More and more people from the outlying villages around Satham were forced to join the thousands already on the road. Some were praying, some crying. Malini acknowledged with a nod or a bleak smile her many schoolfriends in the crowd. Some looked unkempt after rushing out of bed; others seemed completely demoralised. Keeping close to her father and her mother, she glanced at the two soldiers nearest to her.

‘Keep moving,’ they shouted over and over, as if they were singing the words of a harsh, unending song. ‘Keep moving! Don’t stop! Keep moving!’

I have never been more frightened of this war than I am today, Malini thought, remembering something her father had once told her: When a war is ending, that’s the most dangerous time.

Malini kept a tight hold on her sister’s hand. Banni was whimpering softly, past pretending that she was untroubled with being awoken at dawn and forced to leave her home, her DVDs and her video games behind. Malini’s mother made no effort to hide her tears. Her father circled his wife’s shoulders with his arm.

‘Our home, Chandran,’ Malini’s mother whispered. ‘Will we ever return?’

Malini’s father replied, ‘I cannot say.’

For the sake of her mother, Malini said, ‘We will return,’ but she had grave doubts.

When Malini was much younger, she had been known in her family as ‘All-will-be-well’ because of her optimism. Her father used to tease her. ‘Malini, a meteor is heading for the earth! But all will be well, don’t you think?’

The older Malini wasn’t such an optimist. She had followed the war in the newspapers and on television for some years now, and she knew that some of the worst things in the world had happened in her Sri Lanka, episodes of terrible barbarity of which both sides were guilty. She had lost the innocence that had once made her say, smiling brightly, ‘All will be well!’

The roar of an aeroplane overhead brought the crowd on the road to a halt. Someone called out, ‘Kadavui, God save us!’

The most feared aircraft were the fighter-bombers that appeared far away in the sky but then only a few seconds later were above you, so fast and so loud, like the roar of a typhoon.

This was a smaller aircraft. As Malini watched, sheets of paper spread over the sky, like an enormous flock of white birds descending as one to the earth below. Malini knew what these papers were. They’d been raining down twice a week for the past month. Each sheet contained a message to the people beneath, written in Tamil: The Government of Sri Lanka guarantees the safety of all unarmed Tamil people. Do not enter the no-fire zones! And there would also be a picture of an automatic rifle with a cross through it.

The Tamil Tigers were thrown into a frenzy by the arrival of the sheets. They shouted, ‘Do not touch them. Leave them on the ground. Do not touch them!’

One of the soldiers close by even fired his rifle at the fluttering sheets as they flapped in the air. Banni shrieked and buried her face in her mother’s sari. Malini dropped to her knees and whispered, ‘It’s nothing, Banni – just noise. Don’t be scared.’ But the truth was that Malini was very scared herself. The wild looks on the faces of the soldiers made her realise that things could go from bad to worse in the space of a minute. A frightened young man with a gun, Malini knew, could do a great deal of harm.

Some of the soldiers were attempting to snatch up the sheets as they fell, in order to destroy them: they tore them apart, or dropped them in piles and set fire to them. Their task was hopeless. There were too many messages hanging from the branches of the rhododendrons and the taller sapu trees on either side of the road.

‘Keep moving,’ the soldiers shouted over and over. ‘What are you doing? Keep moving!’

As the crowd on the road began to shuffle forward again, raising red dust that settled back down on them, Malini’s father whispered to her, ‘Do you see what is happening, Daughter? It is as I thought. They will use us as shields. I’m sure of it.’

Malini could tell from her father’s expression that he had more to say.

‘Look up ahead,’ he said, ‘where the trees come close to the road. Do you see the place I’m talking about?’

‘Yes, I see.’

‘When we reach that point, I want you to take your sister and steal into the trees. Be quick. Once you are in the forest, hide yourself. Do you understand, Daughter?’

‘But what about you and Amma?’ said Malini. A sick feeling was spreading through her body. She glanced at her mother. Red lines ran from her eyes down to her chin, dust covering tracks of tears.

Her mother said, in a faltering voice, ‘Malini, do as your father says.’

‘But what will we do in the forest?’ said Malini.

‘You must use your wits, Daughter. You will hear from me,’ Malini’s father said as he slipped into her hand a small bundle wrapped in the big white handkerchief that he always kept in his pocket. ‘It’s my phone and the charger. Don’t look now. Later – when you are safe.’

Malini’s feeling of sickness rapidly changed to panic. She couldn’t leave her mother and father. Tears stung her eyes. ‘Father, I can’t.’

‘Daughter, for the sake of your sister.’

Malini’s mother bent quickly and kissed her on the forehead, then Banni. Her father placed one hand on the head of each daughter and whispered a prayer that called on Vishnu and many ancient heroes of the Tamil people to protect his daughters. The aeroplane overhead had circled back and was dropping more messages. They’d reached the trees, and with the soldiers distracted, Malini’s father said, ‘Go now. Go now, Daughter!’

Malini tightened her grip on Banni’s hand. ‘Come with me. Say nothing, Banni. Nothing!’