I REMEMBER HIM because he gave me an apple for my children. It’s not often they give me gifts. Hardly ever. Nor do I expect them to. It’s only money that passes through our hands. Sometimes I carefully fold and put away the crumpled notes into my purse. The money is important. I have to think each day of where the next meal will come from. I am twenty-six years old. Getting older day by day. There’s no other steady wage earner in my life. I could have gone to the Middle East to earn money but where could I find the thousands of rupees to pay the job agencies? This is easier for me. I can stay with the children too. As it is they are neglected. I have often to spend the whole night away from them. It’s the eldest girl who has to look after the younger ones.

I keep going on from day to day. It’s now a routine. I bathe at the well in my little garden, pouring bucket after bucket of water on my body. I sleek my hair with coconut oil and plait it or tie it in a pony tail with a scarlet band. Sometimes I leave my hair loose. It falls to my shoulders. It’s easier to run a comb through it after I finish my business. I put cream on my face and powder my cheeks. I drape myself in one of those cheap sheer nylon sarees which I buy off the pavement hawkers. I have managed to save enough money for a pair of gold earrings and a fine gold chain. There are lots of coloured plastic bangles on my wrists. Naturally glass would shatter so easily. I give instructions to loku duwa to feed the children and put them to sleep and then take the bus from Kolonnawa to Colombo and then into the heart of the Pettah area. Kolonnawa is where my home is. I have a little house with a few coconut trees in the garden. That’s all. There are no jobs for me here. No man to earn for me either. My parents are poor. My brothers and sisters are married and have their own problems and responsibilities, so I have to earn a living, somehow, to provide for my children.