He didn’t like talking to people anymore. He spoke when it was necessary. It was an economy of words that people mistook for an economy of emotion. He didn’t need to speak much, given that Nala usually spoke for both of them. When he was younger, he could review the histories of the following day’s patients in his head, while she carried on a one-sided exchange. If she was in a particularly argumentative mood, he could review the whole week’s patients while she fought with herself on his behalf.

He used to listen to the BBC World Service every morning on the radio. He didn’t even like the news anymore. He’d heard it all before: the decades were different but the problems were the same.

Smrithi tried to tell him about a new group of radical Buddhist monks that had emerged in Sri Lanka. They sounded just like the old group. They were inciting riots against the Muslims now. Sri Lanka was a Buddhist nation, they said, with no place for Muslims. The monks accused the ‘Moors’ of stealing Sinhala women to take as their wives, and indoctrinating Sinhala children in their ways. Rumours quickly fomented into violence in their infected island. The government did nothing. Rajan asked Smrithi not to tell him any more.

He shuffled slowly to their shrine. It was small but sufficient. He said a quiet prayer to Lord Ganesha and thanked him for removing the obstacles of their life. Nala had placed a bowl of sweets for his deity. Lord Ganesha should cut down on the sugar. The incidence of heart disease among Hindus was very high, and given the Elephant God’s BMI he was also in a high-risk category for type 2 diabetes. He laughed and asked the Lord to forgive his irreverence.

He dipped his fingers in the remains of the thirunuru bowl. Vivek had dropped by yesterday with his two youngest children. They had raided the shrine and were found quietly eating the Lord’s fruit, covered in holy ash and decked out in several layers of Nala’s prayer beads, as well as her enormous brassieres.

He dusted off his fingers so he wouldn’t spill ash on the floor, and walked to the photographs of his family that adorned the corridor wall. He placed holy ash on each of the dead. Closing his palms and his eyes again, he thanked them for the life they had bestowed upon him. First, Nala’s parents, who had given him his wife. Then the photograph of his parents, taken when he was only eight. His mother looked so strong. His fingers lingered as he placed the ash on her.

Then the photos of their siblings. To Mohan he prayed for forgiveness. The words enne manichidu asked for something deeper than the English language could convey; could perhaps feel.