‘I’m supposed to—it’s the tradition,’ he replied. They rarely fought.

‘Interestingly the Gita and the Vedas do not address the issue of who is allowed to pollute public rivers with the remains of relatives.’ Smrithi held out her hand resolutely to Nandan. When he remained silent, she said, ‘I think Amma should do it for Appappa.’

‘Amma—’ Nandan turned to his mother for help.

‘I agree,’ Nala said simply. ‘Priya should do it.’

‘Fine.’ Nandan left the bucket on the sand and stepped away. Priya exhaled. She dipped the bucket into the river and captured a little of it. With a wooden spoon she stirred; solid subsumed in fire and now water. She stirred harder and harder until Smrithi put a hand on her back.

Priya stopped and smiled. It was the first time Smrithi had touched her since they told her. She stood up and waved brazenly at the swimmer. He didn’t wave back. The sun kissed her face. It was a beautiful day. She walked deeper into the water so it lapped her knees. She gently poured her father’s ashes in.

CHAPTER 24

Nala closed her eyes.

Dhara sat on a hospital bed, holding her baby daughter in her arms.

‘Smrithi. I want to name her Smrithi.’

Smrti—that which is remembered.

The child had been named after the Hindu scriptures that were passed down by human memory. Her granddaughter had an excellent memory. Sometimes Nala imagined that all of their family stories were filed away in that carefully ordered mind of Smrithi’s. She was their family’s memory. That thought comforted her—after she died, Smrithi would remember her for the family. Nala, Rajan, Mohan, Dhara and all of the others would not be forgotten. Smrithi would remember and she would tell her children. Perhaps they would tell theirs.

She called her granddaughter again.

‘Smrithi, I have an idea. I want you to go back to Ceylon. I want you to go back to our home and remember Dhara. Remember her and your mother. Do this for me, darling. Your grandfather would have wanted it too.’ Her voice shook when she mentioned Rajan.

‘I’ll start calling people to tell them you’re coming.’

She put the phone down after a long conversation with Smrithi and several follow-up calls to Priya, Siva and Prashanth.

‘Memory, Smrithi, memory,’ she whispered to her empty kitchen.

Colombo, 2010

Smrithi stood at her grandparents’ old dining table with Prashanth and the Pereras. Shiranthi’s parents were too frail to move the heavy black wood of the ornate chairs. Senthan, their elderly servant, stepped forward, but Smrithi asked him to wait. Prashanth moved the chairs for each of them. Sulethi, Shiranthi’s mother, held on to Prashanth tightly as he helped her into her seat.