Almost two months before her conception.

She does not exist even in thought.

Janani knew, the minute the midwife placed her naked, squalling, soft-as-silk daughter in her arms, that she couldn’t lose this one.

An image came to her mind, burying a bundle gone cold and still in the dirt by the young coconut palm. Her hands drew the hated little body closer.

Tiny limbs moved in fitful pumps as Janani looked down into a face as round and purple as mangosteen. The baby’s mouth shifted over the swollen skin of her breast, and her plaintive wail died as she found the nipple and began to feed. Her minute fingers rested against the skin over Janani’s heart.

Janani watched her in the light of the oil lamp, her eyes trailing along each line of her body, trying to find something that made her less than perfect.

‘Rock, my little peacock.’ The lullaby escaped through her lips, the first words she’d managed since that last, pain-riddled push.

Hands were fussing around her, tender and papery – Kamala, the old, strong midwife who had delivered most of the rest of Usilampatti district, over what seemed like centuries. Janani barely noticed, until someone spoke.

‘Give her to me.’ Pain and weariness turned what should have been a familiar voice into a half-recognised echo.

No, Janani tried to say. It stayed a tired whisper in her mind. She wanted to hold this new life for as long as she could.

There was a rough fumble, nails scratching against her forearms, and the warmth of new-born, new-drawn skin was gone. Her daughter began to cry again. The noise stuttered into existence like a steam engine’s chugs. The door closed, muffling the sound.

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