Saroj stood up and gathered her old chiffon dupatta. She was on her way out and ‘You know I told this Durga Maa all those things when we used to sit in our courtyard in our village. I had a parrot called Totu. I thought all my children heard the message of God, but I forgot he only chooses to be heard by those who he wants…,’ her tired voice trailed off.

Devi opened the door gently for the old lady to leave. A faint trail of moths and the passage of time moved with her. She smelt of the cold winter nights in the village around the warm fire. Rajjo could smell the firewood on her skin. As she disappeared through the open door, a giant roar from the sea of devotees on the TV screen claimed her attention. It was like Rajjo held their pulse in her hand and made them act like puppets. She was moving the strings and performing a beautiful magic trick, commanding a sea of people.

She opened the windows. A familiar smell invaded her senses, the smell of saffron, mixed in milk, soothing her soul. Her mother’s soft hand on her head as she lay under the stars on her cot in the summer months. Kesar’s beautiful face bathed in tears, running towards her in the crowded market place. Rajjo wanted to run away in her past or run towards her future. She was trapped in her now; she was trapped in the sea of devotees, in an image, in her robes. She was trapped in the mirror that stared back at her decked-up like a Godwoman. She was trapped in the TV screens. She yearned for the old mango tree bordering her village. She’d heard the mangoes only got sweeter with each passing summer.

Harsh was appalled and amused at the same time as Rajjo descended from a balloon. As usual she looked breathtaking to him, familiar, with each and every line etched on her face as she spilled on his huge TV screen. The door opened suddenly before he could have his fill of her. Not quick enough to break his train of thought and switch to a sports channel, he knew his beautiful wife noticed Rajjo’s close up on the TV screen before she turned her delicate shoulder clad in a fashionable white muslin slip.

The strong rumours of their affair weighed heavily on him as he tried to switch the channel nonchalantly. The rumours like wild weed spread in every unwanted corner, in the press, hushed inner circles, his own drawing room, but not once had his wife Upasana brought it up. Her perfectly arched brow on her milky white skin did not waver as she heard rumours floating around, low hanging nebulous clouds waiting to burst any minute.