‘Sivanandan,’ she whispered again—the son of Lord Shiva. ‘It will work this time Rajan, I know it will. I’m going to name him Sivanandan. Nandan for short.’

He nodded, his eyes shining in the shadows. He took her hand and led her from the hall of light.

Colombo, 1956

Violence happened quickly. The Tamil Federal Party had staged a sit-in, in front of the parliament house, protesting against the new Prime Minister’s language policy. Peaceful sit-ins had worked for Gandhi, they agreed, as they set up a large camp of Tamil leaders, politicians and others. A minister from the Sri Lanka Freedom Party formed his own mob. They turned on the Tamil sit-in first and then later rioted, destroying local Tamil businesses.

Nala had asked Rajan why they targeted the Tamil businesses. He mumbled something about common criminals and petty jealousy. ‘It was like this for the Jews in the beginning,’ he said. She didn’t know what their riots had to do with the terrible things that had happened in Germany, but she didn’t want to probe him. Surprisingly, the violence ended in Colombo almost as quickly as it had started.

Rajan returned home late again, tired and breathless. ‘Turn on the radio,’ he said, more curt than usual, as he unbuttoned his shirt. He was the only surgeon at Colombo General to wear a full-sleeved shirt, despite the heat. Tonight, as he peeled off his shirt, she could see the shine on his short, compact body. The hairs on his chest were starting to grey and they were wet now, with a mixture of sweat and monsoon rain.

‘The radio, turn on the radio,’ he barked again.

She hated it when he talked to her like that. Why couldn’t he talk in full, loving sentences? How hard was it to start with kunju and end with please? Her friends’ husbands all had pet names for their wives. Rajan just started his sentences with, ‘I say,’ if he was in a good mood. ‘I say, could you bring me my coat?’ ‘I say, could I have some more kadalai curry?’

‘My name is not “I say”,’ she would retort in the early years, but she had given up now. It was the closest she was going to get to darling, and she had come to expect it, perhaps even like it a little.

She certainly preferred it to the tone he was using now; the brusque, almost rude tone of a man whose mind was elsewhere, who was constantly busy or distracted and had no time for small talk.

‘What is the matter with you?’ she demanded.

‘Shush!’ he replied, his fingers adjusting the knobs of their radio. He was looking for a different channel.