim, there was an air of profound stillness about him. In a charcoal, linen jacket and white, Nehru collar shirt, his dark eyes were as watchful as a yogi’s.

‘Familiar with the music?’ His baritone contrasted with the mellifluous soprano.

‘Queen of the Night,’ I nodded.

‘Very few people could make the connection,’ said Dalberg, coming over to where I was standing. His handshake was firm and bearing aristocratic. I noted the dark beard and moustache he wore trimmed close to his face. Was it true that facial hair denoted concealment?

‘Queen of the Night is one of the most extravagant arias,’ he regarded me carefully, ‘part of Mozart’s genius was to include symbols of enlightenment in his work.’

‘I didn’t know that enlightenment was present in Western culture.’