Rajan finally accepted his son’s choice of wife. Hindu and Buddhist weddings were organised, but even Nala, who loved celebrations, wanted to postpone the ceremonies until Colombo settled down.

The Tamil United Liberation Front had won a resounding victory in the Tamil districts of the north and east. The election was inevitably followed by riots against Tamils across the country.

Rajan tried to dissuade his son. ‘It’s different this time, Nandan. President Jayewardene was open and organised about the violence. He’s shown his true face—there’s no going back now. Let’s wait a few months, it will be safer then.’

Jayewardene was a patient of Rajan’s. He was an urbane and charming man. Nala was troubled by his recent warning to the Tamils: If you want a fight, let there be a fight; if it is peace, let there be peace; that is what they will say. It is not what I am saying. The people of Sri Lanka say that.

But Nandan didn’t care about politics or pogroms. He was sad for the hundreds of dead but he wanted to start his life with Shiranthi. There would always be riots in their home.

•

Dhara tried to sit on the verandah, but the gardener walked past her, smelling of beedi. He probably chewed tobacco more than he smoked it, but the faintest smell made her shake uncontrollably. Nala had to put her to bed with a herbal tonic and a shot of brandy.

She traced the constellation of cigarette burns on her left breast. Last week it felt like the shape of a mango. Today, it was the shape of an anthurium leaf. It pointed downwards to the tracks on the rest of her body.

Nala had been applying neem oil to Dhara’s wounds and scars, massaging her tenderly every day, the way Ayah had done with sesame oil when she was little. The hands of women could read the anatomy of a child’s pain. Neem is a great healer, Nala would say.

Time is a great healer, she had heard one of the doctors say.

Vani visited her every day at Nala’s house. Sometimes they sat in silence; sometimes they held each other and cried.

Eventually, Vani said, ‘You must leave here, mahal. Leave Ceylon.’ She picked the stray threads off the blanket and pulled it across her daughter’s legs. One was still in a brace.

‘I can’t,’ Dhara replied.

‘I don’t want you to stay, please don’t do it for me.’

‘But I want to stay. I’ve always wanted to stay,’ she said.

‘When you were born, your Appa said daughters were good luck for a family. He said daughters would always stay with you, but sons, they run away. I want you to run.’

Dhara blinked back tears. Her mother rarely talked about her father.