She ladled the mixture onto the pan in a circular motion. Her hands were too slow now, her grip on the large spoon slipping as her fingers struggled with its slender stem, her shoulder pushing back against her forward movement. But she was still able to create concentric layers of pancake, just the way Rajan liked it. He said it reminded him of the moon, orbited by thin, crispy rings on the outside. She added a tablespoon of coconut chilli sambal to the side of the plate, but no sambar. He didn’t like the thick vegetable gravy anymore.

She placed the plate at the table where he was waiting silently, and sat with him.

‘You’re not eating?’ he asked.

‘I’m not hungry yet,’ she replied. Everything tasted the same to her. Like burned, salted sugar. She watched him eat a few mouthfuls. She was empty. She wanted to suffer. She wanted to feel pain or sickness, something other than the unbearable weight of uncertainty. Every night her imagination coloured a blank canvas with horrors she had only ever heard about.

‘You haven’t eaten properly for weeks. Not eating isn’t going to help her,’ he said softly.

‘Nothing is going to help her, Rajan,’ she replied, thinking about the dream last night. She had been dreaming about Mohan a lot lately.

She had called everyone in Colombo who knew Dhara. Shiranthi’s parents, the Pereras, had a spare key to her apartment. Dhara had lived there with her mother until Vani’s death, a few years ago. Then she had continued to live there alone. The Pereras had checked the apartment—it was fine: clean, orderly, but empty. Nothing seemed to be missing, but they wouldn’t know if it was.

Dhara was missing. No one had seen her. Nala spoke to Dhara’s colleagues at Colombo General Hospital. They directed her to the Tamil Medical Institute. Dhara had been collaborating with the organisation, testifying with other doctors and nurses who worked at hospitals in the No Fire Zones. They were documenting what happened. The report, not yet finished, cited eyewitness reports of army and Tiger attacks on civilians in what were supposed to be safe zones for them.

Nala didn’t care. Savagery no longer surprised her.

Dhara hadn’t been seen for seven weeks. Her colleagues had done everything they could think of—filed police reports, contacted politicians and the local branch of the ICRC, as well as Amnesty International and other human rights organisations. They had even hired a team of private investigators.

‘They won’t find her, will they?’ she asked. It was a question, but there was no doubt in her voice.

‘No, they won’t find her. I should have made her come with us. I should have known …’ his voice faltered. ‘It’s time to tell Smrithi,’ he said slowly, ‘We waited too long. Tell Priya it’s time.’ His face, the jaw, the mouth were resolute once again.