Mr Jain looks like he might have visited the temple in the morning; there’s a spot of colour in the middle of his forehead. On second thoughts, no. More likely, he prayed at home before leaving for work. He’s tall and limber, dressed as plainly as a clerk, and speaks in a soft voice with long pauses before he answers. His eyes indicate an active, observant intelligence.

Mr Jain would want me to be honest, so let me confess that everything I knew about him, I had learnt in the taxi during a half-hour ride. I already knew that he was somehow big in investment and finance and suitable for including in Bombai, the book I’m writing about this city.