He woke up in the middle of the night again, adrenaline rushing through him like a cold fever in his blood. He slipped out of bed and went to check on the girls. Nandan was already in their bed on Nala’s side, wedged tightly into the curve of her body.

The girls slept huddled together under a large mosquito net. He touched the muslin lightly without lifting it. He didn’t want to wake them, especially Dhara. At twelve years of age, Priya was already beautiful. She looked just like her mother, only far more serious than most girls her age—more serious than Nala ever looked at any age. Priya even slept gracefully, just as she walked and talked. He was not a superstitious man, but looking at his children he was tempted to spit three times to ward off the evil eye, the way his mother did whenever people complimented them.

He straightened the canopy so it completely covered the girls. From time to time he would check it and sew up any holes or tears. Nala laughed at him and told him to leave that to the servants. But he liked to sew; his mother had taught him and he knew he was more thorough than the servants. His sewing was versatile and not limited to sutures and mosquito nets; he could even make his own undershorts. Whenever Nala saw him doing this, she laughed so hard that her eyes filled with tears. What other surgeon in Colombo 7 stitched his own undershorts, she would ask. He loved to watch her laugh and so he continued to sew his own, long after he could afford to buy them from Marks & Spencer in London.

Priya, Dhara and Nandan. His heart picked up speed, carrying adrenaline through his body and mind into frightened places—places where his children could be hunted down and hurt; where a monk’s burning robe curled around them all. Cinnamon Gardens was safe for now, but for how long? He couldn’t tie the children to this house and its high gates. There would be school, university, jobs, marriage and, eventually, children of their own.

Unable to go back to sleep, Rajan sat in his surgery looking at a map of the world. It had been a gift from the old curator of the Jaffna Library, when he left the north to study in Colombo. The map stretched, inviting and blue across the wall. The world was such a vast place, surely there was somewhere they could go: somewhere they would be safe from riots and growing rage.

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