She wore one of her good saris—a Mysore, not a Kanchipuram silk—she didn’t want to seem ostentatious. She wore a hairpiece, covered with her newly dyed hair, held in place by several clips and a fine hairnet. Around her bun, she pinned a small garland of jasmine she had deftly picked from her neighbour’s garden. She applied Oil of Ulay, which she could buy in Sydney for half the price she paid in Colombo. Then she powdered her face with her Max Factor compress: colour Candleglow. There wasn’t another Tamil in Sydney who could use Candleglow. They were all a shade of Bronze or darker. Finally, using a small nail, she applied the red pottu in the centre of her forehead. She was ready.

She quickly realised she had overdressed for Strathfield Plaza. She had overdressed for Australia. The mall and its inhabitants were not concerned with appearances at all. Australians were a criminally casual race, all attired in shorts of varying lengths from just under the buttocks to mid-calf. Few men wore collared shirts, most favouring what she considered an undershirt, referred to as a t-shirt.

Noticing that none of the ladies wore much jewellery, she surreptitiously tucked her heavy wedding chain into one side of her sari blouse and pulled out her handkerchief from the other. She had doused it in eau-de-cologne, and she pressed its cooling freshness against her.

Thankfully Rajan had agreed to accompany her on her maiden voyage to the mall. He was also staring at the hundreds of under-dressed Australians that surrounded them.

‘Aunty, Aunty! Are you lost? Can I help you?’

She turned at the sound of the familiar accent and looked into an unfamiliar but undeniably Tamil face.

‘Vanakkam, Aunty,’ said the young woman, using the formal greeting without folding her palms together.

Nala didn’t respond; she couldn’t recognise her. The lady tried again. ‘Priya told me you were coming. You look just like her. I mean, she looks just like you. I mean, I would recognise you anywhere,’ she laughed nervously, trying hard to fill the void with words. ‘You are Priya’s mother, aren’t you?’

Nala inhaled deeply on the handkerchief. ‘I am Nalayini—or Nala—and this is my husband, Dr Rajan. Yes, Priya is my daughter. We’ve just arrived from Colombo.’

During the rest of the brief conversation, she was distracted—the Tamils of Strathfield had unfortunately adopted the sartorial sins of their host country.

•

Later that night she stood in the bathroom with her husband. The fluorescent light flickered, then steadied, illuminating the plain bathroom tiles. Every sixth tile bore a posy of what looked like wilted roses.

Rajan tipped his precious blue powder onto his toothbrush.

‘Do you think the spice store imports the powder here?’ she asked him.

‘I hope so,’ he replied.