I thought I had retired. But apparently some think I haven’t. So, when asked by a friend if I would do an accident investigation, the only question i asked was ‘where?’ to which he replied,

“Valencia, Spain.”

That sealed the deal. Ever since I sailed on a ship with a Chilean crew some decades ago, I have had this obsession with mastering conversational Spanish. I learned the rudiments of the language and could communicate with a bit of effort. In life it is the self-concept that defines one. It’s a bit like the people who think they can sing. Negative comments don’t register with them because they think you’re talking about someone else. Similarly, I used to think I spoke good Spanish. People were generally encouraging and told me how good I was although as I improved my comprehension, I also understood occasional comments such as, “He speaks a bit of Spanish.” That hurt, of course, but overall I never let my self-image suffer any major blows.

I also used to think I was good at French. But that story ended in tears ..

I spent a year on a reefer ship that sailed between Marseille in France and the ports of French speaking countries in West Africa including Senegal, Ivory Coast, and Cameroon. (Reefer is jargon for refrigerated cargo and not what some of you Bob Marley fans might be thinking). I thought it was a great opportunity to become proficient in French. Purchasing a French Linguaphone set of books and cassette tapes, I spent my free hours at sea studying, and practising my skills on innocent strangers in ports. Thanks to the delicate nature of our cargo, loading and discharging were relatively slow and our ship enjoyed long port stays. I got ample opportunities to practise.

I would walk up to random people and ask them directions for places I had no intention of visiting, and visit restaurants to order food and drinks even though I wasn’t hungry. I got my kicks from the interaction, the feeling of satisfaction that I could communicate in French, that people could understand me. I felt I was only a few steps away from reading Voltaire and Russeau in the original, in French. In short, my self-concept was running way ahead of reality. Until the day my illusions were shattered while traveling in a taxi in Abidjan with three shipmates.

I sat in the front and my colleagues were squashed in the back seat. I spoke in French to the driver who just kept nodding his head interjecting with the occasional, Oui Oui. I kept going, regurgitating everything I had taught myself, telling him about the weather, commenting on the places I liked in his country Cote d’Ivoire, filling him on my family details, the food I like … totally unconnected and disparate topics but which were part of the Linguaphone lessons I had already mastered. In short I was just showing off to my colleagues who sat quietly with open-mouthed admiration writ large upon their faces. After patiently suffering me for over ten minutes, the driver suddenly let go of both hands from the steering wheel of the running car, turned his face to me and crossing his forearms like an X, said,

“STOP – s’il vous plaît – STOP. Me – I no understand your English!”

My colleagues had the evening of their life talking to me in broken French and frequently crossing their arms and screaming “STOP s’il vous plaît”. They never let me forget the episode to the day I signed off the ship. When the ship sailed out late that night, I gave a solemn sea burial to the Linguaphone course. And that was the end of my liaison with the French language.

That was a side story. The sooner I forget it the better. I have more positive memories of my attempts to learn Spanish. As said earlier, it started with a ship where most of the crew was from Chile. I was one of three Indians on board. The conversation around the dinner table was in Spanish and I felt excluded. My ship called at most ports in Chile from Punta Arenas in Patagonia to the desert of Iquique near the Peruvian border. We also called at ports in Peru, Ecuador, Colombia, and every other South American country which was not landlocked. Spanish is spoken everywhere except in Brazil. It was imperative that I learned Spanish if I wanted get the pulse of the peoples of South America.

So, one day I told the motorman (a colleague who assists the engineer on watch in the engine room), Sergio Gijado, to speak to me only in Spanish and also to teach me some grammar. When the ship called at Valparaiso, Sergio’s home port, he brought me some grammar books. I made very good progress. Sergio was an excellent teacher, correcting my grammar, adding a few words to my vocabulary every day and unraveling the complexities of the sixteen Spanish tenses, all in the comfort of the engine control room.

Once, we had overhauled an engine unit in port (pulled out the piston, calibrated the cylinder liner and replaced the piston with an overhauled one). Those who have been to sea will know that everything on board has to be secured properly unless you want things flying about during rough seas. I was on watch when the ship sailed out and Sergio was assisting me. As soon as we cleared the breakwaters, the ship started rolling, gently at first and quite heavily after a short while. Sergio was taking his rounds in the engine room but soon he burst into the control room shouting in Spanish,

“Señor, el piśton se está cayendo.”

