Nala watched him push the remains of his rice, snake beans and aubergine curry to the side of his plate. He hadn’t even touched the fried bitter gourd curry. She made a mental note to talk to Ayah about her cooking. The old maid was getting a little lazy and today’s curry could have been better. The bitter gourd was too bitter and the beans were too salty. She had told Ayah over and over again, Rajan’s mother had high blood pressure and salt made her dizzy. She would have to start supervising Ayah again.

‘We need to leave,’ Rajan said quietly in Tamil instead of English. Vasanthi, the young servant girl, was still clearing the plates, and he waited for her to finish.

‘Leave? We don’t have plans tonight do we?’ Nala replied, confused. Why was Rajan always so thrifty with words? He could never explain anything properly.

‘I mean that we need to leave Colombo,’ he said.

His attempt at elaboration was frustrating her further.

‘What are you talking about, Rajan? We don’t need to leave anywhere.’

‘We do. We need to get out of Colombo; there is nothing here for us.’

Now that was dramatic. Finally, he was showing a little flair, after only fourteen years of re-training.

‘Everything is here for us. Where would we go? Kandy?’ she asked hopefully. She loved her years in the hill-country and still missed her old friends, the sophisticated ladies and lifestyle, even her old painting master. Perhaps she could start painting again. In recent years, between Rajan’s busy practice and the children, she hadn’t had as much time to paint as she would have liked. She suddenly caught herself. Why was she planning a new life in Kandy; what was wrong with their current one?

‘What are you talking about?’ she asked again. He wasn’t making any sense, which was unusual for him. She watched him as he rubbed the sides of his head and exhaled slowly.

Before he could answer, Vasanthi returned with a plate of mangoes and a small knife. Nala took the plate and motioned to Vasanthi to leave. She peeled back thin strips of skin. Usually more adept, she was holding the soft fruit too tightly, its juice trickling between the taut tendons of her forearm.

‘Have your dessert,’ she said, brusquely placing the mangled fruit on his side plate.

‘We need to leave Ceylon, Nala. You know exactly what I mean and you know why.’

She sighed deeply. ‘You always fear the worst, Rajan, always. Bandaranaike is dead and a new parliament will give us a new chance.’