Nala was now completely confused by both Philomena and Viktoria. She knew that the Tamil politicians wanted the new constitution of Ceylon to guarantee them an equal status in the new country. GG Ponnambalam, the leader of the Tamil Congress, had proposed fifty-fifty representation in parliament, but no one had taken him seriously. Even Rajan thought giving all of the minorities in Ceylon equal representation with the Sinhalese was preposterous in a democracy. She laughed whenever Rajan used the word ‘preposterous’.

Viktoria’s haughty matter-of-factness was too frightening, so Nala turned to Philomena.

‘What do you mean, Philomena? It won’t be the Sinhala nation: it will be Ceylon—for all of us.’ Nala intended the last part of her sentence to come out as a statement but it sounded more like a question. Maybe she wasn’t sure after all. Looking around, none of the ladies looked sure, except for Viktoria who looked at her pityingly.

‘Of course it will be a country for all of us,’ Philomena replied too hastily, too soothingly. ‘The Sinhalese, Tamils, Muslims and Burghers—we’ve lived together for such a long time. We are Ceylonese and we need a democracy that will govern us. That’s what the UNP is negotiating for at the moment with the British.’

‘And what is the Tamil Congress negotiating for?’ asked Viktoria.

‘I beg your pardon?’ Philomena’s face reddened further.

‘You know what I’m talking about. The UNP won’t agree to the constitution because the Tamil Congress is negotiating with the British for minority protections. Why do the Tamils think they need protection?’ Viktoria goaded.

Nala spoke up again, this time more confidently. She felt so much smarter when Rajan wasn’t around to correct her. ‘I just can’t imagine that there will be any problems. I’m sure the British will create a system that protects everyone. The Tamil people wouldn’t need special protection.’

The silence was becoming uncomfortable and made her want to chatter nervously on into the abyss. ‘There is no majority or minority, surely, just Ceylonese—we’re all Ceylonese, aren’t we.’

This time, she was able to control her voice and lower the pitch at the end of her sentence—it was a statement, not a question. Surveying her friends for agreement not reassurance, she gave them what she considered to be a politically wise smile. They looked away, unable to make eye contact with her.

‘Enough talk of politics!’ Philomena clapped her hands, and her maids brought out a fresh pitcher of chilled lime cordial.

‘I want to tell you about my new project. It’s called the Mahatma Gandhi Foundation,’ she said, the shards of chipped ice knocking each other as she raised her glass to her shiny lips.