He was going to stop this nonsense and leave right away. He promised himself he was going to drink her in for another five minutes and then he was gone.

She came closer to him as the arti reached its crescendo. The ringing of the bells almost made time stop for him once again, or was it her gaze?

‘You stayed for the arti? Are you a devout or a voyeur?’

Rajjo challenged him in a hushed tone. Harsh could smell jasmine and cinnamon on her. She compelled him to lean closer.

‘None,’ he whispered back in her ear.

The priests picked up multi-tiered pots decorated with hundreds of lamps and moved them in a circular motion. A synchronized frenzy of lanterns and chants flooded his senses. The feverish movement around him echoed in the pulsating heat inside. The cosmic dance of union became one with the ringing of bells in the temple. He wanted to hold her in his arms and worship her. He tightened his fists, lest he reached out.

‘You are here for salvation then,’ mocked Rajjo.

‘They say here in Manikarnika ghat, Lord Shiva roams and utters the tarak mantra in the ear of the newly departed soul which releases him from the cycle of birth and death.’ Harsh knew if she drowned him now he won’t be able to surface again. His instinct prodded him to win the duel she lured him to.

‘Oh that’s why you stayed back?’ she scoffed yet again.

‘Maybe…,’ he smiled back.

She chuckled. Harsh wanted to hear her laughter over and over.

‘What’s funny?’

‘Nothing and then perhaps everything,’ she whispered back and before Harsh could respond – she was already lost in the crowd. One minute he could almost touch her and the next she was gone. In her wake she left a void. Harsh knew, it was too late for him.

The moment she had agreed to meet him for a walk, Rajjo knew she was plunging downhill. There was no control. However, after ages she could feel the thumping rush of blood in her veins, she felt alive, how could that be wrong?

They were negotiating the labyrinth of small narrow lanes and bylanes in silence. They had reached a place called Godowlia. The opening of the lane was merely three to four feet and in some places it narrowed down to allow only a foot. His arm circled around her in a protective gesture. They never exchanged a word through the walk. Buildings crowded the narrow lanes that were devoid of sunlight for years. It felt surreal as his hand stayed on her waist and they walked in the shadowy afternoon. She could feel his skin, the heat of his touch on her waist. With his hand snaking around her, Rajjo smelled a wilted rose. It was beautiful. It was tragic. It was compelling.