“A bhajan is not for sale,” he said. “It is for the dusk. For the tired. For the one who has walked too far and has nowhere left to go except into a song.”

The first note rose like smoke from an extinguished lamp. The second cracked, and the third soared. By the time he reached the chorus—“ Aja feri sandhya ko belama, timilai pheri bolayeko maile ” (In the evening’s hour again, I have called out to you once more)—the villagers were weeping. Children stopped playing. Even the dogs lay still.

Bhimsen had been the lead singer of the temple choir for forty years. His specialty was the arati bhajan , the evening hymns that welcome twilight as an embodiment of the divine. His most beloved piece was “ Aja Feri Sandhya Ko Belama ” (In the Evening’s Hour Again), a slow, aching melody that spoke of waiting for God like a lover waits at a crossroads.

One evening, a young woman from the city walked up the hill. She had traveled three days by bus, carrying nothing but a small recording device.

Bhimsen smiled. He gestured to the harmonium. “Then let us sing it again. This time, for your father.”