‘Now what are you going to do about Kuljeet? Wait and watch…’ Raahat interrupted her train of thought.

Rajjo held her tongue as she pondered over Kuljeet’s pending plot. A large group of weary travellers consumed their attention, as they were offered drinks and snacks.

‘You know, Sarika Tai and the women’s welfare wing has its own skeletons.’ As soon as the crowd dispersed, Raahat whispered again. He wanted to tell this to Rajjo but did not know how. He was filled with dread every time he thought of Rajjo leaving.

‘As in?’ Rajjo turned towards him as she stirred the fresh batch of pink sweetened drink poured into the giant tub.

‘They are all at Mehtaab’s disposal. He uses them for favours with politicians, businessmen and important people. They take good care of the women though.’

Raahat averted his eyes. He did not want to look Rajjo in the face as her mind registered his insinuations.

‘Prostitution?’ Rajjo asked aloud.

Raahat looked back at her with a straight face and folded his hands in a gesture of divine gratitude. ‘No, service of God.’

Rajjo mulled over what she had just learnt.

‘In my expert opinion, I think you should just go to another ashram till Kuljeet calms down.’ Raahat suggested sounding wise and important.

Rajjo shut her eyes, neon coloured imagery playingin her mind as she tried to digest the information and deal with Raahat.

‘Can you just stop speaking? I need to think. And you better clean up, I don’t want to be seen hanging with a hooligan.’

‘Why don’t I get my head and face replaced, may be that will make you feel better?’ muttered Raahat, still worried if Kuljeet and Sarika Tai would take Rajjo away.

The truth was, the very thought of Rajjo being removed made Raahat panic. It was like all those years ago, as he ran in the long dark streets to reach his uncle and cousins sitting in a white van, with their arms stretched out, willing him to run faster. Noises and shrieks, mobs and violence could be heard in the near distance. As they neared, a deep fear took over. The mob reaching them was a matter of seconds.

His uncle’s family were running away from the back lane of the house, all thrust in a van. All he had to do was jump in with them.

His cousins called out to him, he ran faster, however, the mob appeared before he could reach the van. The driver, Billa uncle, who his family met with on holidays, festivals, marriages, births and deaths, and who had shared his life, had left him behind. His uncle had raced the van and his family to safety.

In those thirty seconds when he ran in the dark lane towards the waiting van, he experienced the true nature of panic. It was dark, it was brutal and it smelt of a graveyard. When the van did pull away, and he turned to face the mob, panic fled only to be replaced by a passive acceptance of death.