She was born in the beautiful port town of Yazhpanam (or Jaffna). The year was 1968, and Jaffna was a buzzing beehive of activity in those years, second only to Colombo.

Her grandmother Jayaragini christened her Nayanarani, for she had beautiful eyes and a smile that could melt the hardest of stones. Nayana’s mother had no say in the decision, for she died at childbirth, as if she knew of the fate about to befall her six children, and had not the strength to witness it.

While entering this world, Nayana brought with her company, albeit in a different womb. As the raw, red, scrawny just-born was being wrapped in a clean towel, the shrill and piercing cries of another just born were heard from across the street. Nayana’s aunt, her dad’s youngest sister, had just given birth to a healthy baby boy, who looked as raw, red and scrawny as Nayana.

The boy was christened Ragulan by his father Sivathamby. Ragulan was Sivathamby’s first born, the male heir to a small but fast growing stationery business and hence the celebrations were appropriately grandiose. A ten day old Nayana attended Ragulan’s official naming ceremony in her grandmother’s hands. Her birth itself was not such an affair of splendor, she being an insignificant sixth child and her mother having recently passed away.

Grandma would tell her in later years how Nayana had been the center of attention that day, charming every single person present at the celebrations with her perfect features, twinkling eyes and sweet smile.

In traditional Tam land, it was but only natural for the sister’s son and the brother’s daughter to marry each other, and Nayana’s and Ragulan’s families had no reason to break the custom. The two would marry one another when they came of age, the families implicitly agreed.

The kids grew up together, untroubled by the prospect of marriage, as they thought it would be immense fun playing together forever. They were thick as thieves, sharing every bit of news about their insignificant lives with each other, right from tricks they learnt in school to teachers they hated, ignorant about the brewing tension around them.

As Ragulan and Nayana grew up in the green foliage and whitish brown sands of Jaffna, the town was slowly turning red with assassinations, and violent uprisings. Between ‘76 and ‘78, Nayana’s three elder brothers failed one after the other in securing college admissions despite excellent academic credentials. Outraged by the unfairness of the Sinhalese reservation scheme in education and resentful about the bias against the Tamils, they joined the newly formed LTTE in a bid to dedicate their lives to the independence struggle. The family last heard of them in ‘80, when they were involved in an ambush attack against one of the State Ministers. There were no survivors.

Nayana’s father, not being able to bear the loss of his dearest children, died of a heart attack (or perhaps, a broken heart), leaving Nayana and her two sisters in the care of their grandma and aunts.

Meanwhile, Sivathamby was trying hard to get a passage for his son to London, so that he wouldn’t end up like his dead cousins. Ragulan and Nayana were mature enough to understand what was going on around them, and realized how helpless they were in the face of the distressing developments. They were also old enough to recognize that they were more than just play-mates. In the ensuing months of ‘81 and ‘82, they spent much time together, in the nameless jungles of Jaffna, holding each other’s hands, trying not to cry, and occasionally re-assuring one another with the positivity of a new life far away from the strife, sorrow and death. It was not the ideal time or place for romance, but romance did bloom and grow, much stronger than any ordinary romance, a bond that would keep their souls entwined in the years to come.

By February ‘83, as both Ragulan and Nayana turned 15, Sivathamby had succeeded in his endeavors. Ragulan was to join a distant relative, an uncle in London, as an assistant in a theater canteen. The uncle had promised that the canteen would entail only 3-4 hours of his time every evening, and that Ragulan would be able to pursue academics in the community college close by, in the mornings. A day before his departure in July, Ragulan spent many heart-wrenching hours with Nayana, just looking into her eyes, promising her over and over again that he would take her to London as soon as he could save some money, that she would soon be his forever. Nayana looked up into his face, with tranquil and trusting eyes, while her hands gently pressed his, reassuring him of her love.

As if terror was only waiting for Ragulan to leave. In August ‘83, riots erupted across the Northern Province of Sri Lanka. War had begun in full throttle, bringing with it smoky skies, burning lands and blast-filled nights, a reality the people of Jaffna would live with for decades after.

