And then he saw it. He saw it before she did. Then she saw it too, and for the first time in thirty-seven years of marriage, she didn’t say a word. There was nothing to say. He wanted to say bhaldiya, the Sinhalese word for bucket. He held on to that word like a prayer, saying it over and over in his mind, willing her to remember it too.

The crowd swarmed around the car, casting light on the interior with their torches. Their shadows moved with the flames and the wind coming in off the ocean, creating an erratic dance of dark and light. The mob formed a tight circle around them, thumping on the car and shouting at him to get out. He opened his door and was quickly dragged out. He turned back to see Nala pulled out behind him. Smoke filled her lungs and she reached for her sari pallu to cover her mouth and nose, but couldn’t find it. She was wearing borrowed slacks and a shirt. He had insisted: no sari, no wedding chain, no pottu on her forehead, no garland in her hair. Nothing that could identify her—differentiate her—except her beautiful features and her voice, which he knew was trembling.

He took a deep breath, gagged on the smell and started talking in perfect Sinhalese. He had rehearsed his story and was relieved to hear it flow out of his mouth.

‘My name is Dr Fonseka. Here are my papers and this is my wife, Dolly, and our granddaughter. The head of surgery at Negombo Hospital, Dr Samarasekera—perhaps you know him. He has asked me to assist at the hospital. They’re short-staffed as you can imagine. I’m concerned for my family, but Dr Samare is an old friend.’ He tried not to exhale. If they could make it to the hospital, Samare would support his story.

The head of the mob surveyed him as he stood calmly. Rajan had spoken in Sinhalese; perfect Sinhalese—almost too perfect. He knew he was too composed, too well-spoken, and too dark. But there was nothing he could do now except wait.

The man ordered someone to check the car. Inside they found Rajan’s medical bag filled with supplies and more papers identifying him as Dr Fonseka. He had been careful. He had removed the Ganesha statue that normally adorned the dashboard of the car, as well as all traces of holy ash. He had been very careful.

A man yelled back, ‘Okkoma hurri. Seems fine,’ he said, slamming the car door shut. The mob prepared to move on.

The little girl finally awoke, hungry and confused. She opened the door and, barely noticing the circle of angry strangers around them, went to her grandmother and pulled at her shirt. ‘Ammamma, Ammamma—I’m hungry,’ she said in English.

Ammamma. Amma’s amma.