‘Sinhala Only’, the monks said, was not just about language; it was about Buddhism’s return to greatness. Rajan could see it was about racial supremacy, hidden in the rhetoric of religion and the fine detail of domestic policy.

When Nala returned from the toilet, he took her aside before she could disappear into the whispering circle of silk and taffeta.

‘What is going on?’ he hissed. ‘Why are you all going to the bathroom?’

‘It’s the toilet,’ she exploded.

‘Shh, shh, what are you talking about?’ His wife was non compos mentis—the short period of decadent exposure to these ninnies had rendered her either simple or insane.

‘It’s the toilet,’ she repeated, as if that explained everything. And then, looking around to make sure they weren’t being overheard, she conspiratorially dropped her voice and whispered, ‘It’s gold-plated. The toilet is gold-plated. It’s—’

‘Yes, yes, I heard you.’ At least he thought he had heard her. Did she just say the toilet was gold-plated? He had to see this for himself.

CHAPTER 6

Colombo, 1959

Nala loved everything about their new home in Cinnamon Gardens. She loved its internal courtyard and the verandah that started at the front door and hugged the body of the house all the way around. She loved the upright toilets and running water in the bathrooms—and what that said about them. She feigned enthusiasm for the small open-air kitchen at the back, where Ayah could deep-fry, and the larger, covered kitchen next to it. She wouldn’t know what to do in either, but Ayah and her new protégé Priya would. She was bemused by her eleven-year-old daughter’s interest in all things domestic—Priya must have inherited it from the other side of the family.

She was proud of Rajan’s new surgery and waiting room that had been built on the side of the house. It was clean and organised. She had never been entirely happy with him working from home, but he had insisted on having his private surgery at the house. He was hardly the type to suggest mid-afternoon hanky-panky—he was far more likely to offer instructions on how she could improve the running of the household, and she certainly didn’t want that.

But Rajan’s practice was growing. She wandered around the empty waiting room imagining herself greeting his patients, shaking hands like the sophisticated lady she was, laughing at their compliments, blushing modestly. ‘No, no, Mr Seneviratne, you are too kind. This old thing? We’ve had that Victorian table for years,’ and, ‘Yes, Reverend Niles, I painted that myself. Oh, you are lovely to say that. I just dabble a little in painting; I’m not really an artist.’