I figured out something was happening to the piston – but I did not know what because ‘cayendo’ was not in my Spanish lexicon. Sergio was normally a calm person, rarely perturbed by anything. However, the panic on his face was palpable. So I too panicked without really knowing why. I tried asking him in English what happened. But he continued answering in Spanish. Finally I shook him by his shoulders and screamed at him,

“Sergio, speak English! Habla inglés por favor!”

“Señor,” he said pointing in the direction of the engine room, “the piston – he is falling down.”

We ran to the cylinder head platform and what I saw then still wakes me up in cold sweat at night. We had forgotten to clamp the old piston in its place. The massive cast iron piston with a crown nearly a metre in diameter, attached to a piston rod two to three metres long and altogether weighing a couple of tonnes was about to slip from its pedestal on the bulkhead and fall on to the running engine! I immediately summoned more help and eventually we managed to clamp it in place.

But that experience only strengthened my resolve to improve my vocabulary. By the time I signed off that vessel, I was reasonably fluent in Spanish and Sergio continued to speak only Spanish to me until my last day on board.

So, that was the alaap or the prologue. Now you know why I came out of retirement, willingly. In the next post I hope to narrate my experiences in Valencia.

(The great conch shell)

A story told by ‘Bhagwan’ Rajneesh sticks in the mind. Those of my vintage will remember the sex Guru.

A man did years of tapasya (penance through deep meditation 🧘‍♀️) until God appeared briefly one night. HE gifted him a shankh (conch shell) and said that all he had to do was blow into it and ask for anything. The man did as instructed. A voice from the shankh announced,

“I am at your service, Master. Ask for anything.”

The man asked for a kilogram of gold and instatntly a block of gold materialised in front of him. Just like that! Before the night was out, he had ordered everything he ever wanted and more. His simple thatched hut was replaced by an opulent palace. Luxury cars with liveried chauffeurs lined up outside, an army of servants ran around attending to him, a complete harem of desirable women frolicked in his perfumed gardens. It was as if a celestial branch of Harrods had opened in his backyard and everything including delivery was free. Soon, he ran out of ideas on things to order.

One day, a roaming mendicant came to his palace and said to him,

“ I hear you have a shankh that gives you everything you want?”

“Yes, yes!” replied our man.

“I have a Mahashankh. It’ll give you double of everything you ask.”

Our man, greedy and stupid in equal measures, asked if he could buy it. But the mendicant replied,

“I have no use for money. But if you want, we could exchange our shankhs.“

It was a no-brainer. Stupid mendicant, he thought and quickly gave up his shankh and received a much larger one from the mendicant.

The man blew into the Mahashankh and a deep voice came from within it,

“Command me and I’ll give you double of what you want.”

He said, “Give me a diamond.”

Mahashankh said, “I’ll give you two.”

He waited patiently. But nothing happened. No diamond was delivered. Maybe he was misunderstood, he assumed and blew again.

“Yes Master, what can I do for you?”

“Where are the two diamonds you promised?”

“I’ll give you four,” said Mahashankh.

Nothing delivered. Not even a pebble.

A bit impatient, our man blew a third time and when asked how he could be served, said rather impatiently,

“I’m still waiting for those four diamonds.”

“I will give you eight,” replied Mahashankh.

But gave nothing.

This story had a profound effect on me when I heard it as a young man. I was mortally frightened of making a promise I couldn’t keep.

So, If in the unlikely event that I haven’t done something I said I would, please remind me. I don’t want to be known as a Mahashankh.

King Mahabali ruled Kerala once upon a time. He was a kind, benevolent ruler adored by the people. One day, the gods, jealous of his popularity, complained to the sustainer of the universe, Mahavishnu. Mahabali was usurping their elevated status among the people of Kerala, they said. He needed to be taught a lesson, pulled down a peg or two. Vishnu acceded to their demand. He transformed himself into a vamana (dwarf) and approached Mahabali,

“Great king, please grant me some land to meditate,” he pleaded, “all I need is a plot covering three steps.”

Mahabali immediately granted him his wish. No sooner had he said yes, than the vamana transformed into a giant – feet on the ground, head among the stars. With one step he covered the earth, with the next he took the heavens.

“Where shall I take the third step?” he roared.

Mahabali bowed down and indicated his head. As he was being pushed into the netherworld, Vishnu asked him if he had a last wish. Mahabali said he would like to visit his people once a year. Thus he emerges every year to spend ten days with his subjects. The occasion called Onam is the biggest festival of Kerala.

