‘Nala, it says here that Sivaji Ganesan will star in a new movie about Karna. We should see it. Sivaji would make an excellent Karna. He looks like a cursed warrior.’ Rajan showed her the picture of Sivaji on set. The rotund hero of hundreds of Tamil films was dressed in ancient armour and large sunglasses.

When Nala didn’t respond, he talked on. ‘I wonder if the movie will cover the entire Mahabharata. It could go on for hours. The actual war was supposed to be eighteen days long, which by today’s standards would be nothing more than a skirmish between cousins.’

He looked at her as she lay silently on their bed.

‘Laugh, Nala, please laugh,’ he said softly.

She lifted herself up. ‘Do you believe in karma, Rajan?’

‘What?’

‘Do you believe in karma? We’re all taught it, even the Buddhists believe in it. Do you think we’ll be punished for the things we’ve done wrong?’

‘No, Nala, please don’t talk like this. You’re a … you’re a good person.’

‘Karna was a good person too.’

•

Nala got what she wanted—this was the fourth time Rajan had taken her to see the film Karnan.

He didn’t like the cinema. It was expensive and unhygienic: all those people breathing in each other’s air, sweating into seats that others would then sit and sweat in too. When he took the girls, he made them bring towels to sit on.

Nala tried to hide her tears. She had made it through most of the movie surreptitiously wiping her eyes whenever she thought he was too engrossed to notice. Of course he noticed everything: from the movie, to his wife’s tears, to the uncontrollable shaking of the man three rows in front of him—Parkinson’s.

It was funny that after being married for almost two decades, she still thought she could hide things from him. When she watched a film and cried, he knew it wasn’t just the film she was crying about.

Although he complained about wasting his money to see Karnan with her repeatedly, he was secretly pleased when she asked every weekend. He was even more pleased when, at the moment that Karna was struck by the fatal arrow in his chest from his brother Arjuna, she would reach out for his hand and not let go until the end of the film.

Karnan was by far Sivaji Ganesan’s greatest masterpiece. He had outdone himself, capturing the warrior’s sadness with every word, song and twitch of his manicured moustache.