‘Well, it’s our temple,’ I say. ‘We are part of the village, so we are happy to contribute.’

It is not what I believe, but what I parrot anyway. I would have preferred to have used that money to educate children, or to hire someone to clear the giant mountain of rubbish that is accumulating as we speak from all the plastic cups and plates that will clog up the backwaters. But I had not been given a choice. Valluvan’s men had come smiling with their request, and when I tried bargaining with them, they continued to smile but held their ground. In the end, I capitulated and gave them what they wanted.

‘No, no, not the money you gave for the temple. I’m talking about my husband’s election campaign. Unfortunately, we’re still lacking some funds. We need a proper security team and an accountant. This is also for our village’s benefit.’

I smile at Nila. The jewelled pin in her nose gleams. She is a handsome woman. I had seen her mostly at home, in a kaftan or a hurriedly tied sari. Today there is none of that sloppiness. She is in a crisp blue kancheevaram, face powdered, hair combed into an immaculate bun.

‘It is out of my reach, Nila. You know I must look after my sister. And her old school has many poor girls whose families cannot support them, so I pay a lot. But I cannot be paying all the time, no? Maybe I should marry a nice rich man?’ I say, laughing, hoping to steer the conversation.

‘You are already married, isn’t it? You should have children of your own,’ Nila says, ‘before it’s too late.’

It is past midnight when Lucia, Mallika and I walk back home. The celebrations will continue for a few more hours. The path is dark and it has turned cold. I point the torchlight of my phone ahead, and Mallika beats a stick on the ground as we walk, in case there are snakes along the path. We are so rarely outside the house at night that it feels dangerous, this journey home. Only once, we had gone out to the beach on a full-moon night. The dogs and Lucia were both confused. I had packed a flask of tea and sandwiches. We had been sitting on the picnic mat for fifteen minutes when we heard sounds coming from the southern end of the beach. There was a light moving towards us and a man’s voice, shouting. The dogs had barked, and the speed at which the light was moving unsettled me. I rushed Lucia back inside and, after bolting the doors, felt ashamed at my cowardice. It was probably just a crab hunter on his bicycle. He might have been calling out to someone he knew. But I hadn’t wanted to encounter him.