On a cool autumn night in Buenos Aires, several thousand people have gathered at a sports ground opposite the racetrack. Trains clatter by on either side. The crowd is bundled up in coats and sweaters, facing a stage bathed in orange light, where a white sofa sits, surrounded by giant plastic lotus leaves. They are waiting for Sri Sri Ravi Shankar, their guru.

When he arrives, he is tailed by a fleet of beaming young women who bounce along, bent low behind him, reaching for a trailing corner of his white cotton robes. As he approaches the middle of the stage he caresses his bearded cheek and tucks a strand of long hair behind his ear. “¡Que lindo!,” he says. “¡Que lindo!” How pretty. He flicks a victory sign to the clapping throng and then lights a candle. Everyone in the crowd follows suit until the entire football pitch is glowing. A guitarist starts to play and soon a surge of grinning, candle-waving acolytes is advancing on the stage, swaying and singing “Guru-ahhh, guru-ahhh, guru-ohhh, guru-ohhh.” The guru’s face is beamed up on a giant screen beside the stage. His eyes are closed and he looks beatifically oblivious, his head swaying to the adoring song. The 12 hours of airline delays before his arrival are forgotten. He appears to be following his own advice and inhabiting the moment.