The dining table was one of the few pieces of her grandparents’ furniture that remained in the house. Most of it, including Rajan’s personal medical library, had been donated to the Jaffna Hindu College and replaced with cheaper, simpler furniture. Nala had given Smrithi strict instructions before she left for Colombo. She was to organise Dhara’s belongings. Letters, photos and jewellery should be brought back to Sydney; everything else should be given to the Ramakrishna Mission orphanage.

‘I have a man, Smrithi, who takes my things,’ Nala offered by way of explanation.

‘What do you mean you have a man who takes your things? Is someone stealing from you?’ Smrithi asked, concerned.

‘No,’ she laughed through her sobs, ‘I have a friend, actually he was Rita Matthews’ friend. Those Matthews always were very well connected. Whenever I call him, he goes to the house in Cinnamon Gardens and takes whatever I ask him to take—he delivers it to the Hindu College or to Swami Satchithanandan who runs the Ramakrishna Mission in Colombo. The Swami then has it transported to their missions in Batticaloa. It’s harder to get items to the north, but sometimes he does that too. He’s a good man.’

When Smrithi arrived in Colombo, she surveyed her grandparents’ old almairahs, expecting to see the colourful reams of Nala’s saris and the starched army of Rajan’s shirts. Priya and Nandan often criticised their parents for bringing too many of their belongings with them to Sydney. The truth was that most of their belongings had been left behind, in cupboards and camphorwood chests, in Cinnamon Gardens, awaiting their eventual return. Smrithi opened the cupboards but found them empty.

Nala had known they weren’t coming back. Over the years, with Dhara’s help and Rita Matthews’ man in Colombo, she had found ways to give their belongings to people who needed them more.

The house looked different from the memories of Smrithi’s childhood. It was withering. The once glowing floors had dulled, the tightening of skin causing cracks where previously there had been a flawless complexion. The corners were too far to reach for old hands, and colonies of spiders were appropriating the widening shadows of every room. The air around her was stagnant, where once the powerful lungs of her grandparents’ home had refreshed and replenished them all with the easy flex of its muscle.

‘What do you want to do with this place, mahal?’ Sulethi asked her. Smrithi smiled at her use of the Tamil word. ‘We are too old to live here anymore, I think.’

‘Perhaps. Are you comfortable here, Aunty?’ Smrithi asked.