No. Fire. Zone. Three inaccurate words. She must remember to tell Rajan; he would appreciate the irony. Dhara loved Rajan, Smrithi, Priya and Nala. She loved Nandan and Siva. And her Amma and Appa. She loved reading Rohinton Mistry novels, eating puttu, omelette and coconut chilli sambal, and listening to American country music, although she never told anyone about that. As she worked, she tried to remember the words to ‘Don’t Come Home A-Drinkin’ by Loretta Lynn. That woman could sing.

They used the church as a hospital. It was large. Its four walls and most of its roof were intact. It had been stripped of its pews, the precious wood used for cooking fires. The pulpit remained and they turned it on its side, fashioning its sturdy teak front into an operating table. They stored their equipment and meagre supplies in suitcases and bags in different parts of the building. It was safer than keeping everything together.

Each wing of the church was a ward: children in the chancel and sanctuary; operating theatre in the right wing of the transept; priority post-op and ICU in the left wing; triage, burns and everyone else in the knave. The dying and the moderately malnourished were left to camp outside, under plastic sheets, old sacks, cardboard, palmyra mats, anything they could scrounge or make to provide shelter from the blistering sun and the last of the monsoonal rain.

On the battered and scabbed roof of the church, they painted a blood red cross. The drones could see it, and it was all they could do to protect themselves. It drew the sick and the dying, and they prayed it would deter the army. The steady beat of shelling was getting louder.

‘Suren, call them again!’ Dhara shouted at her friend. She was gloved and cutting open the collapsed vein of a two-year-old to insert an IV. The child jerked when she made the initial incision, but then he just looked at her, eyes empty and drained, too tired to cry from the pain. His mother sat with him on the floor, holding his arm steady with one hand, and stroking his hair with her other.

Suren ran to the portable radio phone and made the call, his hands shaking as he shouted their GPS co-ordinates into the mouthpiece. They had advised the Red Cross of their new location two days ago and again yesterday when they realised the shelling was coming closer. The Red Cross assured them each time that they had informed the army.

She heard the running before she heard the explosion. People picking up their children, picking up their injured, and running. She could hear running, then an explosion, followed by another and another. It started with a low whistle and then a roar. And then screams.