Nala wasn’t sure if she was supposed to answer those questions. It was hard to look at her daughter. She tried to imagine what Oprah would do in this situation. She wanted to defend herself, but Priya wouldn’t let her speak. There was more.

‘Don’t you talk to me about treating children differently. Can you honestly say you treated Dhara and me the same? Dhara would never criticise you, but I would.’

Priya took a deep, ragged breath. She looked shocked, as though the words had spewed forth on their own, ambushing her as much as Nala.

‘Amma …’ she stepped back. ‘I just … please, just don’t tell me how to raise my children now. You’re the one always advising me to let them go—this is what happens when you let them go. My son will marry an Italian and my daughter won’t marry at all.’

Priya’s voice had dropped but her words still made Nala flinch.

What could she say? Nala had treated all of her children differently, and she would treat them differently again if she had to. She struggled to speak. ‘I tell you to let go, mahal, because you hold on to her too tightly,’ she began.

‘I hold on because she’s not mine, Amma—you know that—you of all people know that.’ Priya was sobbing now, her face contorted in pain. ‘She’s not mine and I’m terrified of losing her.’

‘You could never lose her, mahal—talk to her, instead of fighting with her.’

‘Smrithi won’t listen. She doesn’t love—I mean she doesn’t … respect me.’ Her face flushed a deep red. She wouldn’t look up.

Nala’s heart ached for her daughter. She never doubted her daughter’s love, even when she spoke to her like this. Priya was hers in entirety, in absolute, even when she didn’t want to be.

‘She respects you and she loves you. You are her mother.’

‘I don’t want to hear it, Amma,’ Priya regained her composure. ‘It doesn’t matter. Smrithi will do what I did. I know she comes to you for advice. Please don’t make this worse.’

Nala felt the familiar pain in her throat: it was throbbing at the place where her words collected and congealed; words that always remained unspoken.

Tell her why you love her, instead of telling her what you expect from her. That was what she wanted to say.

She dug her nails hard into the palm of her hand and mumbled an apology. She set off back to her apartment. It was a fifteen-minute walk that took her twenty-five minutes these days. Rajan had gone to the Plaza for his daily walk—she would have some time alone to recover.

As she opened the door to her apartment she was greeted by the smell of cooking, incense, and camphorwood. The familiar smells that told her she was home.