‘There, what do you think?’ Shiranthi asked, turning Dhara towards the mirror. She wore a green cotton shirt cut like a smock. Shiranthi’s tailor had made it for her. It billowed out a little when she walked on the beach, trapping the cool ocean air inside it, against her body. Shiranthi had also bought her the trousers. They were loose fitting, not like the tight bell-bottoms that others were wearing. She needed a belt to hold them in place. Her sister-in-law had chosen a simple one with small shells sewn onto the leather. Dhara stared at her reflection and pressed her English Rose lips together. A deceptively normal woman stared and tried to smile back.

Sydney, 1978

The baby was still sleeping, and every time she stirred, Priya reached over and rocked the bouncer gently. Smrithi was exquisite. She had never seen anything more perfect than her children. Very slowly, taking care not to wake her, she leaned over the baby and placed her nose under her small jaw, breathing in the warm, milky smell.

She thanked the Mother Goddess for her daughter, the blessing she never expected to receive. She spat three times quietly.

Her happiness was overwhelming. It felt boundless, as though she were flying, dipping and spinning and soaring in the sky. And yet, at times, she sensed boundaries; an edge that was tinged with something: doubt, worry—guilt. An end to her present happiness, somewhere in a future she couldn’t control.

She felt so happy she wanted to apologise. She did apologise sometimes, many times: to the planets who might realign and conspire to capriciously take away what had been given so randomly; to her father whose counsel she ignored; and most importantly, to Dhara, who would eventually change her mind and rightfully want back what had been shared so lovingly.

•

Siva nervously basted his head with Brylcreem.

‘Here, let me do that.’ Priya took the comb and created a neat side parting.

He studied his reflection in the mirror. ‘You know we stand out in the hospitals. We all have bad haircuts, bad teeth and bad suits.’

‘You and the other doctors stand out because you have brown skin and outstanding surgical skills,’ she replied.

‘No one would know. I’m a fully qualified cardiothoracic surgeon with two overseas fellowships, and I’m stuck doing locums and shifts no one else wants.’

‘They will admit you here soon, kunju. Don’t lose hope. It will happen, your time will come. There, your frontal-lobe hair puff is perfect. I’m sorry you have to work so hard,’ she said, stepping back.

‘It’s okay. I’m used to it. Back home I worked harder than my Sinhalese friends to get just as far as them. Hard work will take me further here.’ He had to believe that.