New Delhi, July 20 -- Endings shape what you remember-in fiction, love, at Sunday lunch. Anand Bharadwaj ended the 2-hour-long massage, my second one with him in two days, with a sitar recital. It was raining outside; he might have played Raag Malhar. The room was heated, lit by an oil lamp that cast shadows of the man seated in half-lotus. I was asked to join him on the balcony when I was ready. There I drank Tulsi chai and sweeping views of the Dhauladhar....