People of Kerala welcome their beloved king with floral decorations adorning their floors. They offer him a grand and sumptuous lunch. Women put on their finest jewellery and everyone wears new clothes. Caparisoned elephants decked in flowers are paraded on the streets to the beat of drums and trumpets. Snake boats are raced in the backwaters. It is as if the people of Kerala genuinely believe that their favourite king has returned to them. The festivities last ten days with people of all religions participating.

I was born in Kerala and spent my early childhood there. Some close relatives were staying with us in Southampton during this Onam season. It was perhaps bravura induced by a glass or two of celebratory Rosé. I promised our guests that I would prepare the Onasadhya or Onam feast. They were excited by the prospect of a 27 item feast – yes you read that right – 27, all freshly cooked vegetarian dishes, served on banana leaves.

The enormity of my promise dawned on me the next day after the Rosè had worn off. I had never cooked more than four items in a day. Yes, some of the 27 included banana chips (bought in a packet) and papadom which only has to be fried in oil. However, everything else required to be cooked, vegetables diced, mustard seeds spluttered, coconut ground and its milk extracted, lentils soaked, and a hundred other operations carried out with precision and sequenced correctly to produce the goods. I would have to multitask, juggling the activities expertly if I wished to finish in time. To top it all, I didn’t have a clue if all the traditional Onam vegetables could be purchased in Southampton. Where was I to find raw plantains and ash gourd and Kerala cucumber? What about banana leaves?

After a lot of nail biting and a few frantic calls to Kerala friends in Southampton, I got the address of a shop which sold the Onam paraphernalia. But I had to be quick because there are many other subjects of Mahabali in Southampton and all of them would be embarking on similar cooking projects.

My wife and I, with our two guests (our cousins) made a beeline for the Kerala store. The shop was like an Alladin’s cave of exotic vegetables and groceries. Picking up a basket, and holding a list that ran into several notebook pages, I started collecting the items one by one. As the basket filled, a part of me was rejoicing in sweet nostalgia and another major part was silently panicking.

And then it was that the cousin shouted across to me from the far corner of the shop as if she had found a treasure.

“Look look,” she said, pointing at some boxes in the freezer section. And there it was. Its label read, “Traditional Kerala vegetarian sadhya for five.” The box contained 19 items, all individually packed and frozen. I only had to cook the rice (item 20), fry the papadom and defrost everything else. It was as if Mahabali, sensing the distress I was in, came up with a solution. I abandoned my basket, nostalgia and all, and grabbed a box.

We had to use some imagination to fill the remaining slots to get to the magic number of 27. So we added red wine, rosè, chardonnay, gin & tonic, vodka & orange juice .. and somewhere along the way lost the ability to count. We raised our glasses and proposed a toast to Mahabali, our very own king cheated by some jealous gods.

Anita, in the far corner, has film star looks, Einstein brains. A walking Wikipedia, she’s gregarious, always smiling, considerate. I melt when she looks my way; her hazel eyes caress me. She doesn’t know it, but I love her. Today, I will bare my heart.
It’s 6 pm. The office is nearly empty. My angel is slumped in her chair, arms hanging loose, head flopped down. I start to panic.
“Anita,” I call softly, approaching her.
She is motionless, silky hair flutters in the aircon’s breeze. I touch her shoulder. An LED display lights up on her forehead. Anita01X17 Error404.

It was Ganesh Chaturthi – the birthday of the elephant-headed god Ganesha. There is an interesting story behind his creation. Even more interesting was how Ganesha solved my coconut problem today.

Parvati, the consort of Lord Shiva was alone at home while Shiva spent aeons in deep meditation in the Himalayas. Feeling lonely, she created a boy out of clay and ghee, gave him life and started treating him as her son. One day, she went to bathe in the river instructing the boy to keep guard and not let anyone pass. As she was bathing Shiva came to visit and made his way to the river. However, the boy did not let him pass despite his demands to be let through. Angered by his obduracy, Shiva cut off the boy’s head. He then went to find Parvati. She was deeply upset when informed of the murder of her son and started venting her anger at her husband. Contrite, he promised her that he would replace the boy’s head with the head of the first living creature he encounters. An elephant was passing by. So, Shiva promptly took its head and installed it on the boy. He was named Ganesha meaning king of elephants. And everyone lived happily ever after, except of course half the elephant.

