‘Don’t cry, mahal, it’s all right. Promise me you will look after your brothers and sister. If you swim, swim together. If you sink, sink together.’ The thought of her three siblings sinking together made her laugh. None of them could swim except for Nakula, the older twin, who was an excellent athlete. Nala had only ever waded in the ocean, and as a young woman she always wore her sari. She could drown in her modesty, she thought.

Speaking of modesty, she must remember to tell Rita that her bell had almost disrobed a priest at one of Ceylon’s greatest temples. Rita and her family would make a pilgrimage here next month for Easter, and she knew Rita wouldn’t be able to keep a straight face at the altar. Nala was smiling to herself as the group of bhikkus moved past her. The handsome monk caught her eye and smiled back, motioning to the priest who was fortuitously still fully clothed. They both laughed, trying hard not to think about a fallen bell, or worse, a fallen sarong.

She tried once more to pray for her father, and her nose reddened. She silently asked Lord Murugan to grant her a son. She was ready to have another child. She imagined herself holding a boy who would be like Appa in appearance and character: someone handsome, strong and kind, who made her laugh and understood her nature.

•

Blades of afternoon light cleaved through the closed timber shutters of Nala’s room. She sat upright in her bed, forlornly pressing the chikanembroidered shawl on her lap, pushing the furrows away from her until a smooth skin of cream cashmere surrounded her. It had been a gift from Rajan on their honeymoon. They had bought it together from a man at the bazaar who pulled down shawl after shawl from high shelves, unfurling them with a flick and flourish of his wrists. She laughed as colour burst around her, each shawl brighter and more elaborate than the last.

Finally, Rajan said to the man, ‘No, not these.’ He shook his head. ‘Something beautiful: something simple; like her.’ He pointed to Nala and smiled. She smiled back. The man nodded, not understanding English but not needing to. He went to the workshop behind him and returned with material, buttery soft. Silver-white thread weaved an intricate shadow across its body, a flowering vine that moved gracefully from one end of the tapestry to the other. Rajan wrapped his cashmere arms around her tightly and she felt safe, full of hope for the future that sprawled out in front of her like a thousand vibrant shawls.