She raises her hand and is about to call out his name, which she has whispered to herself so many times, when she sees the shadow that detaches itself from the side of the headman’s house and goes running towards Annaiah. Chikthayi can now hear the low murmur of voices, she can sense the smells in the air, the overpowering scent of the swetasanchari mixing with the suryavamsi. And she hears a man’s amused laugh, haunting and powerful … Annaiah’s? She doesn’t know. It draws her into a vortex of swirling colours and energy. She is losing all awareness of where she is or what she is doing as she strains every nerve, trying to hear that laugh again.

Almost unconsciously, she drops her hand. She stands transfixed as Annaiah and the shadow turn and walk away from the house. He stops frequently, drinks from the goatskin pouch and laughs. Sometimes the shadow takes a sip too. Chikthayi follows, holding her breath, hoping that they will not hear her. In a sharp electrifying moment, she realizes that Annaiah and the shadow-woman are headed towards the wall.

They stop at the banyan tree, exactly where Chikthayi has kept her anxious vigil throughout the day. She watches, standing as close as she dares to Dasegowda’s house. The goatskin pouch falls to the ground as two shadows melt into one behind the tree. The smell of the flowers is in the air, all around. She hears the laugh again; whether in her memory or for real, she has no idea. It sears her, a rage that makes her want to tear the shadow from Annaiah’s deep embrace behind the tree and take its place. A desperate weariness overtakes Chikthayi. She closes her eyes and leans against the wall. The whole world is silent, even the cows in the shed and the dogs on the street.

After a very long time, Chikthayi feels his presence. She is afraid. She hears the soft, gentle breath of the man and smells a dizzying mix of flowers and whatever was in the goatskin pouch he was guzzling from. The smell is not comfortable, but she forgets everything in the enveloping bliss of his powerful arms, muscular and hot.

Chikthayi yields, nuzzling her face into that warm neck, tasting the salty sweat of his skin. Her body turns into water as she feels his hands reaching into her long braided hair. He slowly takes out the mallige flowers and opens up the braid. He kisses her as though he will eat her face, his lips, teeth and tongue laving her neck, her breasts. Chikthayi shudders.

‘Don’t go in! Stay away!’ Putti’s insistent, screeching voice cuts through the heat-mist. She feels Putti shaking her, screaming at her: ‘It’s gumma!’ Putti is pulling her upright with all her strength. Dazed, Chikthayi opens her eyes. Where is he? Where is Annaiah? Why is Putti screeching about gumma?

She looks at Putti. Her clothes, face and arms are unmarked. Not a blade of grass, not a smudge of mud. There is nothing to show of the tryst behind the banyan tree. But Putti’s long black hair, always oiled and braided, is now loose down her back. Chikthayi immediately touches her own hair. He ran his hands through it just magical moments ago … It is braided and proper. The mallige she had purchased at the jathre and woven into her hair is still there. It was Putti he had caressed. Putti, not her.