Something had angered the monsoon and it was here to extract revenge with ferocious thunderstorms and unrelenting showers.

Rajjo initially welcomed the relief from the heat but now the overflowing drains, dripping walls and roofs, buckets of water filling under punctured pipes was a bane.

Moreover, it was over two months since Rajjo had joined Rani Maa’s personal service. She knew everything she needed to, the way she held her teacup, the right foot that rocked when she was agitated, the right eye that twitched when she saw Mehtaab, the things that tickled her, and the onset of mood swings. It was all stored in little wooden boxes in Rajjo’s brain. The prayer books she borrowed from, the hunger to read, the way she favoured Marks & Spencer products from London, the passion to better her sermons, the wanderlust to travel far and wide. It was safe to say Rajjo knew the pattern of breath, her personal imprint. Rajjo had made it her ambition to know her inside out but there was a line she could not cross. Rani Maa had a space where no one else was allowed and despite Rajjo’s attempts, she was still on the fringes.

There were seasons of complete silence, when Rani Maa would not communicate with Rajjo at all and then there were bursts of conversations. These days, Rani Maa accepted Rajjo in her immediate environment like it did not matter to her. She could have been the Ivy that grew from a pot on her windowsill.

One day, Rani Maa had suddenly asked, ‘What is your real name, Rajjo?’

Rajjo cleared her throat, paved way for the words she had not used on her tongue for a while to roll out, ‘Durga Kahlon.’

‘Durga. Durga.’ She said it twice or thrice as if she was savouring a flavour, deciding whether she liked it or not. Feeling the syllables, the movement of her tongue, as she said Durga. Finally, having arrived at a conclusion, she declared, ‘I like it. You should be called by your real name. It’s a perfectly good one.’ And then she leaned forward and whispered, as if she was sharing a well-protected secret: ‘Names can change destinies. I was Sarita before I became Rani and then Rani Maa!’

A full month of ferocious monsoon passed between the last conversations they had over her name. The ivy had grown out of the pot, all around the windowsill, circled the balcony and was worried where else to go from here. Rajjo started looking around for opportunities once again. There was one question that was still a mystery and plagued her now and then.

‘What did Rani Maa feel for her?’

Did she hate her? Abhor her? Or worse of all, was she indifferent?