What was left of the family went back to their village in the east. They worked on banana plantations; long days of hacking through the tough, sticky harvest that fought back against the rhythm of their scythes. Together, father and sons hoisted the heavy stems onto their shoulders, the bananas clustered in tiers, hanging like a chandelier of leathery, yellow fingers. Each stem weighed as much as a goat and had to be carried, unblemished, back along the dirt tracks of the plantation, to the waiting trucks. They were strong and hard workers, Thiru and his sons.

‘Was it difficult for you to come here?’ Nala asked, placing a cup of sugary, milky tea in the old man’s hands.

‘Thank you, Amma,’ he smiled again. ‘It was no trouble,’ he lied. ‘My youngest son, Senthan, brought me here. You won’t remember him, but sometimes he used to do my deliveries.’

‘I remember him. Ayah said you loved her mothahams the most,’ she replied.

‘Thank you, Aunty, I did. Your Ayah was very kind to us. She told us you were back in Colombo,’ said the son. He looked at his father uncertainly.

‘Doctor is not here at the moment. He’s visiting his old colleagues at the hospital. I’m sure he’s sneaking in a few consultations as well. He would have liked to have met you too,’ Nala said.

‘Doctor is very busy, Amma. I’ve come to ask you for something,’ the old man looked down at his hands, spindly fingers wrapped tightly around the teacup. He motioned to his son, who took the cup from him. He put his hands together. His fingers wouldn’t straighten, so he looked like he was cupping his hands. Nala knew what he was doing and she shook her head at him.

‘There’s no need, Iyah,’ she said respectfully. ‘How can I help you?’

‘Ayah says you need a houseboy, to help your relatives who still live here. Please take my son, take Senthan. He can cook, clean and drive. He will watch over the family and he will never steal from you, on my life.’

Nala looked at the younger man closely for the first time. ‘Senthan, you are too old to be a houseboy, don’t you think? You must be forty plus?’ she asked.

‘I am forty-five years old, Amma, but I can work like a young man,’ he replied, raising his head proudly but gently.

Thiru continued talking. ‘I will die a labourer. My oldest son will die a labourer. Perhaps we will all die in the war, the fighting has spread to the east now. The plantations are being abandoned. But my grandchildren will study. They will leave this island. Senthan can earn here for them, he can help them more than I could.’