Nala hid behind her easel as Philomena’s voice rose. ‘Nehru and India have had their “tryst with destiny” and now the time for ours has come too.’ That tryst ended in a great deal of bloodshed for the Hindus and Muslims, but Nala didn’t dare remind Philomena.

Inevitably, Viktoria Khilkov started baiting their hostess. The older woman’s aristocratic upbringing should have given her a better sense of politeness.

‘Philomena, you are sweet, but I’ve seen all of this before in Russia,’ Viktoria said, interrupting her flow. ‘I’ve heard the talk about giving power back to the people. People are stupid, and those who know better should rule them. In this case, those who know better also know how to harness people with rhetoric that has far too much resonance. It’s no wonder that Tamil politicians are worried.’

Nala avoided looking at either of the ladies; embarrassed for Philomena and afraid of Viktoria, she kept her attention firmly on her palette and the hill-country green she was trying to re-create.

‘Exile has made you hard, Viktoria,’ Philomena responded. ‘This is a chance for our nation to—’

‘Philomena, this island has never been a nation,’ Viktoria interrupted her again. ‘It was just three separate tribal kingdoms. You should know that—you’ve heard the hill-country Sinhalese talk about wanting a state for themselves; they want their old Kandyan kingdom back. Ceylon was forced together as one colony, not a nation—a zone really, for administrative convenience, run by one of the finest civil services in the world. Ceylon is the spice shelf in the Empire’s pantry cupboard, nothing more.’

‘We will be more, the Sinhala nation will …’ Philomena stopped and looked around, suddenly self-conscious.

‘Oh yes, the Sinhala nation. You really have been reading too much propaganda—UNP or bhikku, it’s all the same. Let me guess, the Mahavamsa?’ Viktoria asked.

The bhikkus had been using the ancient text to prove that Ceylon was a Buddhist and therefore a Sinhalese nation. Rajan said the bhikkus, despite being monks, excelled even more than Viktoria at stirring trouble.

‘Don’t speak about our history like that,’ Philomena replied. Her pink blush deepened to a defensive red, tears catching on her long, carefully coiffed eyelashes.

‘It isn’t history or even literature,’ Viktoria argued. ‘It’s a call to arms, a questionable account of racial superiority, couched in the rhetoric of religion. Every race has its own version, mind you—the problem here is that yours is being used as a political manifesto in Colombo.’