That night, Dhara lay in bed with her daughter. The child’s leg was thrown over her hip and her small hand found its way to her belly. She wondered if Smrithi would always sleep like this, or would she change as she grew older, and would Dhara be there with her to see those changes happen? She tried to remember how she slept when she was a child, in bed between her parents.

She thought about her favourite story from the Mahabharata. It was the life of Karna, the older brother of the five Pandavas who was not raised as one of them. When the great war finally began, Karna had a choice: he could either be embraced by his real mother and fight alongside his Pandava brothers; or he could remain loyal to the Kauravas who had befriended and depended upon him. Would he follow love or duty; his blood or his dharma?

Karna made his choice. He was killed on the battlefield by his own brother, his body bathed in the last light of the day. He was watched and he was loved and he was mourned, as he had always been, by his father, the Sun God.

•

Priya kissed her daughter and her sister and pulled the light bed sheets over them. She had promised Vivek that she would sleep with him and Siva. She closed the door to Dhara’s room and stood there for a moment, her head resting on the heavy wood.

Smrithi slept in their shared childhood bed, peaceful and unaware of the dreams that tortured Dhara in her sleep. Priya loved to watch her daughter sleep; and she never took the serenity of that sleep for granted.

Nothing is borrowed between us, Dhara had said. Nothing and yet everything. She couldn’t gain anything by taking it away from her sister. They both knew that.

‘Thank you, Dhara,’ she said quietly, as she did every night. ‘Thank you.’

•

The house whispered. The adults were taking their afternoon naps and the children were pretending to take theirs. Rajan slept in his study. It was cooler and he didn’t like to disturb Nala who accused him of snoring during these daily naps. He denied the charge, outraged. He would detect an adenoidal dysfunction if he had one. He lay on his back, hands on his stomach, fingers locked.

He thought back to yesterday with a smile. It was Krishna Jayanthi, the birthday of Lord Krishna. Ayah had cooked milk rice and churned fresh butter and curd for the little blue god. She had muttered all morning in Sinhalese, scolding them for having so many gods with so many birthdays and so many favourite foods. The Buddhists had one Buddha with one birthday.