‘Then ask your mother for help,’ he said. ‘I need to rest now, Smrithi; it was good to see you. Come over more often, won’t you?’ He kissed her gently.

Nala looked at him, old and grey, in his precise and crisp shirt and his polished shoes. The edges were fraying. It was hard to imagine they were ever so young once that there was more of their life ahead of them than behind them. He unbuttoned his shirt slowly. He did everything slowly now. He would put on his sarong and have an afternoon nap, as he did every day. His naps were getting longer.

‘Don’t be angry at your mother, Smrithi. You are entitled to your pain, to all of it,’ she said quietly, offering her a curried mutton roll and another tissue. ‘But don’t be angry. Be grateful, darling, while you still have time.’

•

Nala cast her mind back to a conversation. She couldn’t remember if it was the one when Smrithi was a child, or later when she had almost finished school, or university. They were all so similar, the memories. Their frames had faded away, leaving a panorama of repeating images and words in different decades.

Dhara called her. She was ready to talk, to explain, and to reclaim.

‘She deserves to know, Nala mami. I want her to know how much I love her. I ache for her every day. I see her all around me. Everything makes me think of her.’

‘I know, mahal. It must be so hard, I can’t imagine how you feel,’ Nala replied.

She didn’t need to imagine. She still carried the feeling inside her: when Rajan took the last baby from her hands. She loved him no less than the others. She could see the lines of his small body, she could recall the smell of his paper-thin skin, and she could remember the name she whispered into his tiny ear.

‘Mohan. Your name is Mohan.’ She kissed him and rested her forehead on his. Rajan touched her shoulder. She held on. He insisted. He had to pry her fingers from her son. She watched him gently wrap the child in a blanket, tucking the folds tightly, swaddling him for an eternal sleep. He covered the small face, the tiny peak of the nose, the barely open nostrils, the sealed eyes, the prayerful hands. The perfect lips.

The feeling—the loss—was there, constantly at first, then daily, and then less often but still present. Bubbles of pain that rose to the surface, as though from a long-forgotten submarine that slept on the ocean floor, entombing all life within.

‘Mami, please help me—help me tell her. I’ve spoken to Priya and she agrees, it’s time. She’s scared about Smrithi’s reaction, but she agrees. She wants to tell the truth too.’