‘I make certain annual donations, mahal. There is the Hindu College and the orphanage at the Ramakrishna Mission in Jaffna. There are a couple of other places.’ He gave her a large box with receipts carefully organised and filed in separate envelopes.

‘Also,’ Rajan continued, ‘Vani and Mohan’s family is still back home. I help them, but I don’t want to trouble you …’

‘I would be happy to continue the help, Appa, we all would. Really, it’s no trouble,’ she replied. She couldn’t look at him. She thought she was going to cry.

‘I should have enough savings for your Amma and the commitments back home,’ he said.

‘I’m sure you do, Appa, but we can also manage it. The three of us have enough. We would be happy to maintain those commitments.’

She flicked through her father’s account book. He still noted every deposit and every withdrawal in a small book, using the same ledger system he had taught Nandan years ago.

‘What’s this, Appa?’ she asked, suddenly noticing a withdrawal for three thousand dollars with no description. It was not like him—what could he have spent three thousand dollars on? He only ever went to the fruit market at Strathfield and her house for dinner.

‘That is nothing,’ he replied.

‘Appa—’

‘It’s nothing. It’s done.’ His mouth tightened. He folded his hands together. ‘One last thing—I have a friend here in Sydney, Balachandran—Bala, you will remember him. I will give you his phone number. He knows people in Colombo who help … who help people leave. I want you to call him and start making arrangements for Dhara. I have the money.’

‘Appa—it’s never been about the money—it’s …’

‘I know, mahal. You must tell Dhara, and then we must tell Smrithi. It’s time.’ His hands relaxed and Priya reached over and held them. They were so frail.

‘Yes, Appa,’ she whispered.

She looked up and saw her mother at the door. Nala smiled at her and motioned for her to come and eat. She had cooked crab curry. Priya went to the bathroom to wash her hands before dinner.

Nala sat at the table next to Rajan. She looked at the account book. Rajan’s handwriting was like calligraphy. He had been taught to write by Christian missionaries who valued aesthetics. He had no time for aesthetics but he understood perfection. She ran her fingers over the numbers, 3 0 0 0. It was a lot of money, but she didn’t ask.

He looked down. ‘It was a gift.’

‘I know,’ she replied. She had seen Bala leave the apartment that day. He had tears in his eyes as he greeted her with the traditional Vanakkam, his palms folded together in respect.

‘Do you mind?’ he asked his wife.

She was surprised. He had never asked her if she minded, not once in their entire life together.