‘She’s okay. Getting on, I suppose. She’s leaving a week after us. Her son-in-law has already found work in Sydney. Ayah is the one I’m worried about. She’s moving down the road to work for Dr Fonseka. They’ll look after her well, but she’s devastated. She keeps giving Shiranthi cooking lessons.’

Priya laughed. ‘How is Appa coping with all of this?’ she asked.

‘The same as always—silently. He’s organised his Australian medical registration so at least he’ll be able to see patients there and get out of the house. I’m far too young for him to retire,’ Nala replied.

Priya laughed. ‘Amma, you’re incorrigible. And Clive Lloyd? He’s going to miss you too.’

‘He’s going with Ayah. That dog has lived a happy life, thanks to my cooking.’

‘Ayah says that’s due to her cooking,’ Priya teased her mother.

‘Ha! Your Appa says it’s the cocktail of vitamin supplements he’s been giving him.’

‘And the war?’ Priya asked finally. ‘How are things in the north?’

‘The same; worse, I think. What is there to say?’ she sighed sadly. The riots last July precipitated an inevitable war.

‘You need to tell Dhara to come with you, Amma. It’s too dangerous for her there. Tell her she must do this for Smrithi.’ Priya dropped her voice. ‘She is her mother, and mothers should be with their children.’

They had had this conversation before.

‘You are also her mother, Priya. You need to accept that—Dhara has,’ Nala corrected her.

‘That doesn’t matter now. What matters is we get Dhara out of Sri Lanka. She’ll be alone there. Make her come, Amma.’ She started to sob into the phone.

‘She won’t be alone, mahal; she’ll be with Vani. I’ve asked her so many times. I can’t make her do anything.’

‘I don’t believe you, Amma. You can make anyone do anything you want. You made me …’ Priya’s voice shook and then faltered.

‘I only ever made you do what I felt was best for you, because you’re my daughter.’ Nala would have cried but today her skin felt hot, as though the fire was still sitting in the cells of her body, turning her blood and tears and the life she loved to vapour.

Priya cleared her throat. ‘I should go; Appa won’t like it. Let’s talk later. Goodbye, Amma.’

‘Mahal, please—’ Nala tried to reply but Priya put the phone down. The heat in her skin remained.

She sat on her bed and surveyed the contents of her room. There were photographs of the children, her parents, and even some of Archi. There was one photograph of Mohan and her on her grandmother’s verandah in Tellippalai. She could feel the mosquito bites itch on her eight-year-old legs. She traced its worn edges and placed it on the ‘to take’ pile with the others.