A bomb that landed in their street one morning in August wiped all occupants of the street from the face of the earth. Nayana, ill-fated since birth, was lucky to escape, because a beam had fallen strategically over her body, shielding her from the erupting fires. Her escape meant something to Nayana, for, though she had lost her entire family at one go, including her sisters, grandma, aunts and uncles, she believed God had saved her only because she was destined to live a long and gratifying life with Ragulan.

From then on, every step she took would be an attempt to get her closer to Ragulan.

Nayana’s first priority was to get out of Sri Lanka as she decided that she was not going to let this wretched land have the satisfaction of devouring anything left of her anymore. Many in Jaffna lived on, either in the hope that the war would soon be over or because they were actively contributing to the cause taken up by the LTTE. This gave Nayana the opportunity to escape in one of the first few refugee boats that she could find a spot on. Armed with her paltry possessions – two long skirts, three hand-stitched tops, and a pair of anklets that Ragulan had given her as a parting gift – Nayana arrived on Indian soil in February ‘84. She had just turned 16 and there was no one and no reason to celebrate it. Emptied of happy memories, she spent the day crying in her tent in the refugee camp, silently sometimes, loudly at other times. It was not out of the ordinary there, because every refugee was doing the same thing, having lost either family or friends, having lost their dignity to live where they rightfully belonged.

India, her refuge, worked out to be much better for Nayana than her homeland had. She made friends quickly and identified a rich Tamil family that had migrated to India before the war and were in need of a housemaid they could take along with them to London. The Tamil family liked her immediately, for it was difficult not to like Nayana. The administrative arrangements done, by the summer of ‘85, Nayana was in London. Then began her search for Ragulan. In the off-time she got, which was a few hours after lunch when the household slept, Nayana scourged the theaters of London, looking for the canteen in which Ragulan worked. She didn’t know the name of the theater, and no one in the theaters had heard of Ragulan’s uncle Dayalan. After six months of incessant search, Nayana’s spirit failed her and she reached out to her kindly employers for support in finding Ragulan. However, they were far removed from the Tamil diaspora and wanted nothing to do with their roots anymore, for reasons known only to them. Drawing a blank there, Nayana started visiting all the community colleges in London in hopes of tracking Ragulan down.

By bus and underground train, she traversed the length and breadth of London, with only his anklets and the fading memory of his face for company. London changed colours from winter to spring to summer to autumn, but the faith in Nayana’s eyed glistened on, not wanting to believe that her search was becoming more futile as the years slipped away. She had no luck with any of the colleges she went to. Either she was turned down without entry or the helpful admissions’ officers could not find Ragulan’s name in their registers.

1988 dawned with new vigor, for her employers were slowly letting go of their fears and apprehensions and socializing more with their Tamil neighbours. They were still edgy about helping Nayana out by officially reaching out to the community, but this was a good enough opening for Nayana. She met more Tamils at get-togethers, birthday parties and anniversary parties that her employers attended, where she asked around about Ragulan. No one had heard of a Ragulan or a Dayalan. However, soon enough, in one such party, she met Subbu uncle, a friendly old man who had recently moved from Canada and was living in suburban London. He knew a Lankan named Denny who used to run a canteen in a suburban London theater, but was retired now. He had a son called Ryan. Subbu uncle explained that many Sri Lankan Tamils changed their names when they reached London, so that the British could pronounce their names with ease and they could blend with the normal population better. He promised he would call Denny up once he went home (he wasn’t carrying his phone book) and then let her know.

14^th February ‘88 dawned, grim and dark, a typical wintry day in London. It had been over a month since Subbu uncle had made his promise, but there was no update. Nayana had asked her employers to call him, but there had been no response. She decided she would go in search of Subbu uncle over the weekend, taking two days off and all the cash she had saved, even if that meant tracking him down to the end of the Earth.

Meanwhile, she had work to do.

As she started clearing the driveway (it had snowed the night before), she sensed someone near the gate behind her. She turned and looked up, to see Ragulan standing there, eyes welled up with tears, hands outstretched in love, lips mouthing “Happy Birthday”. Nayana, immobilized if only for a second, ran to him and collapsed in his arms, in that moment releasing all the pent up anguish, fear, sorrow and loneliness in her that had only been kept arrested by her love for him.

As if on cue, the sun peaked out from behind a cloud, twinkling with happiness and contentment, as it smiled beatifically at that long lost couple reunited in love.