It was so many years ago. She took Ahilan’s hand and showed him the garden. She tended it carefully every day. The branches of the peppercorn tree. Its fruit had slowly aged from green to black. She let him trace its latticed growth across her breast. It had formed the leaf of an anthurium, indigo and shiny. And before that, the leaf of a mango. She led him down to the clusters of pink hibiscus; unnaturally sharp but beautiful. They had long since died. The keloid reminded her of where they were buried. The once hot fingers of the fern tree spread across her back. They soothed her now with their touch, like the neem oil Nala had applied. And the orchid. Its purple heart had been carved out with a broken bottle.

She remembered the last time.

It was only months after the first time. Ahilan stopped and looked at her.

‘I’m hurting you.’ He pulled out of her slowly and rolled onto his side.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said again. I am so sorry.

‘Please, don’t. I’m sorry,’ he said gently. She took his hand and pulled his arm around her. She fit herself into the curve of his body.

‘I love the smell of your hair. I’ll remember it forever,’ he said, inhaling deeply.

‘I hope so, it smells like chicken curry tonight, and you won’t get that where you’re going.’

‘Stop it,’ he laughed and tickled her. ‘I would marry you if they let us. I feel married to you already. It’s just that—’

‘I know. You’re married to the cause,’ she replied.

‘Stop it.’ He tickled her again. ‘This is very serious. If I have a wife and children, I wouldn’t be able to … you know.’

‘I know. You wouldn’t be able to die.’

She loved him but didn’t feel married to him. Like Ahilan, she had given up marriage and the rituals of family life. She slept peacefully in his arms that last night; it was enough.

She looked at her watch again. It would be morning soon in Australia. Priya and the children would be waking up and Smrithi would have to wear her sari. Nala would drape it for her, as she had for them. Priya would take the gold bangles from her own wrist and put them on Smrithi’s small arms. Dhara couldn’t sleep.

•

Dhara swung hard at the ball and missed again. The boy laughed as he ran after it. He was conducting his batting drills on a makeshift pitch, where the grass was only a little more barren than the small playing field around it. The land had been cleared for training.

‘Acca, don’t whack the ball. Watch it closely,’ he instructed wisely. Niranjan, or Niri, as he was called at the camp, was sixteen years old. He was small and seemed much younger.