Ganesha or Ganapathy is also called Vighneshwara – the god who removes obstacles. Hindus across India worship Ganesha for this quality. People perform special puja, ritualistic worship, when they start a new venture. Almost every Hindu home, shop, car, tuk tuk, motor cycle, briefcase, wallet .. has a little idol or image of Ganesha. Such is the faith reposed in him. Although born a Hindu, I don’t practice the religion – either overtly or covertly. But today I had a problem and I like to believe Ganesha solved it for me.

My wife asked me to get some vegetables including a coconut so she could make a feast for Ganesh Chaturthy. I went to a nearby shop but they had run out of coconuts. So, I returned home with a bag full of vegetables but no coconut. If you know South Indian cooking you will also know that coconut is an essential ingredient – it is the potato in jacket potato, the milk in latte, the cream in strawberry and cream. It plays a major role in flavouring, garnishing and seasoning vegetables. It is also used to make traditional sweets during Ganesh Chaturthy. So, when I returned sans coconut, my wife was not pleased. Fortunately, I kept my head. Eventually, we were reconciled to make do without coconut. This is when my wife scalded her finger in the kitchen. I was dispatched again to get some Burnol.

After purchasing the ointment, I decided to take a different route back home. Then I noticed a little Ganesh temple constructed on the pedestrian way. It was a fully functioning temple complete with two priests, a fine idol of Ganesha, garlands of flowers, lamps and bells. Let me collect some prasad for my elderly mother in law, I thought. I stood in front of the idol and folded my hands in supplication. The priest waved a copper plate brimming with marigold and hibiscus flowers, burning oil lamps in little clay pots, vermillion and holy ashes above and around my head and chanted a prayer in Sanskrit asking Vigneshwara to remove the obstacles in my path. The smell of burning camphor and warm coconut oil wafted towards me from the idol and there I was – for all practical purposes a devout Hindu like any other, paying obeisance to the Remover of Obstacles. I accepted the prasad – the remnants of the offering presented to the gods. Hidden among the flowers and the sweetmeats and the vermillion was half a coconut.

The one good thing about COVID was it forced us to exercise once a day. Most of us looked forward to the one hour outing we were allowed everyday and my wife and I were no exception. However, there was a problem. My wife liked to walk slowly admiring the wild plants and ducks. I liked to walk as if I were about to miss a flight. The result? I would be way ahead waiting for her while she ambled along like peak hour traffic on the M25.

“Walk faster,” I would entreat her.

“You walk fast if you want,” she would retort.

It is no use arguing with her. She tends to dig in, the more persuasive I become. One day, we had some minor disagreement which turned into a full blown verbal. The curious thing was, as long as we were arguing she kept pace with me, matching me step for step, word for word. That’s when I had the ‘Aha’ moment – my own little epiphany.

From the next day onwards, five minutes into our walk, I would start a small argument – nothing connected to household matters or with the potential to escalate, but something that held tremendous promise for an hour’s worth of harmless disagreement. So, for instance, keeping a poker face, I would say something like,

“How can anyone live on the South Pole? Won’t they be standing upside down?”

She would look at me as if I had completely lost it and respond,

“I can’t believe this. Just what are you saying? Have you heard of gravity?”

“Yes, but gravity only makes sure you don’t fall off into space. But you’ll still be upside down.”

“So you think the Antarticans are all upside down?” she would try sarcasm.

“Yes exactly! Imagine an ant going round a football. However big the football, by the time it reaches the bottom of the ball it’ll be upside down. No? It’s simple logic. Think about it ..”

“OMG! What’s the matter with you?” she would move from incredulous to mildly amused to mildly irritated.

“It may sound stupid, but actually it’s not,” and so on I would string it along, gently increasing my pace all the while.

She would match my pace while trying to drum some sense into my head. And so it would continue until we returned home. Back at our front door, I would concede defeat and declare,

“Yes. You’re right.”

And all would be well again.

An heirloom has no monetary value for its owner until it’s stolen or lost. Do you find this assertion outrageous? Then read on.

Let us assume you own a diamond necklace worth a crore of rupees (~£100,000). That’s how much it’ll cost to replace it at today’s prices. You have inherited the item from your mother who got it from her mother who got it .. you get the idea. It’s been in the family for several generations. Not only is it worth a lot of money but it also holds a tremendous amount of sentimental value. It is an heirloom. So, you would never sell it. Not to buy that sexy new car you always crave for, not to finance the house extension you so desire, not to send your children to Harvard. No.

You will hold on to it as if your very life depends on it. You would not sell it even if you are starving. Well, maybe you would sell it if you were starving but I have never heard of starving diamond owners. Hence we will dismiss this hypothetical scenario.

