The library was not just for Tamils, it was for everyone. It was going to be a resource for the world, or at least those who were interested in the Tamil culture that had come from South India and taken on a shape of its own on their small island. The people were so proud: the library contained not only their history but also their communal memory. It represented how far they had come and gave them hope for how far they would go. At the height of its collection, there were almost a hundred thousand books, by Tamils and about Tamils.

It was to be a stately building, the most beautiful in the region, and although the first wing of the library was only opened in 1959, long after he left Jaffna, he had seen, and would remember forever, the treasures it contained.

An orange robe wrapped itself around him, around his books. He opened his eyes to survey the hospital library once more. His hands trembled a little as he smoothed the pages of his Tamil newspaper and traced the date—2 June 1981. Nothing had been reported in the national papers. He had already read the article several times and it was finally sinking in.

The Tamil United Liberation Front had held another rally in Jaffna on the weekend, resulting in attacks on the temple and over one hundred Tamil homes and shops. Eyewitness reports from two Sinhalese Cabinet members, who watched the main attack from a nearby rest house, called it ‘an unfortunate incident’. The politicians did not express regret: they reiterated that if the Tamils were unhappy, they should leave Sri Lanka.

Rajan folded the paper and held it to his chest. He could remember every word, although he did not want to believe it. On Sunday night, the police and the army had started the burning, emboldened by government support. It hadn’t taken long; one night was all they needed.

The Jaffna Public Library—and every book inside it—was burned to the ground. Rajan had no words and no language. He closed his eyes and wept.

Colombo, 1983

Dhara and the driver weaved their way to the front of the crowd. The Arrivals Gate was her favourite place in the whole world. Every year she stood at the same spot in the airport—from there, she could see Priya walk down towards the gate. Each time a traveller opened the door she would catch a glimpse of her family as they wheeled their heavy suitcases together. She could watch them for several moments, before they saw her, the doors opening and closing like a mechanical shutter into a private world she had relinquished but also longed to join.

Priya walked out first, holding five-year-old Smrithi in her arms. Vivek was helping his father with the baggage trolley. She saw Dhara immediately and smiled; she knew where to find her. She passed the laughing child to her outstretched arms and they kissed each other.