The man turned and smiled an ugly, triumphant smile. He held up a bucket and looked at Nala. ‘Meka mokaddhe?’ What is this? he asked in Sinhalese.

•

Pain coursed through Nala’s body.

‘Stop, stop, stop!’ she could hear someone shouting. She wasn’t sure if it was Rajan. A child was screaming. Her granddaughter, it sounded like her five-year-old granddaughter. Someone was holding her and she must have been screaming. No, it was Rajan. Someone was holding him and he was screaming. Like a small child. Nala was screaming too. And rolling. Rolling as her husband had instructed her to do when they were preparing for this journey.

‘If you get caught, don’t run,’ he said, ‘it will only make it worse. You must roll.’

Roll, roll, roll. What was the Sinhalese word for roll? Bhaldiya. That was the Sinhalese word for bucket. She had said it. She remembered it. Rajan made her practise it over and over again, each time correcting her accent. It hadn’t mattered. The little girl had given her away the moment she called her name. Ammamma. She loved that word.

‘What was that smell?’ she thought. It was terrible. Familiar, but terrible. Burned, salted sugar. She couldn’t brush it away.

The air was on fire. It hurt to breathe. She couldn’t breathe.

Roll, roll, roll. Urulathal. That was the Tamil word for roll. Darkness dropped on her.

•

‘Stop, stop, please stop!’ begged the old man while his son rushed forward out of the crowd, shouting, ‘He’s the President’s doctor, the President’s doctor!’

The inner circle opened up a little and retreated, twisted faces suddenly fearful. The President’s doctor. The words were whispered back and people moved faster, moving on to the next Tamil.

Rajan broke away from his captor and ran to the boot of his car. He pulled out the cans of water and the wet blankets and poured them over his wife, crying as he did so.

‘Help me,’ he sobbed. ‘Help me, somebody help me.’ Only the old man and his son were left. They both looked familiar to him but he couldn’t think. He had to focus. Focus. The younger man helped him wrap Nala carefully. The water and blankets had worked quickly. Ayah had been right. ‘Thank you, Ayah, thank you,’ he muttered.

‘Come, Iyah, come. Negombo Hospital is just here. We must go, we must go now.’ The younger man was looking around him. The mob had already passed but they couldn’t be sure of the next one.

‘Come, Iyah, we’ll drive you.’ He helped Rajan carry her to the car and put her on the back seat. Rajan sat with her, her head cradled in his lap.