‘A sister and a sister, of course,’ she said, smiling.

It was 9:38am. Siva was expecting her. She started the car again.

•

‘Leisure in the age of technology,’ Vivek read from the Expo 88 brochure, deepening his voice. ‘It’s educational. Expo is about cultures around the world. Multiculturalism is a wonderful thing, children; we shouldn’t be afraid to embrace new cultures and new experiences,’ he said, mimicking his father’s accent. ‘As long as we don’t marry them of course.’

‘That’s enough, mahan,’ Priya cautioned him, turning away so he couldn’t see her smile. Nala laughed.

‘Ammamma, Amma, there are so many stalls, you wouldn’t believe it!’ Smrithi came running back, with Siva shouting at her to wait for him. ‘There’s food from Italy and Greece and Singapore and Thailand and’—Smrithi paused to check her map of world food—‘there’s even a pavilion from Sri Lanka, here,’ she said, pointing to a red circle on the paper.

Priya was exhausted and hungry. She’d been queuing at the Japanese Pavilion for over an hour because Vivek wanted to see the enormous television and robots. At the words ‘Sri Lanka’, she looked up hopefully at Siva, who looked away.

‘Kunju?’ she asked her husband.

‘There’s a pavilion—it’s obviously sponsored by the Sri Lankan government. There’s nothing in it about the troubles,’ Siva replied.

‘Did you go in?’ Nala asked, surprised. His protest against the war was multi-pronged. He boycotted functions held by the Sri Lankan High Commission, cricket matches, and anything that could be seen as supporting the Sri Lankan government, however tangentially related.

‘No, I had a quick look from the outside. The staff were all speaking Sinhalese. It’s just a big tourist advertisement for the country. Come to Sri Lanka,’ he mocked, ‘elephant rides down south and genocide up north.’ Vivek rolled his eyes and Priya shushed him.

‘Not here, Siva,’ she said, looking around to make sure no one heard him. ‘It’s supposed to be a big tourist advertisement, all the countries are doing it. What food are they selling?’ she asked.

‘It doesn’t matter. I’m not giving my money to them. Absolutely not, not one cent!’ he said.

It was Priya’s turn to roll her eyes. ‘What food?’

‘Hoppers and gothamba roti, from what I could smell.’

She loved hoppers. The thought of the soft, crisp coconut milk pancake made her mouth water. She liked to melt a teaspoon of palm sugar in its moist centre. The queue had barely moved; there was enough time for her to buy the family lunch while Siva stayed with the children. She could eat her hoppers before she’d even left the Sri Lankan pavilion and buy a decoy meal from somewhere else for her pointlessly militant husband.

‘I’ll get us lunch, you stay here. What would you like, kunju—Thai food?’ she asked, avoiding eye contact with him.