‘Yes, mahal,’ Amma replied, using the perfunctory endearment. ‘I can see that very clearly. This man is special. He’s the first doctor from his village—he was only sixteen years old when he entered medical school. He has already been accepted into a training programme in England—he will be the youngest qualified surgeon in Ceylon when he comes back. Old Uncle Ramanathan says he has a brilliant future ahead of him and he’s a good person, from a good family. The doctor has seen you already, but I don’t think it’s necessary for him to hear you before you marry. When he arrives on Saturday, please just smile sweetly and keep your mouth shut.’

•

Rajan was accompanied by his parents and Uncle Ramanathan for the first meeting. The parents talked, not involving the prospective bride and groom, until his mother, a square stout woman, asked Nala what her favourite colour was.

‘Blue,’ she replied.

‘You can’t have a blue wedding sari,’ the old lady laughed.

‘Then crimson, I like crimson,’ she said firmly.

Her mother intervened, not wanting her to appear fussy, ‘She likes red. A red wedding sari would be wonderful, thank you.’

‘She can have crimson,’ Rajan spoke for the first time that afternoon. His voice was not what Nala had imagined. His accent was clear and clipped, his voice quiet. Not soft—it was a strong voice—but quiet.

‘She should have crimson if she likes,’ he said, settling the matter.

Four months later, Nala thought about this, their only conversation, as she walked down the aisle towards him in a crimson sari. He was seated under a canopy of garlands. The priest sat on the dais offering flowers and ghee into the small sacrificial fire. He muttered prayers to himself, while the crowd of well-wishers chatted among themselves, paying little attention to the ancient ceremony that was taking place. The nathaswaram player sat with his drummer on the side. He played his trumpet enthusiastically, nodding his head and swaying in time with the drummer as he belted out the strident wedding tune.

‘Keep your eyes down,’ Amma had whispered as Nala left the changing room.

Her father guided her footsteps and, despite the heavy sari and borrowed jewellery she wore, she didn’t falter. Appa helped her onto the small seat beside Rajan. He arranged her elaborate floral head-dress, kissed her and stepped back, leaving her with her husband-to-be.

She found that if she kept her head straight but dropped it a little and moved her eyes as far left as they would go, she could make out the lines of Rajan’s hands without being detected. Or so she thought. Her mother nudged her from behind. ‘Plenty of time for peeking later,’ she had said earlier, laughing and scolding simultaneously in the changing room. Nala hadn’t seen his face again, except in his graduation photograph. He looked serious in sepia.