In Ceylon, census figures had shown the government where the Tamils lived. The government had used those figures to send thousands of Sinhalese families into the regions that had belonged to them. New Sinhalese districts were created in old Tamil ones, making the Tamils a minority in their own homelands.

Later, census forms and electoral rolls had been used to find the Tamils in their homes and set fire to them. He took a deep breath again. They were in Australia now. They were Australian now, and this country didn’t do that to its citizens. It didn’t do that to anyone. This country had opened its doors.

He took the form from her with steady hands. He sat back down at his desk and filled in the boxes.

Colombo, 1986

The plane door opened and the languid humidity of Colombo put its heavy arms around her. She had longed for it. She had imagined it, dreamed about it, she could almost taste it.

And when it finally held her, she couldn’t breathe.

The thickness passed through her nose and down into her lungs, drowning her in the smell of fuel, of rubber scraping against tarmac until it smoked blackness into a clear, blue sky. The shouts of the porters and drivers became angry chants. Sunlight became torchlight, and a child entered the circle.

‘Ammamma, Ammamma—I’m hungry,’ her granddaughter said in English, pulling on the green and blue paisley of her shirt.

‘What is this?’ the man asked in Sinhalese, holding up the bucket. She could see flecks of ash stuck to his forearm. They were dissolving into his sweat, black streaks sinking into his skin.

He shook the bucket, rattling the battered tin against its handle. The crowd tightened around her. Rajan struggled, shouting in Sinhalese, men in dirty sarongs held him back, laughing.

‘Bhaldiya,’ she whispered. She refused to look down at the child, lest she remind them that she was there. If she could hold his gaze, he would see only her, and not the little girl.

She lifted her head and looked him straight in the eyes. They were red and watery; his slow smile, exultant.

‘Bhaldiya,’ she repeated, loudly and clearly, the way Rajan had made her practise.

The man lifted the edges of his sarong up and tucked them into his waist. He could move better that way. He picked up a canister of petrol at his feet and shook it easily.

‘It’s almost empty,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders as he stepped towards her.

Sampa, sampa, sampa—burn, burn, burn. The words echoed around her.

‘Nala!’ Rajan pulled her through the mass. People stared; some laughed. Dhara clasped their baggage trolley, her face fearful and wet with tears. Rajan held her to his chest. He was a small man but his strength loomed tall and wide around her. The arc of her terror ended where all comfort began.