‘Terrible business, you know, all that.’

Three thousand people—how long would it take to count to three thousand? Six days: that’s how long it took to kill three thousand people, if the mobs used petrol, if the police watched it happen, if the President wanted it to happen.

The killing was efficient because a government minister had given the mobs the electoral rolls, listing the address of every Tamil in the city. Neighbours turned into a raging, faceless mob—except that Rajan could remember their faces, all of them. His eyes strayed to Nala’s neck, which she kept carefully covered with her sari.

He wondered how long they would have to stay there, when suddenly Jayewardene’s servant boy entered bearing an ornate jewellery box. The President stood up and cleared his throat ceremoniously. He handed the gift to Nala who offered her thanks and stood awkwardly. At Jayewardene’s urging she opened it.

The silver clasp on the box opened with a little clicking sound. Inside was a set of twelve silver dessertspoons. Set into the carved handle of each spoon was a gemstone: Ceylon’s finest, cut and polished to perfection. Rajan had never seen anything like it before—because no one eats dessert with jewellery, he thought. Nala was silent. Unusually, he stepped in and spoke on her behalf.

‘Thank you, Mr President, thank you very much. You didn’t have to, it was unnecessary but very thoughtful of you,’ he lied.

‘Nonsense, I couldn’t let you leave Colombo without something to remember your home by. It is sterling silver and each spoon has a different Ceylon gem. I had it made especially for you.’

Rajan stirred himself again to make the appropriate responses. Nala’s fingers lightly touched the jewelled handles before she shut the box.

‘Thank you, sir, that is very kind of you. You didn’t have to,’ she said, echoing her husband’s words.

‘Nonsense, nonsense. Now you will have something to remember Colombo and me by, every time you have dessert.’

Her hands twitched. She gripped the box and smiled tightly.

•

That night Nala sat on her bed. She looked at the camphorwood box and started a list: photographs, diaries, her wedding sari, and the portrait she had done of Rajan.

There was the jar of paddy rice her mother gave her when they had moved into their new home. Amma had boiled the milk for her, and as the milk rose and bubbled over, they all prayed for a life of abundance, a life filled with the riches of health, happiness, children, and grandchildren. Amma’s rice was paddy and its husk seemed to have protected it, keeping it fresh during the twenty-five years since they had moved to Cinnamon Gardens. Nala had used the rice in the wedding ceremonies of two of her children, including both of Nandan’s weddings.