Reverend Harold had a sense of humour. ‘I can pronounce anything. I can recite all the Sanskrit slokas if you want to hear them. The Damtnudesa in Pali too. Listen …’ he began to recite the summaries of the teachings of the Buddha:

Upani yati loko addhuvo’ti.
Attano loko anabhissaro’ti.
Assako loko, sabbam pahaya gamani yan’ti.
Uno loko atitto tanhadaso’ti.
(Life in any world is unstable, it is swept away
Life in any world has no shelter and no protector
Life in any world has nothing of its own, it has to leave all and pass on
Life in any world is incomplete, is insatiate and the slave of craving)

In a light-hearted mood after his first witty rejoinder, the crowds gave ear to him in all seriousness and let him pass.

I opened the gate for the two priests with a sense of great relief. We prayed together for the safety and protection of the innocent victims, who were embroiled in the chaos and confusion of racial violence that was raging through the country after the landmine explosion in the North where thirteen soldiers had been ambushed and blown up.

‘It is not safe for you to spend the night here,’ Reverend Harold told me.

‘Where are we to go? The camps are not yet ready. If we were to take refuge with friends, they too would be in danger for harbouring us. We have to think of a solution.’

The priests prepared to go in search of the other scattered members of their flock who were in the same predicament as ourselves. Guru and the children were still in hiding. I walked through the open gate into the boutique. Into the very midst of the mob. Some of the young men were still restive, with Molotov cocktails in their hands. I was exhausted, drained of strength, yet I had to know what was going on. I did not know where Guru and my daughters had taken refuge. I was alone. I felt invisible. It was important at this point not to retreat. I stood around and listened.

One young man spoke out aloud.

‘We ourselves will go to the North and fight. We are patriots. We will fight for our Motherland. We are not looters. We will not take even the ball of chilli that is left behind on the grinding stone. We only want to fight for our country against those terrorists, the Tigers. They ambushed our soldiers and killed them with landmines. What are we doing here? Let them send us there, to the North.’

Another young man gesticulated towards the houses on the hill. Middle-class houses. Stable bastions, solidly built to withstand yet another century of havoc.