‘Hold him down,’ she ordered. The boys cried as they each took a part of him and pressed down hard: a knee to his chest, arms to his shoulders, a whole body on his legs. He saw the needle. He jerked, a strangled sound escaped from his split lips.

Dhara reached into the mangled remains of his bowling arm. The flesh hung in torn strips on the smashed bone. The connective tissue was a shamble of knotted ribbons. She pushed it aside with her fingers and the scalpel, and then clamped the cluster of arteries that surged blood. She needed to close the brachial artery, beginning by paring back the shredded bicep and surrounding flesh. Thiru, the mas karaya who brought Ayah her meat, taught her this technique decades ago. Finally, Dhara clipped the limp tube of the basilic vein back, and adjusted the clamp, lowering it down the cluster, releasing some of the swelling that was building up at the dam.

The dam. Blood burst forth with a will of its own.

She began sewing the artery. Each stitch was small, tight and identical to the one next to it. She was fast and neat, Rajan had said proudly. Like tapestry. But the artery kept snaking out of her fingers, every time he moved. It didn’t want to be tamed.

People rushed around her. People called for her. People slipped on the muddy, bloody floor. She didn’t look up. There were so many, but she wanted to be here for just this one boy. She wanted the river of red to stop. She was almost there. He had stopped moving. The sewing became easier. She wiped the sweat from her face with her forearm, but only covered it with his blood.

‘Wake up, Chinna Master,’ they cried.

Chinna Master.

Little Master.

Sachin.

Niri.

Sydney, 1995

Siva stood in the centre of their living room. He inhaled deeply and exhaled loudly. He raised his hands above his head and stretched himself up, back and then down, slowly. Priya burst out laughing.

‘Sai Baba recommends doing the Sun Salute ten times every day. You should join me, it will clear your mind,’ he retorted, undeterred by her mockery.

‘Does the guru require you to wear thermal underwear while you do it?’ she asked him, trying to keep a straight face.

‘The guru lives in India; it’s never cold in his ashram. This place is freezing,’ his voice was muffled as he buried his face into the floor in what looked like a failed push-up.

‘Do you need help, kunju?’ she asked sweetly.

‘No.’ He strained as he pushed himself into The Cobra and collapsed back down again.

She sat next to him on the floor. ‘My mind is already clear. I’ve been thinking a lot.’

‘That’s not good,’ Siva replied, his smile pinched.

‘Smrithi is … her own person now. She’s almost finished school. I feel like we blinked and things changed and—’