On a spooky rainy day, a phlegmatic, baggy-suited patriarch sat at the head of a table, encircled by his burly, rose-complexioned sons. He could have been a Don Corleone presiding over a strange cubist one-storey building on Mumbai’s busy Grant Road. Corleone Jrs refilled his mug of beer incessantly, insisting that I should keep pace with their old man, and filled in every pause in our conversation, with the offer of a bowl of cashewnuts. “Masala kaajus,” the Godpapa informed helpfully. “You will enjoy.”