Nala wanted everything to be perfect. She wanted everyone to know that she and Rajan were fine in their new home. She paced the inner perimeter of the place where she was expected to live: three bedrooms, half as many as before, a kitchen the size of her old pantry, and a living room the size of her old verandah. It was fine.

She thought about re-lighting the spitting lamp in her shrine, now reduced to a few shelves in the study. Rajan usually lit the lamp for her every morning. She didn’t like the sound of fire, even small ones. She pressed her finger into the small pot of holy ash and applied some to her own forehead. She took more for the black-and-white photographs of her parents and in-laws, all dead for many years now.

Next to these photographs, Rajan had put one up of her girls when they were no more than ten, sitting on the steps outside their kitchen. Priya was hugging Dhara so tightly that their cheeks were almost fused together. They still hugged each other like that. She checked her wristwatch. It was eleven o’clock. Dhara would be awake in Colombo soon and Nala would call her, as she did several times a week. Rajan said nothing about the money; he was as desperate as she was to hear Dhara’s voice.

She remembered the last time all her grandchildren were in Colombo, sitting on those same steps. It was only a year ago. They were lined up in a row with their little legs pressed against their chests like shiny scratched bosoms. With their mouths open, they waited for her to mix the rice into a mushy, perfect ball—each one contained a little paruppu and chicken curry in just the right proportion, which she threw into their hungry mouths. It was a beautiful day. She would have more days like that in Sydney, she told herself.

She checked the crab curry one last time—it needed a little more lime, but aside from that, it was perfect.

•

Nala returned from her daily walk with the other Colombo ladies who had moved into her neighbourhood. Rajan called them the Kusa Kusa Club. They had all boldly exchanged their casual nylon saris for lighter cotton kaftans. Sydney’s heat was oppressive, radiating relentlessly during the day and night. Nylon only seemed to make it worse, trapping the sweat against their bodies, almost steaming them.

She saw her daughter park her car outside her apartment.

‘Amma,’ Priya called. ‘Amma, you should be ready by now—we’ll be late for temple.’

‘Temple can wait. I am absolutely speechless,’ Nala began. ‘Did you know that old Dr Mahen’s granddaughter is getting married? The wedding is next month at the Strathfield Bowling Club and we haven’t received an invitation.’

‘You’re not invited, Amma. Let’s go inside and talk about this please,’ Priya whispered, leading her to her building.