She felt relief rush through the cracks carved by fear. She saw the froth again. White, frothy foam riding the crest of a wall of water. But the water was cerulean blue this time, not stone. It was the colour of the sky over Colombo, reflected in the mirror of the Indian Ocean. Her chest relaxed slightly for the first time in almost two months; only a notch, but it was enough to let her breathe a little more deeply.

Rajan spoke again. ‘I remember … I remember holding her on the bus when we returned from Gal Oya. She was only eight years old. She sat on my lap the whole way back to Colombo. She didn’t cry, Nala; despite what she’d seen, she didn’t cry. She just shook in my arms. I told her to put her head against my chest and concentrate on my breathing. I tapped a rhythm with my fingers, on her back. Eventually she stopped shaking and slept. I wish I’d never let her go.’

‘We have to let them go, Rajan, it’s what we’re supposed to do. We have to …’ she couldn’t stop the tears now. ‘Dhara used to do that at home too, the tapping, when she was scared. She had those terrible nightmares afterwards. I would lie with her sometimes, and I could hear her tapping her chest to sleep. I always thought it was strange. I wanted to ask you about it, but in the morning I would forget.’

She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. She put her hand on her chest and found her heart, but its rhythm was too painful for her to follow.

•

Nala rose quietly before dawn and assembled the food quickly. She had cooked everything the night before: puttu, omelette and coconut chilli sambal. It was a simple meal. She took the ice cream from the freezer—home-made vanilla. And a glass of cold milk. Dhara didn’t like plain milk, but she really ought to drink more. Nala stirred a spoon of Sustagen into it, for extra strength. She placed the food at the altar, careful not to wake Rajan. Eight days had passed since they had agreed. Eight days after death, her favourite food must be prepared and presented to her. She must eat and then she must go. Nala placed holy ash on the forehead of her child. The photograph had been taken on their last trip to Colombo. She was beautiful.

Nala heard a noise in the kitchen and Rajan entered the study. He shuffled his feet slowly under his sarong. He was also carrying a glass. The suspended green jelly looked like seaweed in a milky pink ocean. ‘For Dhara,’ he said.

•