Rajan was exasperating—after all these years he still had not learned. Where would he be without her? And why did he have to use words like ‘schism’?

‘Rajan, you have been the doctor to four prime ministers. If he’s asked for an invitation, you can’t say no. It’s an honour, regardless of what you might think of his politics.’

‘His politics? His politics? This is not about politics anymore, Nala; this is people’s lives he’s playing with. One day it might be our lives. You think we are safe here, because we live in this house, in this neighbourhood? This won’t protect us forever.’

She pulled herself up straight and wiped her tears with her sari.

‘I’m not stupid, Rajan. That is exactly why we have to invite and honour Jayewardene. You are a prominent Colombo surgeon, and the President wants to come to our son’s wedding. Look at what happened to Dhara. Use Jayewardene, for your son’s future and our own.’ She softened her argument with a, ‘Please, Rajan, please,’ dropping her shoulders and giving him her most imploring look. But it wasn’t necessary. She had played her hand well and he nodded reluctantly.

•

Dhara could hear screaming. It was coming from down the corridor. Somewhere in another room there was another girl screaming for her father.

‘Appa, Appa, don’t leave me here,’ the girl cried.

Her eyes felt hot; like the first time she had helped Ayah make coconut chilli sambal. She had rubbed her eyes without washing her hands properly and the oil from the chilli had stung for hours afterwards. Ayah had thrust her face into a bucket of milk, making her laugh and choke as she cried.

She tried to call out to the girl, to tell her to be quiet. If you made a lot of noise they came back faster. Dhara opened her mouth but she couldn’t speak. A strong arm gripped her neck. It was pushing her face into a bucket of cloudy water. It smelled like urine. Her eyes were still burning from the chilli.

Appa, Appa, don’t leave me here, she cried.

•

Even though Priya and her family had just moved from London to Sydney, she returned home to Colombo for her brothers’ weddings, with Siva and their three-year-old son, Vivek, in tow. She wanted to look after Dhara, and Nala wanted to look after them both.

In the midday coolness of the tiled bathroom, Priya poured water over Dhara and bathed her. It trickled around the scar tissue, finding pathways through roughened terrain. She raised the fallen curls at her sister’s neck and tucked them back into her loose bun.

‘I’m hideous,’ Dhara said. ‘It’s like I’ve decayed.’ She never left the house.

Priya traced the fretwork of lines that spread all over her body.

‘No. This is damage, not decay. Damage can heal.’