‘He is unwell,’ mumbled Rajjo, surprised that Mehtaab knew about Raahat and a bit nervous she was caught eavesdropping. Instead of scurrying out she confidently turned and served the guests some eateries. Both Mehtaab and the businessman had taken a moment to notice the beautiful girl serving them.

Once Rajjo stepped out of the room, their discussion resumed.

But Rajjo stood by the door, pretending to wipe the tray and eavesdropped. She turned her left ear closer to the door and wished she had not busted her right one. Like a funambulist walking a tightrope she stood there. Just as she inched a step closer to the door to be able to hear better, she was discovered by Arjan. They stood facing each other. Sweat trickled under her armpits and snaked down her back.

‘You should not be hanging around here. You should be in the main hall.’ He spoke gently with a hint of warning. ‘Mehtaab would be upset if he found you lurking around’.

Rajjo nodded.

Before she moved away Arjan gave her an odd look and simply said, ‘You are playing with fire…’

Rajjo just stared back, wondering whether to feign ignorance or face it head on. With honesty in her voice she muttered, ‘I know.’

Rajjo went and sat outside the main tent in the middle of the fields as Chhoti Maa’s voice washed over the lanes and streets through the loudspeakers.

She heard the birds chirping as they flocked back home. She drew circles in the mud thinking of the dark little boy. A circle for Rani Maa, a circle for Chhoti Maa, a circle for Mehtaab, Arjan, Gurbaksha, the ashram, the devotees.

She was trapped somewhere in between these circles, and it was only a matter of time she found her way up.

August 1991

On a sleepy hot afternoon, green donation boxes, usually kept on stage, along with sacks filled with cash, were being unloaded from a rickety tempo. The boxes and sacks were deposited in a room, where a security guard with a rifle manned the door.

It was clear that money from the donation boxes went into the pockets of the patrons of the commune. A few elderly men had gone into the room with the boxes, holding on to some official-looking notebooks, followed by Arjan in his blue robe, carrying a prayer book.

Rajjo and Raahat hovered in the compound outside, pretending to read some literature on the ashram, but their eyes followed the movements closely. At Rajjo’s behest, they trailed the men and hovered outside the cash room.

‘Why are we standing here, they are not going to be throwing the loose change out of the doors or the windows. It’s going to be counted for, every penny, and then unaccounted for,’ muttered Raahat, wanting to head right back into his room and catch a nap under the fan, his shirt stuck to him due to the heat and humidity.