Nala marvelled at the depth of her daughter’s happiness, and through it she remembered and relived her own. She watched Priya walk around the house, explaining old photographs and paintings, telling Smrithi about the places she used to hide and the games she used to play. She talked about Nandan and Ayah and Archi and Dhara—constantly about Dhara mami.

Dhara was always there with them too; her smile at times strained, at times easy. Priya gathered her into the rhythm of their laughter and play.

The little girl followed them both around, unsteady at first, then more confidently, claiming their home as her own. When she called Amma, her voice sweet like the sound of Lord Krishna’s flute, neither woman hesitated. Dhara stepped back and Priya stepped forward, towards her daughter.

Nala exhaled.

•

The child sat on the cement threshold to the kitchen, her feet dangling out the doorway. Nala’s new dog, Clive, lay next to her, his head resting on his padded paws. Occasionally he lifted his head hopefully, eyeing the untouched food on the child’s plate, but he knew better than to try. Ayah had a special stick just for him.

Dhara sat with her daughter in the doorway. She had mixed the boiled rice and parappu curry with a tablespoon of ghee, making small balls of food with the palm of her hand. The balls were lined up around the plate, slowly becoming cold.

‘No,’ said Smrithi. ‘No balls.’

‘Please, darling, Amma said she feeds you like this,’ Dhara had read it in the letters: rice, dhal and ghee in balls. It was her favourite. She raised another ball to the little girl’s mouth, but Smrithi turned her face away, clamping her hands over her mouth.

‘Smrithi, please!’ Dhara stretched forward and around, trying to reach her mouth again. The child smacked her hand away, sending the rice flying onto the verandah floor. Clive jumped up and took a step forward, looking between the angry child and the distraught woman.

‘Go on,’ Dhara pushed the dog towards the rice. ‘Take it, someone should.’ She put the plate on the ground next to his head. ‘It’s all yours, Clive Lloyd. I won’t tell Ayah if you won’t.’

Hours later, after Priya returned from the city, Dhara watched her sister feed her child. The same rice, dhal and ghee combined and shaped into balls; then expertly and efficiently thrown into Smrithi’s ravenous mouth.

‘It’s nothing, Dhara. Please don’t get upset about it. She’s just used to being fed by me. By the end of the week, she’ll get used to being fed by you. By the end of the fortnight, she will know you properly,’ Priya said.

‘I know, Acca. I’m not upset,’ she lied. Priya raised an eyebrow.

‘Ok, I am upset. I know she’ll get used to me. I know that, but I feel so rejected.’