The soft scent of lavender wafts out the open cupboard; it crawls under the bed, into the robin-blue Wedgewood vase on the bookshelf, and clings to the blue-white Ikat print of the curtains. Usually Meera finds it soothing, but today, as she stands against the carved door with a hand on her hip, surveying the messy arrangement inside, she finds it intrusive. She reaches out for a shirt, before letting it fall to the ground. It’s pale yellow –not good enough. Meera needs something white, something sombre – something appropriate for the funeral.

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