Roots, roots, too firmly embedded in the soil have kept me back. But now the shallow earth is eroding around these roots. A lot of debris is piling up around them. The branches are being lopped off, a rough stone rears itself against the gnarled and spreading roots. Soon the old tree will be cut down before it topples over, the roots wrenched from the shallow earth. New young saplings will be planted but it will be a long time before they fruit or provide staunch nesting places among their branches for birds; the drifting winds will twist their branches and slender trunks—they are not seasoned hardwood of the true forest tree. The wilderness too is receding. The wild things that sheltered there are scattering: the jackals have had to swim across the river into another wilderness, the reptiles stay on a while longer and creep into the niches of stone parapets which they share with the great brown lizard; the bear stumbles towards another cave, the leopard falters at the drying waterhole and turns away, the deer and sambar slip away, shadows flit behind the trees, the ruby eyes of crocodiles shine in the dark. Everywhere in the ruined landscape stand the charred stumps of trees and the great silvery white thumbasas, anthills that have grown out of the earth—the whitening bones, the bleached bones and fleshless skulls shimmering in the sunlight, the grass springing out of creviced ribs.

I lean against an electric cooker in the shop—smooth, white and shiny. I feel a warmth engendered by so many bodies crowded in the shop. How comfortable the kitchen was in my old home: the hearth with its wood fires, the simmering pots placed on them, the firewood, coconut husks and coconut shells which fed the flames piled up in the porane, coconut shell spoons suspended from the spoon rack—one for the rice pot, the other for the milk, others for meat, fish and vegetables. The splutter of frying oil; the ground condiments in little mounds on saucers … an old amme would do most of the cooking in the dark kitchen with smoke-blackened walls, cooking until she couldn’t eat fire any longer. She did everything for us—even ironed our clothes with the polkattu iron or comforted us with stories when we were sad or tired, sitting by the side of the bed, massaging our feet with her small strong hands and beginning her story in slow, measured tones: ‘Once upon a time, in a certain country, lived a Gamarala and a Gamamahage …’ she would go on until we drifted into sleep.

The salesman catches my eye. ‘Yes, madame?’

My eyes take in everything that is placed on the shelves with one expert glance. I know the prices of everything, and I assess every commodity against the price of our daily bread.

‘A cake of soap, please.’