‘Don’t sssh me! I hate it when you do that. In Australia, men don’t shush their wives. Wives are encouraged to speak and participate,’ she hissed back.

‘Sssh!’ he said again. The form was long and complicated. The government was undertaking its five-yearly census. In two more years, Australia would celebrate its bicentenary.

Rajan’s heart raced. He surreptitiously took his pulse. Nala noticed and he moved his hands back to the form. They had started to quiver. He dropped the form and scrutinised the census taker: t-shirt, jeans and name-tag on a string. For something as important as a rollcall of every citizen in the country, the man could have at least worn a collared shirt. He would never understand the commitment to casualness. It was too pervasive to be an affectation; it must be an actual cultural trait.

‘Just tell me, which box are we?’ Nala repeated. She was reading the form over his shoulder and pointed out that they didn’t have a box. There was no category for Sri Lankan Tamils. He was surprised she hadn’t asked for a box just for Colombo 7 Tamils.

‘There aren’t supposed to be boxes for everyone. There are so many people here from so many backgrounds; there wouldn’t be enough space on a form to give us all boxes. Two boxes are fine, Nala—citizen and non-citizen.’

‘Perhaps I should come back?’ the man enquired politely, unsure of what to do. When the couple didn’t say anything or raise their heads from the form, he tried again. ‘Do you need a translator, sir?’ he asked politely.

At this question, both of them looked up sharply. ‘No, thank you,’ Rajan replied, placing a hand on his easily offended wife. ‘We speak English, but it’s kind of you to ask. If you could come back by the end of the week, that would be excellent.’ And, as if to prove that he could read English, he added, ‘The form states that we have until Friday to complete it, correct?’

After the census taker left, Rajan stared at the form again. His hands shook as he turned over its pages. He tried to focus on his wrist first. He visualised the eight carpal bones of the joint followed by the branches of the five metacarpal bones that formed his hand. He then focused on each finger, each segment, each knuckle, willing his usually compliant and capable hands to be still. His hands continued to shake.

He pushed the form at Nala and rasped, ‘You fill it out.’ He walked over to his writing desk and sat there, pretending to sort through papers. He tried to take a deep breath. He counted to twenty-seven, the day of his mother’s birth. Two plus seven was nine, an auspicious number. He counted again. He felt his hands steady and his heartbeat slow down. He looked at Nala as she concentrated on the form.