‘She had you. She put all her lamprais time and a lot more into raising you.’ Dhara crumpled the oily newspaper cone into a ball. The crows recognised the gesture and bobbed closer.

‘She’s a good mother, isn’t she,’ Smrithi said, more to herself than to Dhara. ‘I see that, now that I have my own child. I realise how hard she tried; still tries. So much of parenthood comes down to time—how much time do you have, how much can you give to your children?’

‘Your Amma gives a lot, she gives everything,’ Dhara replied. She stared out into the blue. The waves gathered at the break like rebellious pleats of a sari, yearning to free themselves and stream away, back over the horizon.

Priya had given her daughter all the time she had. She had held nothing back for herself. She had devoted and divided that time between her children and her husband. It was a simple equation with the beautiful distilled clarity of a couplet from the Thirukkural.

Time would wear away the granite boulders and the Indian Ocean would claim more of the beach for itself. How much time would God give Dhara with the people she loved?

‘I feel like time is the only important thing I need, mahal,’ she said, picking up the remains of kadalai from her lap and throwing it to the crows. ‘Time to give to my work, time to be with my family, time to be with you. I pray that I … I have more time.’

‘You make it sound like you’re dying, mami!’ Smrithi touched her arm.

‘No, mahal.’ Dhara tried to laugh, but the sound that came out was disjointed and forced. ‘I’m completely fine, a picture of outstanding health. I just wish I could see you all more, especially that beautiful little daughter of yours. She is at the beginning of time.’ She exhaled deeply and then inhaled the sharp, salty air.

‘And you are only halfway through yours, mami, remember that.’ Smrithi leaned over and kissed her hard on the cheek.

Dhara stood up and reached for Smrithi’s hand again. She would lead her back over the tracks, more confidently this time.

•

She held the sleeping child, watching the familiar rise and fall of her chest, the indentation between the pink bottom lip and the chin, the balled fist that sometimes jerked, then relaxed and opened against her smooth cheek, the small nails with half-moons at their roots, the faint lines on the padded palm telling the story of a life barely begun. She looked just like Smrithi.

Dhara closed her eyes and prayed. She asked Lord Ganesha to remove the child’s obstacles from her life; she asked Saraswathi, the Goddess of Learning, to teach her wisdom, and Lord Vishnu, the Protector, to watch over her. She begged Lord Shiva, the Destroyer, to keep his distance.