Rajan’s surgery had been closed for several weeks during the riots and he would now have a backlog of patients to deal with. The doors to his clinic would open in two hours and there was still some preparation to do.

She arranged her husband’s instruments the way he had taught her. Carefully, with steel tongs, she pulled them steaming out of the steriliser and placed them on his surgical tray in the right order. The metal caught the early morning light, reflecting it around the neatly ordered clinic, creating its only chaos. She checked that the water dispenser was full and equipped with enough cups for today’s patients. She put out a tray of biscuits, love cake and milk toffee, and straightened his copies of Reader’s Digest magazines, the only reading material for the waiting patients.

She checked his patient list to see if there was anyone special she should greet herself. His practice was thriving, and it was not uncommon for clergymen, politicians and ambassadors to want to see him. Although he made no distinction between his patients, Nala enjoyed the celebrity of their life. He had earned it, and she had earned it too. Without her, how would he know how to receive these people, how to engage and entertain them? They lived in Colombo 7 and they had to act accordingly.

She frowned as she read the morning’s patient list. Rajan continued to see his old patients, their children, and their children’s children. Payment would be offered in blessings, contributions of small livestock, or food and invitations to weddings in distant villages. Many of them had travelled for days to see him, exhausted and hungry when they arrived. He insisted that these patients were treated and fed with the same generosity and grace as Cardinal Bartholomew, whose tonsils he would be taking out later that afternoon. When would Rajan learn? She sighed. She would have to instruct Ayah to make extra food for the day.

Suddenly, she heard banging at the front gate of the house.

‘Iyah, Iyah, open the gate please, sir, open the gate!’

She ran to the front verandah, closely followed by Rajan and Ayah. They were cautious, even though the voice was calling Rajan by his respectful title. The man banged on the gate again, desperately this time.

‘Nala, get back inside. Take Ayah,’ Rajan said fearfully. She sent Ayah into the house but she stood her ground next to her husband.

‘Iyah, Iyah, please, I beg you, open the gate, I have the Prime Minister. He’s hurt!’