She would not be dictated to by this simpleton in bloodied overalls. She pulled her nylon sari tightly around her shoulders, wincing less this time as it rubbed against her. Its embroidered hem was trailing in the undefined liquid on the ground. She raised it up to her ankles, the way her mother had told her never to do. Her mother had never bought crabs from an irate man at Flemington Market.

‘As I said, I will have those four large ones at the back,’ she repeated, pointing to the crabs she wanted.

‘Listen, love, maybe you don’t speak English proper—you don’t get to choose. Jesus, you people. If you can’t speak English, you should go back to your own country,’ the fishmonger said impatiently.

‘Today’s customers are as fresh off the boat as today’s catch,’ he whispered to his son. The younger man laughed and replied in a different language.

She straightened her shoulders, lifted her head and replied haughtily with her best convent-educated accent, ‘Young man, two hundred years ago we were colonised by the British. Of course we speak English, and we speak it properly. Now I will have those crabs and I will have them immediately.’

At home, she tried to re-create the crab curry. She roasted the fenugreek and mustard seeds without burning them. She fried the onions, ginger, garlic and curry leaves separately and added them to the seeds. She washed, cut and de-veined the crabs, then coated them in the spices before adding the coconut milk, salt, coriander powder, cumin powder, chilli and turmeric.

It should have been perfect. It was too salty. She licked her tasting finger in despair. She remembered instructing Ayah back home about how to make the dish. No matter how severe she was with her, the old maid cooked the curry just as she liked it. Decades of eating Ayah’s crab had made Nala’s hand too heavy with the salt.

She frantically called her younger sister Kamini. Priya and Nandan would be arriving in an hour with their families. The crab was not ready and her hair was still wet and wrapped in a towel. Priya had bought her a hairdryer, but she preferred to let her hair absorb the sun. Rajan used to love the feeling of her warm, thick hair bathing them both. This had been a surprise to her.

Kamini arrived breathless and dishevelled from her daughter’s apartment down the road. She respectfully pushed Nala out of the way and tasted the crab curry—it was too salty, she agreed, but all it needed was a full lime just before eating, and the confidence to use it. She opened her handbag and pulled out a lime, a small tin of coconut cream and got to work.

With barely concealed disappointment that no further remedial cooking was required, Kamini complimented her sister’s curry, as was expected, and helped her set the table.