Just then he heard his mother’s acidic voice attacking him.

‘Are you going to move from here ever, or should we build a mausoleum in your memory while you stand and wait for your beloved to leave her rich old husband and jump out of the bus?’

Karam cleared his throat and responded.

‘I will be in the fields in ten minutes…’

The mother shrugged and continued to babble. How she hated the overrated emotion called love. She wanted to boil it in a pan of tea and drain it off. It was of no use to anyone; it did not plough the fields, nor did it put food on the table.

And then she heard Karam shout.

‘I will be there in ten minutes, just leave…’

Thankfully, this time she did.

There was no sign of Rajjo, no sign of the bus. The workers had gone back to working in the fields. His mother continued her day-to-day chores; Rajjo’s father was heading to his shop accompanied by the reluctant Sheru.

Rajjo was gone and everything was already moving in to fill in the void. This would continue, till Rajjo was a distant memory. With that thought, Karam headed to the fields. His mind was numb. He was never going to fill the void. He was going to keep her alive.

Rajjo took in her pot-bellied, bearded groom. He had a fake tooth capped in gold as he smiled at the onlookers.

She turned one last time to look at her house and the people she was leaving behind.

Through the cloud of dust, she saw Karam smiling and waving at her. He was the only one waving as her mother and sisters stood in various stages of disapproval and pain. Sheru was the only one who followed Karam’s action and chased the bus while waving.

But then Sheru was like a dog; he liked chasing moving vehicles despite his increasing weight. Rajjo smiled involuntary at her brother and felt a searing pain. When would be the next time she would see him? Would he still be this innocent child, or someone singed with time and desire?

And with one final look at her mother, father and sisters, she turned away to look at the road in front of her. It stretched on endlessly. Empty.

The wedding party in the bus surrounded the couple as the bus driver had stopped outside a highway eatery. Rajjo just stared at her lap. The smell of henna rose up Rajjo’s nostrils. She felt and nauseous. The intricate pattern drawn on her hands was beautiful. She wanted to wash it all away with soapy water, rub it, tear it and wipe it clean. Remove it with a knife. Bleed the skin and colours dry.

The driver climbed back into his seat and the bus started moving again. Her husband instructed him to make another stop at the temple on the outskirts of the town. The driver nodded. ‘Okay, Seth-ji.’