What you have in your possession, what you guard with your life, what you worry about and lose sleep over, is really worthless – monetarily speaking. Sentimental value – certainly – a lot. But you can’t eat sentiment, neither can you buy that jazzy car with it. You might just as well store a piece of granite in your high security safe. If on the other hand you lose it, its true potential starts shining through like the floodlights of an IPL stadium.

Let us explore this further. Imagine, one day your diamond necklace is stolen. You will file an insurance claim to recover its value. A crore of rupees landing in your bank will take the sting out of your loss. Yes, you will miss the heirloom, your children will be deprived of their inheritance. But you will be richer, with the new money in the bank opening up multiple possibilities. Your loss becomes your gain.

And the thief? S/he is laughing all the way to the bank. No sloppy sentiments to worry about, just unadulterated profit. With the proceeds of the diamond sale, they could send their children to medical school, afford a new car, enjoy a holiday abroad. The potential is vast. The loss of an heirloom, therefore, makes life more comfortable for two individuals: you and the thief.

I wear a Rolex watch that belonged to my father. It’s nearly 40 years old. I have worn it everywhere despite the risk of getting mugged whether it is in the Bronx in New York or in Maputo in Mozambique. I have swum in the sea and lazed around in a sauna with the watch on my wrist. It runs smoothly, uncomplaining, deriving its energy from the movement of my arm. I never take it off except while sleeping.

Recently I decided to take an overnight train from Bangalore to Thalassery, my hometown. I lay awake in the lower berth ruing my decision to travel by train, unable to sleep or experience the magic of the train journeys of my past. Too many things had changed. I kept my watch under the pillow. When I woke up in the morning, I couldn’t find it. I looked everywhere – under the berth, inside the sheets, and eventually in the most unlikely places like the upper berth where it could only have reached by defying gravity. I was desperate.

Then, for fleeting moments, I suspected my co-passengers. Could it have been the couple who disembarked at 3 am at Coimbatore? Nah! They didn’t look like thieves. Could it be the guy snoring in the next berth? No. He’s sleeping too soundly for a thief. Then where oh where is my precious watch gone? I was miserable.

In my mind I had already started the process – filing an FIR at the police station, making an insurance claim, arguing with the insurance company, narrating my pathetic story to my sister and brother-in-law who I was visiting in Thalassery. I could almost hear by brother-in-law admonish me,

“How could you be so careless?”
“Only you would do such a thing!”
“Why carry valuables in the train?”
“You should have taken a flight.”

The loss of something that I had cherished for over three decades was painful. I sat staring through the dark tinted windows. Over the years I had developed a superstition concerning the watch. I believe the tutelary spirit of my father is protecting me and I am invincible while I wore it. Without it I felt naked and vulnerable. At least it was insured, I consoled myself rather weakly. I’ll use the cash to finance my travel to South America next year.

I decided to check one last time as the train was approaching my station. Shining my phone’s torch under the berth once again, I saw a glint of metal in the corner where the side bulkhead, the division bulkhead and the floor met. Crawling under the berth, I examined the object. It was the bracelet attached to my watch which had lodged itself between the linoleum on the floor and that on the bulkhead. It was as if someone had deliberately placed it there!

I was overcome by a mixture of immense relief and mild disappointment (at having to shelve my South American sojourn). I realised then that my watch was more than just an object of sentimental value. It made me feel like superman. And no, it’s not for sale.

Once there lived a king who had the ears of a donkey. They were long and furry and stood up straight from the side of his head. No one except the royal barber knew about it. The king deftly hid it under a turban that was never removed. Even the queen wasn’t aware of his secret (he kept his turban on at ALL times). The barber was warned that he would pay with his head if he so much as breathed the secret to anyone.

The knowledge of the king’s donkey ears weighed the barber down like an anchor. He had to tell someone but knew the consequences would be dire if he did. What to do! He was on the verge of losing his mind. One day he had a bright idea. He planted the sapling of a mahogany tree in a remote corner of his compound, watered it and screamed to his heart’s content.

“Hear this! Hear this! The king has donkey ears, the king has donkey ears .. hahaha .. hohoho.”

He experienced immense relief after this. He breathed easy once again. The king’s secret no longer bothered him and he lived happily for many years. One day, the wedding of the princess was announced. The entire country celebrated the build-up to it and there was much feasting and rejoicing. Soldiers came around once looking for suitable wood to make drums. They spotted the fully grown mahogany tree in the barber’s compound, chopped it down and delivered it to the royal drum makers.

