The library was open only until three o’clock, but Rajan, in his neatly pressed shirt, would disappear quietly behind the piles of books. They formed tall, haphazard towers, like anthills all over the rooms. He would emerge hours later and disappear outside just as quietly. The curator, Mr Kanagasabai, noticed and followed him one day. The old man found him organising the books.

‘You’re not supposed to be here son—there are rules about opening hours and there is a committee … the committee won’t like it,’ he said without much conviction. Rajan looked up at him, surprised to be interrupted. He was reading Gray’s Anatomy again. He had memorised all of the body’s systems; he was mapping the trajectory of different diseases so that he would be prepared the next time sickness came to his home. It took several moments for him to find his voice.

‘Iyah,’ he addressed the curator respectfully. ‘I was just reading,’ he offered as a full response.

‘I know, son. I can see that,’ the old man replied. ‘I love to read too; although my eyes are not as good as they used to be. My Amma told me I went through her candles too quickly.’

‘Me too,’ Rajan relaxed a little. ‘Will I get in trouble if I stay here?’

‘No,’ Mr Kanagasabai replied. ‘But I will.’

The old man looked at the order Rajan had created and sighed, finally saying, ‘Come back tomorrow. Bring a notepad and pen, and some cloths. We need to clean the manuscripts before we file them.’

Rajan closed his book and blew out the candle. Tomorrow he would go with Amma to Jaffna town again.

Tellippalai village, Jaffna province, 1936

Nala balanced precariously on her cousin-brother’s back, peering into her mother’s window. Mohan had positioned himself on all fours, among the tickling fingers of their grandmother’s fern shrubs. He was only two years older than Nala, but at ten he was already much bigger and stronger than her. Mohan liked to lift sacks of coconuts to grow his muscles. He told her that was what MG Ramachandran did before he became an actor. Nala’s parents had gone to see MGR’s first film with Mohan’s parents. Nala asked if they could go too, but her mother had said, ‘Chee chee, it’s not for children.’

Nala wasn’t sure why or what was for children. As usual she wouldn’t listen to Mohan when he told her that spying on her sick mother probably wasn’t for children either. She climbed down from his back and sat next to him under the window.

‘It’s her presha,’ she composed her face into her best medical expression.

‘Her presha?’ Mohan questioned.

‘Yes, her presha.’ She rolled her eyes as though everyone was supposed to know what ‘presha’ was.

‘It’s like demensha,’ she continued.