Prashanth seemed just as committed to doing everything ‘by the book’, and together, the young couple would pore over them as though they were textbooks or instruction manuals, highlighting sections, bookmarking pages, and colour-coding chapters.

‘Why don’t you ask me, mahal? I’ve been through all of this before. I’m your mother, I … I could help you.’

‘I know you can, Amma. You are helping me,’ Smrithi smiled, examined her baby and calmly referred to her book.

She couldn’t help herself: while Smrithi slept, Priya added finely chopped shark meat to the chicken sarraku curry. At the back of the pantry cupboard she hid a tin of formula milk and gave the baby a quick top-up feed while rocking her to sleep instead of that outrageous swaddle-and-leave method that Smrithi was trying to adopt.

‘I’m so proud of her, Amma. She’s independent and capable. It’s hard to believe she’s mine,’ Priya said to Nala on the phone.

‘It’s not hard to imagine that at all, mahal. You raised her and she’s just like you.’

‘She’s a lot like Dhara too, Amma. I’m so proud of that as well. I’ve asked her to take the baby to Colombo while the ceasefire lasts. Dhara needs to see her grandchild; it’s important for all of them.’

It was important to her too. It would help stem the unease that had existed on the edges of her happiness for years, slowly inching towards the centre; towards her heart.

‘I just wish Smrithi was happier I’m here. I wish she … needed me.’ The way I need her, she thought.

She re-stacked her daughter’s freezer as she spoke to Nala. She had cooked four weeks worth of curries for her. Things with the baby would become easier after that.

Finally, when it was time for her to return to Australia, both she and Smrithi hugged and cried at the airport. She boarded the plane feeling that the trip had not been what she thought it would be. The disappointment was confusing, but as she relaxed into her uncomfortable seat she realised she was relieved to be leaving.

CHAPTER 19

Pinnawela Elephant Orphanage, north-east of Colombo, 2004

Smrithi took a sip of her tea and winced at its sweetness. Tourists would leave Sri Lanka with a distorted view of the country’s most famous export.

‘Prashanth, I want you to know I’m writing this news piece, if you can call it that, under protest.’ She kissed him and her baby daughter and stood up. The fluorescent light on the cafe wall flickered erratically as it attracted and killed another mosquito.

‘It’s all right, kunj. This story has provided us with a much-needed tax-deductible holiday.’ Prashanth took out the bottle of repellent and liberally doused Ahalya.