At Gal Oya, he was taken to a school hall that had been converted into a hospital ward. He explained whom he was looking for to the old man in charge. The man was wearing a doctor’s white coat and carried a clipboard, which he would refer to from time to time as he weaved Rajan through the rows of makeshift beds.

‘The little girl is all right, frightened but all right. I put her with the other children to give the mother a chance to rest,’ the old man said, stopping at the first patient Rajan had come for. Dhara, Mohan’s eight-year-old daughter, was lying on a woven palm-leaf mat, with a group of girls. Her body was curled tightly into itself. He knelt down beside her and she shuddered as he touched her. She turned to look at him and recognised him immediately, crawling quickly into his arms. She didn’t cry but her small body shook uncontrollably.

‘Put your head against my chest, Dhara, and concentrate on my breathing,’ he said as he began to tap a rhythm on her back. ‘Listen to that rhythm and only that rhythm,’ he whispered. When she finally began to relax into his arms a little, he picked her up and placed her back on the mat.

‘I will get Amma, mahal. Then I will come back for you,’ he said to her. She wouldn’t let go of him and he gently prised her arms away, placing one of her hands on her own chest. ‘Tap the beat on your chest. Focus only on that—I’ll be back for you as soon as I find Amma. I promise.’

He stood up and asked, ‘Where is the mother?’ The old man was still standing awkwardly next to him.

‘The mother, well the mother, the mother has been …’ the old man stumbled, not comfortable saying the word aloud to Rajan. ‘She will heal,’ he pushed on, ‘but it will take more time. I can give you dressings and napkins for the … the wound. But her mind, Dr Rajan, I’m not sure about her mind. It would be good if you could take the family back, they can’t stay here indefinitely,’ the old man finished, relieved to be at the end of his report. He hated these conversations and there were too many of them lately.

They finally stopped at Vani’s bed where she was sitting quietly. Rajan thanked the old man who excused himself and left. He touched her lightly on the shoulder and she stared at him, not recognising him. He wasn’t sure if she recognised herself, she seemed confused and uncertain of her surroundings. Her clothes were torn and bloodstained, shreds hanging as limply as her bruised arms and matted hair. She had been hurt in the oldest way by the oldest weapon.

‘Vani, it’s me, Rajan,’ he said softly, ‘Nala’s husband.’