‘They’re for Smrithi.’

•

Nala called Smrithi over to her apartment on the pretext of looking at old photos. Smrithi used to love looking at them before—before, she had been happy to spend hours with her grandmother, reading her notebooks and letters, while Nala talked about old times. She had prepared a box for Smrithi today, containing photos of Priya and Dhara as children.

First, Smrithi wanted to make a glass of faloodah. She liked cutting the coloured agar-agar, making sure she had equal portions of the green and red jelly.

‘You cut the agar-agar like your mother,’ Nala said. ‘The pieces are all uniform.’

‘Which mother?’ Smrithi asked. She took her glass and went to the living room before Nala could reply.

Smrithi sat on the floor, cross-legged and leaning against the sofa. Nala sat beside her on the sofa, propping cushions around her aching back and hips.

‘How are you, darling? Are you managing?’ she asked. Smrithi began sorting through the photos and answered without looking up.

‘It’s been fine, hard at times, I suppose, but fine.’

Fine. Smrithi was not one for ‘fine’. Neither was Nala.

She tried again. ‘Amma says you haven’t spoken to each other for a while.’

Again, Smrithi didn’t respond. She continued to sort photos, occasionally stopping to sip her drink. She had Rajan’s sorting gene.

Nala had asked herself a question for almost thirty-three years: Why didn’t they tell Smrithi? The easiest answer was because Dhara made them promise not to until she was ready. It wasn’t easy to lie, but it was easier than telling the truth—the truth that Smrithi had been born of violence, but birthed by love. That in recording how she had been conceived, they must remember the inconceivable.

She told Smrithi: ‘Darling, your parents begged Dhara to move to Australia. They wanted you to know the truth, but as time went on, it became harder for all of them.’

The young woman stopped playing with the photographs and put them down. Sitting on the floor, she drew her knees to her chest and hid her face in them, crying harsh tears. Nala sat with her, stroking her hair.

‘Ammamma,’ she asked finally. ‘Ammamma—when Dhara ma … mami gave me away … was she disgusted by me? I can’t imagine giving away my child, my own child.’ She shook her head, her voice trembling. ‘I look at my daughter and I could never let her go. I think I must have reminded Dhara mami of what happened to her. I must have been a constant, repulsive reminder. Did she hate me? Maybe I would hate me too. Maybe I would be disgusted …’

‘No, ende chelle kunju,’ Nala said in a stream of endearments and tears. She reached down painfully to hold her granddaughter.

‘She wasn’t disgusted. She loved you. You reminded her that she lived when she could have died. She loved you and she wanted to protect you.’