Nala’s coffee table had been converted into an altar, with a large photo of Rajan as the main deity. She placed a chain of gardenias around him and anointed his forehead with holy ash and kunkumam. Specks of the red powder spilled onto his nose.

‘Sorry,’ she muttered. She wiped his face and continued her work. She had made a plate of thosais for him. The fermented pancakes had come out perfectly. Their edges were crispy and golden. She’d used extra ghee. His heart would be fine. She placed fourteen peanuts on his small silver coaster. He liked to eat them while he watched Keeping Up Appearances, with his brandy aperitif. A cut glass tumbler. A gift from Holsworthy when he retired.

The kitchen was a mess and she left it like that.

Priya brought a wheelie esky containing a dry prawn fried curry, a grated prawn varai curry and a prawn gravy curry.

‘Appa’s favourites,’ she said without tears.

Siva carried the heavy Corningware dish of coffee-trifle pudding and a box of mini Magnums. ‘His favourites,’ he said, crying as he kissed her cheeks.

Smrithi found the pack of Homebrand honeycomb pieces in his study where he’d hidden them. They were no longer crunchy, but Rajan didn’t like to waste.

They all sat on the floor and looked at her. Nala looked at Rajan. Your tidiness was compulsive and annoying. Those British comedies were tiresome after the second re-run. I hate the news. No one shops at sale times only. Normal people talk to each other, they chat, even when they have nothing to say. Normal people compromise not just what they want, but who they are. You were hard and harsh. Sometimes you made me cry. Sometimes you held me as I cried. You said nothing comforting, not one word, but you comforted me. Sometimes, often, you made me laugh, even when you didn’t mean to. I loved you. For sixty-four years I loved you. You made me love you. But today, on your eighth-day ceremony, Rajan, I hate you.

She looked at her family and said nothing. Confused, Priya opened the Sivapuranam, the 108 names of Lord Shiva, and began chanting.

•

On the bottom shelf, her mother had kept Rajan’s receipts from the Pillayar Temple in a large Roses chocolate box. Priya counted them—there were sixty-four donations to the temple in Colombo, one for every year that had passed since he first saw Nala.

She stopped for a moment. She would not cry today. She quickly placed the receipts back in their box and continued her work.

•