As the wedding garlands were being exchanged, and the drum beats reached a crescendo, the voice of the barber rang out loud and clear,

“Hear this! Hear this! The king has donkey ears, the king has donkey ears .. hahaha .. hohoho.”

The king was a man of his word. Hence, this story sadly ends with a headless barber.

I’m in a similar situation as the barber. My head is about to burst with secrets. I have been told far too many in the last two weeks. They’re weighing me down, the knowledge of terrible insinuations being made about some people, the diseases that some are battling with, impending divorces, extra-marital and pre-marital affairs … However, I’m not allowed to tell anyone. I’ve been sworn to secrecy, my honour is at stake. And the more honourable I am, more sordid the secrets I receive.

Please don’t tell me anything more. I am full up. And if you find it hard to keep them, go plant a tree and confide in it. Kings are not allowed to behead you these days.

Munnar, a place of raw natural beauty, is situated in the Western Ghats some 5200 feet above sea level and only around a three hour drive from Kochi. I visited the place with a friend from my student days. I wasn’t concerned that it rained heavily and when it didn’t, a thick fog obscured the idyllic charm of its undulating hills and tea plantations. Our conversation somehow took precedence over the weather.

My friend was grappling with an existentialist question:

“Who am I and what is it that remains if I were to shed, layer by layer, everything that constitutes me?”

Sadly, in growing old, I had stopped pondering such philosophical conondrums. However, my interest was rekindled very quickly and we debated endlessly standing in the balcony, ignoring the thick fog within a few feet of us. The trill of invisible mountain birds gave us a sense of our location. We were aware of our surroundings, but only just.

As we tried to express in words what defies expression, the fog cleared partially showing us a glimpse of the delightful scenery beyond, a perfect metaphor for our conversation and its fleeting insights. The fog returned matching our abstruse discussion with its opaqueness.

The strange thing was neither of us complained about not receiving full value for our money by way of missing out on the scenery. Each other’s company and friendship was somehow sufficient to shine a beam of bright sunlight through the low lying cloud.

Our family holidays are invariably hard work. No basking in the sun with a book and a Margarita, no lie-in or breakfast in bed. Our days follow a regular 9-5 kind of routine with every obscure venue of the slightest historical significance visited, studied and photographed. All our holidays have been to places steeped in history – the more ancient the better, ruins are mandatory and a skeleton or two is a bonus. I have navigated endless aisles in the Louvre, worn my shoes out in the Smithsonian, and am on first name basis with the mummies of the British museum. If you are married to a historian/archaeologist you will empathise with me.

There’s always an exception to everything, something that breaks the pattern and makes life interesting. Our recent visit to Powis Castle in Wales to see the Clive collection was one such outlier.

Powis Castle houses an impressive collection of Mughal era artefacts from India. The Clive collection (Clive’s loot to quote the well known historian William Darlymple) is a reminder of a murky period in history involving the East India Company who were masters of stealth, guile and deceit. But that is history and one shouldn’t quarrel with history.

Sadly, photography in the castle is prohibited. So, you will have to bear with my thousand words instead. The most stunning display is one of the finials detached from the throne of Tipu Sultan of Mysore – a dazzlingly well made tiger-head in solid gold studded with diamonds, rubies and emeralds. Other objects of importance are the ornately carved palanquin of Siraj ud Daulah, the last Nawab of Bengal; the elegant chintz cotton tent that Tipu Sultan used during his battles; delicately carved ivory chess pieces, almost weightless, one felt they would float away but for their encasements; and a multitude of other exquisite pieces outnumbering any collection in national museums across the subcontinent including those of Afghanistan, Pakistan, India and Bangladesh.

I observed each object with an intensity I didn’t know I possessed. It was as if my own history lay bare among the ivory hilted daggers and swords, the curved gold brocaded shoes and the elaborate paintings. I was peeping into a time gone by, an epoch I had only learned about in school during dry, one-dimensional history lessons. I was unable to make sense of the affinity I felt towards the objects. It was like trying to remember the details of a vivid but elusive dream. Nevertheless, as I stood among Clive’s collection that morning, I could hear the echo of battle cries and the neigh and stomping hooves of horses.

That evening as we drove home, I concluded that one could only enjoy a visit to a museum if there is a personal connection to the objects on display. I refuse to visit another museum unless it ticks this box.