He turned away from her, his eyes stinging from the rebuke of her angry tears. Priya and Dhara had finished their ice creams and were standing at the water’s edge, staring into the horizon. The breeze caught Priya’s hat and skirt: she grabbed both, pinning them down. He loved his children’s laughter; it was rich and unfettered. Once Priya started, she couldn’t stop. Dhara followed her, laughing too: both of them linking arms and letting the water lap at their feet.

In that moment the girls were so young and free and happy, watching the water together. The Indian Ocean was bluest around Colombo, he thought fancifully, more stunning than the depths of a Ceylon sapphire. It was a beautiful day.

•

The horoscopes had not matched. Dhara and Siva were astrologically incompatible. Old Uncle Tharmo asked his astrologer to check the charts again and again. He confirmed Dhara’s time of birth, the Hindu astrology almanac was consulted, and her chart was redrawn from scratch. The new chart was compared with Siva’s once more—and once more it revealed an incontrovertible astrological incompatibility.

The astrologer quietly explained to Nala that the planets in Dhara’s chart were not favourable for marriage at the moment, or for the next few years. Rajan thought the astrologer was an idiot and told her so.

By this time, Nala had made her own enquiries about the young doctor and had fallen into a state of maternal love with him. She quietly asked Uncle Tharmo to check Siva’s chart, which she now knew by memory, against another, different one. Siva and Priya were highly compatible.

•

Dhara unfolded the soft cloth, revealing an array of scalpels, forceps, clamps and retractors. She had two small bone saws, surgical sheets and piles of gauze, which she pulled out of a bag at her feet. She laughed as Priya’s eyes widened in disbelief and admiration.

‘How on earth did you get those?’ Priya asked, shaking her head.

‘I told the theatre nurse they were for Rajan mama.’ Dhara was very pleased with herself.

‘You lied?’

‘Yes, but in the name of medical research,’ she laughed as she arranged the implements in order of blade size, the way her uncle had shown her. She wouldn’t have dared take scalpels from his surgery.

Together the cousins spread surgical sheets on the cement floor of the family kitchen, weighting the corners of each with Ayah’s heavy pots. They were meticulous in their work, lining up the edges of the sheets, the same way they made their bed together every morning. They stood back and surveyed the makeshift operating theatre. They were ready.