She wanted to pick the baby up and hold him again, to cuddle him with the little girl on her lap. She had learned not to regret. It required a soldier’s discipline and a sanyasi’s detachment. She had learned to live through her sister’s joy rather than begrudge it.

But these children, her grandchildren—life began again with them. She found her discipline faltering and her detachment a mirage. An old, suppressed, almost physical ache began to pulse, once more, deep within her belly.

‘No. I have no regrets, mahal,’ she lied. ‘People say that nothing good comes of violence—it’s not completely true. I think violence teaches us to long for peace. I long for peace and I hope the work I do brings some peace to others.’

‘Appa says Rajapaksa means to finish this. You know he doesn’t long for peace. Why don’t you leave now?’ Smrithi asked. Rajan, Nala, Priya—they all asked her the same thing.

The new president hadn’t taken long to make himself Minister of Defence and Finance as well. He was hiring his brothers, cousins and friends for other positions, like a cancer metastasising through the country.

‘The abductions are increasing—Sathya Ponnusamy’s uncle was taken in a white car and never came back. That was months ago.’

‘It would have been a white van,’ Dhara said quietly.

‘What?’ Smrithi asked.

‘A white van—they use white vans, not cars, to take you.’

‘Mami, leave while you still can, before they take you; before the fighting starts again. You could come to Sydney with us.’ Smrithi was struggling to speak, tears falling against her wishes, as she felt the familiar frustration rise. Ahalya went to her mother and she held her close.

Dhara said nothing. There were no words to explain. She was tied to her home, an umbilical cord that nourished her just as easily as it could strangle her. For the first time in years, she found herself wanting to pull against it, hard.

Sydney, 2007

The early disappointments of their new life in Australia shook Smrithi like airplane turbulence. She assumed it was temporary, but she was silently fearful it might be fatal.

‘Migrating is terrifying,’ Nala had warned her. ‘Migrating back home may even be harder. You expect so much more of it—so much more of yourselves. What would you like me to cook for you when you get here?’

Prashanth turned off the television in disgust. ‘Do you think other Australians will think of our children as Australian?’ The local news didn’t fill them with confidence, in particular, stories about boat people. The debate about border security and a global refugee crisis had been sidelined in favour of political mileage.