The two men searched for the old women in all the places she usually ran away to. Kartar hoped he would find his mother in one of the small shop units around Hanuman Chowk, or on one of the benches in a dingy sweet shop in Kabootri Darwaza. Streaks of worry and anger marred his face. His wife, Saroj, was due to deliver any time and the constant bickering between her and his mother over the past week about naming the unborn child had left him in a thunderous mood. And there were bikes and cycles piled up in his repair shop to fix. He also needed to make another trip and drive a delivery truck to Himachal and back that would cover the extra cost expected to be incurred during the baby’s delivery. He knew his wife was barely managing. He needed to hire another puncture repair boy. Perhaps he could ask one of his friends. If only he had a son, instead of two daughters, he could have him do the odd jobs here and there.

Kartar focused his tired eyes on the busy, narrow streets. Wares from shops encroached upon the already narrow lane, making it difficult to walk down. Fabrics in bright yellow, apricot, indigo and sapphire hung along the street. Ladies in colourful suits milled about as men towed cartons on handcarts and rickshaws. There was no sign of his mother.

‘Why has she run away now?’ asked Moga, his friend and neighbour, who was an electrician by profession and worked in the fields for additional income. Moga was fair with green eyes. People always wondered where the lightness came from, given both his parents were on the darker side with eyes as black as soot. Moga tried to hide his lightness with an ample beard that was also brown in colour. He was referred as ‘Bhoora’ (the one with light eyes and light beard) by the villagers mockingly.

‘She and Saroj are bickering again! I want to kill myself! She had a bloody dream where some goddess came and told her Saroj will have a daughter and to name her Durga. Saroj insists she wants to name her Rajjo or something!’

‘Durga!’ Moga rolled the name around his tongue, testing it. ‘Strange.’

‘Is that the only thing you find strange in all this?’ Kartar rolled his eyes, sweltering in the heat, looking up at the sky hoping for some mercy and rain. The crops and grounds were parched and dry. The rains were delayed and the unease was growing.

‘Can she ask the goddess next time she meets her if I am going to have another boy next time around?! Or are we getting any rain sometime soon. I am worried!’

But Kartar was gone in a jiffy, running after an old woman and almost picking her up from behind, screaming. ‘Biji!

What the hell is wrong with you?’

The old woman turned and whacked Kartar repeatedly. She was clearly not his absconding old mother.