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She worked from sunrise to sunset, scrubbing, scouring, and washing. Tara spent extra time on the spot where the blood had pooled and seeped into the floor, trying to remove every trace of that terrible incident.
    All prayers had stopped while she cleaned the temple. Tara had to endure the malevolent looks of Punditji, who had recovered sufficiently from his illness to supervise her every minute of the day when he wasn’t sleeping or eating. It was like a vacation for him and he was enjoying it tremendously, but tried hard not to let it show.
    Punditji also delighted in sneaking up on her, barefoot, and yelling in her ear. After the fifth time, Tara took to looking behind her every few minutes to see if she could catch him in the act.
    â€œYou missed a patch there,” he said one hot afternoon. “If you work this way, it’ll never get done.”
    â€œI just did that section,” she replied. “Look, it’s still wet.”
    Tara tried hard to keep the disgust out of her voice. He looked like an overgrown child who had not done an ounce of work in his life. His soft, white hands had only ever held pooja thalis laden with fruits, and the prayer bell. Once he blessed the food it was divided equally between the devotee and God. And God really meant Punditji. No doubt, missing all those treats was making him cranky and he blamed Tara for it. This was his way of making her suffer as much as him.
    â€œAre you implying that I’m a liar when the real liar is you?”
    Tara opened her mouth, and then closed it again. With a sigh, she pushed the bucket over to the section Punditji had pointed out with his big toe, and started scrubbing. It was the third day of her punishment and she was still working on the inside. She hadn’t even begun to clean up the outside. Punditji had made her start with his living quarters at the back of the temple. It was not part of the punishment, but Tara did it, anyway, trying not to show shock at the mess.
    The bell outside the temple pealed loudly, shattering the heavy stillness of the afternoon. They both looked up. Raka stood there, wiping his perspiring face and fanning it with the edge of his turban. He stepped inside and touched his forehead to the Lord’s feet. Then he turned to them. “How is the cleaning coming along?”
    Tara wasn’t sure whom he was addressing so she kept her mouth shut and continued scrubbing.
    â€œSlow. This one is very lazy,” said Punditji. “But don’t you worry, Raka, I’m keeping a close eye on her.
    She will not get away with a shoddy job. Once she has finished the outside of the temple, I will bathe Lord Ganesh in milk. Then we will organize a grand pooja for the entire village.”
    Hmmm,” said Raka. “How long will it take?”
    Punditji stroked his ample belly and tugged on the little shendi of hair at the back of his head. “A week at most,” he said.
    A week! thought Tara . Her arms were threatening to fall off within the next hour.
    Raka sighed deeply, staring out the doorway. “We also have to do a pooja for the rains. The monsoon season has started and yet, not a drop has fallen from the sky. Our crops are starting to turn yellow and the well water is running low. We need rain now !”
    â€œAt this time last year, the crop was bountiful and green,” said Punditji. “This year the gods are angry with us. Can you blame them, with sinful children like Tara in the village? They’re punishing us, that’s for sure. But do not worry, Raka. I have just the prayer for it. It’s expensive, but it’ll be worth it.”
    Tara sat back on her haunches, her heart beating erratically. Now they were blaming her for the delayed monsoon? Were they mad?
    â€œWe’ve had rains fail before so I don’t think we can put all the blame on Tara,” said Raka. But he did not sound very convincing, almost as if he had trouble believing his own