Jayanthi was dragged between rooftops of submerged buildings until she was pummelled and trapped against a palm tree, its mighty spine bent from the weight of too many people sheltering at its peak. A man shimmied down and protected her from the lashing waves. Another followed him, pulling her up to safety, her small weight dropping the head of the tree an inch closer to the rushing water below. Someone put a trembling arm around her. No one spoke.

The girl bent forward and vomited clear fluid, tinted with a streak of bile. It splashed on her bare feet. She didn’t notice. Dhara held her as her wasted body cramped and faeces rushed again from her corroded insides. More blood, and this time pus. Suren was at her side, helping her.

They settled the child onto her plastic sheeting.

London, 2005

Dhara was in England for a conference on infectious diseases at the London School of Tropical Medicine and Hygiene. She was presenting a paper with Suren, on ‘disease control after a disaster’ based on their tsunami-relief experience.

She tried not to think about work. She was with Smrithi, surrounded by children for whom the future stretched limitlessly ahead of them. She watched with pride as Smrithi deftly balanced a phone between her shoulder and ear, while putting a nappy on her new son. The baby, Rishi, looked back at his mother through the longest eyelashes she had ever seen.

‘Okay, Amma, I will. Of course I will. Speak to you soon,’ Smrithi said, grimacing a goodbye to her mother and dropping the phone with relief.

‘Amma wants me to make sure you eat properly, Dhara mami. She’s asked me to take you to Hopper Hut in Walthamstow for some authentic hoppers.’ She laughed, as did Dhara. Dhara could get the coconut milk pancakes from her local hopper restaurant in Colombo. Priya wanted Dhara to make sure Smrithi was eating properly. She was under instructions to go to Walthamstow in east London, bulk-buy Sri Lankan food and restock Smrithi’s freezer. Priya had been in London for the birth of Smrithi’s second child a few months ago and she was concerned her daughter’s freezer might have already run out of food.

As Smrithi juggled the new baby, her toddler Ahalya and various other tasks, Dhara felt confident her daughter could pull together a meal or two.

Smrithi handed the baby to her. She took him gingerly. Like Ahalya, he was exquisite; created perfectly in the image of his mother. She lowered her face to his, inhaling the space between his jaw and neck. It was warm and milky.

Smrithi laughed again, ‘Amma does that too. It must be a Sri Lankan thing.’

Dhara smiled self-consciously. ‘I am still amazed by how beautiful they are,’ she said.

‘Me too,’ Smrithi replied. ‘Appa always laughs when I say that. He tells me that even the blackest mother crow thinks its chicks are golden.’