‘You need to line up the top sheet with the frame of the bed,’ he said, smoothing the sheets with his elegant hands and proudly demonstrating the parallel lines to his granddaughter. His movements were slow, giving the lesson greater gravity.

‘Lord Krishna taught Arjuna that, in the Mahabharata,’ he said, straightening his pillows. It was, he told her, important to dust off any ectodermal tissue that had shed during the night.

‘Lord Krishna taught Arjuna how to make a bed?’ she asked.

He laughed. ‘No. Krishna taught Arjuna that you must do what you have to do.’ His face clouded over and he looked at her, suddenly sad. ‘You must do the right thing, Smrithi, whether you want to or not—and you must do it to the best of your ability. That’s all that is asked of us, even though sometimes it seems an impossible task.’

She hugged him. He felt smaller now in her arms, his shoulders narrower, and his body shorter. His hair was still jet black. Every month he dyed it. It was his one concession to vanity, and no one was allowed to tease him about it. His routines were slowing down but they were intact.

‘So, you’re going on a big trip,’ he said, wiping his eyes. ‘I’ve asked Ammamma to give you the names and addresses of our people around the world. If you have any problems, call them. They know you’re coming.’

‘I’ll send you and Ammamma a postcard from every city I go to, okay?’ she said, hugging him again.

After she finished her Masters, she wanted to visit some of the ageing Tamils on Ammamma’s list. Smrithi had her family tree, her journal, and her camera ready. Her grandparents might not be able to travel anymore, but she could travel and record for them.

‘I have something for you,’ he said. He didn’t give gifts, and she assumed he would take her to the shrine for one last blessing before she left for the airport.

Instead, he handed her a videocassette. It was the film Karnan, starring Sivaji Ganesan, in the lead role of the tragic hero.

‘Watch it with your relatives when you visit them. They will explain the language to you. I’m sorry you won’t be able to understand it yourself, but you know the story better than anyone,’ he said.

She was sorry too that she couldn’t understand the Tamil, but it was true, she did know the story. She cried every time she read it.

Nala came in to find her husband and granddaughter scrutinising the videocassette. ‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘It’s Karnan.’

Nala touched the cover gently. ‘Sivaji was so handsome, shining in the Sun God’s armour. I haven’t seen this film for decades,’ she said, more to herself than to them.