Other things soothed her too: the memory of Appa taking her with him on his ward rounds. She almost came up to his belt, her head level with the Motorola pager that he clipped onto it.

‘This is my daughter—Smrithi,’ he announced proudly to the nurses, his big hand squeezing her small one.

‘She’s beautiful, Dr Siva,’ they cooed. ‘She looks just like you.’

‘Thank you,’ he replied, never missing a beat. ‘She’s much better looking than me. When she grows up, I think she’ll look just like Priya. She’s smart like Priya too—Smrithi, tell them the chambers of the heart.’

The chambers of my heart, she whispered to herself.

She called her father.

‘How could you not tell me, Appa? How could you love me?’

‘There was nothing to tell, mahal. You are my daughter,’ he replied. He was so clinically comforting.

‘You’ve always believed in crazy things,’ she smiled, wiping away her tears. ‘Like Tamil Eelam, and what was that other place—Lemuria.’

‘As you well know, Smrithi, Lemuria is—or was—a real place. Much of the south Asian civilisation began from this sunken landmass. There was a great Tamil civilisation there from as early as 50,000BC,’ he said proudly. ‘It predates any other ethnic group in the area. If it wasn’t for that great flood, the entire sub-continent could have been ruled by Tamils.’

‘That’s the one,’ she laughed. ‘It’s a pity it was submerged by the ocean. As I said, Appa, you’re a great believer in impossible dreams.’

‘Have some faith, Smrithi,’ Siva replied.

‘Goodbye, Appa. I’ll see you soon.’ She looked at the lorikeets stripping the watermelon-coloured berries from the lilly pilly tree outside. They were so busy.

Sydney, 2010

‘What happened next, Parta, what happened next?’ the children chimed at their grandfather. As a reward for them not using the word ‘poo’ during their home religion class, Siva had agreed to tell them a story from the Ramayana. He was slowly lowering the bar of conduct expected in these weekly classes. As a religion teacher at the local temple, he expected discipline and respect from his students. As a grandfather, he wondered how long it would be before his grandchildren asked about the monkey’s bottom.

‘You tell me what has happened so far, children,’ he replied.

Rishi responded quickly. ‘The bad king Ravana stole Rama’s queen from her home and took her to his kingdom. Sita was a prisoner in Lanka, which is where you came from.’

‘Very good, Rishi. Lord Rama sent his monkey warrior Hanuman to Lanka to rescue Sita. He gave Hanuman his ring so that Sita would trust him and know that he had been sent by Rama.’

‘Why didn’t Rama just text her, Parta?’

Rishi rolled his eyes at his elder sister. ‘Because, Ahalya, they didn’t have mobile phones in the olden days.’