Visit to the British Museum

(Note: Contains Mild Language)

My grandfather had two outfits. One was a kurta-pajama, a traditional Indian outfit that he wore at home, and the other, for outdoors, was formal attire consisting of a shirt tucked into a pair of pants bound by a leather belt, along with polished black shoes. Whether it was a morning walk, or sightseeing, or anything that even briefly involved the outdoors, the formal attire took over.

Two years ago, he, along with my parents, visited me in London, where I had been studying for a year. After that trip, he never touched his formal attire.

I was then pursuing a Master's Degree in English from the Queen Mary University of London, with hopes of becoming a writer as great as Woolf or Orwell. My parents and grandfather were still confused as to what I had traveled 7000 kilometers away from home to pursue.

“Why do you need to go to another continent to read books beta?”

“You can get a good job right here in Delhi.”

“Shanti auntie’s elder son is a top salesman in Gurgaon…and he’s quite handsome…”

These were some of the remarks I used to hear from my mother when I was filling out my abroad applications. And now that I think about it, maybe she was right. Maybe I should have stayed home.

Not to get into an arranged marriage with an egoistic brat or get a “real job” (sit in an office, pick up calls, crunch numbers kind), but to write. Two years ago, after they visited, I realized that I never needed to come to the UK. If I would have stayed home, I would have become a more honest writer, and maybe even a better one.

Heavy rains dominated their first day in London, so we had to abandon the hop-on-hop-off open-top bus sightseeing plan, and I decided to take them to the British Museum, which, I assumed, would occupy them for the whole day.

But little did I know.

I had been there before, during my first month in London, and I had found it to be an enriching experience. The idea of so many histories, contained under the same roof, had excited me greatly. I had spent the entire day exploring, and then come back for more the next day as well.

But museums aren’t for everyone, and they most certainly aren’t for my parents. They skimmed through most of the exhibits, occasionally stopping to snap a picture or two for proof of having come there. Grandfather, on the other hand, was somewhat interested, or maybe he was pretending to be, seeing how excited I was. At least, unlike my parents, he was making an effort.

I held his hand and took him around, showing him exhibits I thought would spark his interest. The Rosetta stone, Samurai Armour, and the Egyptian Mummies were a few artifacts that excited him. He stopped to examine several war-related artifacts as well. What else would I have expected from a retired army officer?

“I wish I got to fight with swords instead of guns. Guns are boring,” he said, examining a double-edged iron sword from the Ottonian dynasty.

Viking axes and katanas excited him even further, and he began telling me how earlier there used to be true warriors who fought their enemies face-to-face, at close quarters, instead of firing guns safely from a distance, hoping to hit a target.

I nodded in agreement with whatever he was saying, having absolutely no interest in his analysis of warfare, but now it was my time to pretend for the sake of his excitement, and I gladly did it.

Not long after, we found ourselves in the Chinese and South Asian Gallery of the Museum, which housed several Indian artifacts.

“They probably took the most from us and we don’t even get our own gallery. Hell, our stuff deserves a whole museum, not pitiful inclusion in the “South Asian” gallery.” he sounded off as soon as we entered.

“I mean, there is another gallery dedicated to India, but it only has sculptures from Amaravati.” I told him, referring to a Buddhist shrine in South India.

What the fuck?

Why was I trying to defend the British Museum, literally the epitome of colonization.

My grandfather eyed me unnervingly. They had taken much more than the Amaravati sculptures. The collection in both these galleries was just the tip of the iceberg. They had the rest locked away.

We deserve at least a gallery to ourselves.

As we walked along the Indian collection, my eyes caught something interesting. In one of the displays, there were old toys mostly made of wood and cloth, intricately handcrafted, and beautiful to look at. There were dolls that looked nothing like the Barbie collection I had back home. One, purely made of cloth, represented a Bengali upper-class woman dressed in a yellow saree. I imagined growing up with such dolls— dolls that represented our mothers and aunts rather than the sparkly white dolls that I considered role models.

My grandfather was taking his time with the Indian artifacts, examining each one closely. His weak eyes prevented him from being able to read the labels, so I was reading them aloud as we walked along. 

I showed him the dolls, and he seemed mildly excited, telling me how one of his aunts used to make such dolls for all the girls in the family. He told me how he secretly wanted to play with them, but it used to be taboo for boys to indulge in such activities.

“Let’s go to a toy store later. I’ll buy you all the dolls you want!” I said excitedly.

“Shut up!” he said, and walked away. I think he felt embarrassed about having revealed too much. It was the most vulnerable he had ever been with me. I was glad.

“We could build a doll house as well…” I called from behind. He walked faster and quickly turned the corner.

When I caught up with him, I found him staring at an exhibit. He seemed…tense, his expression had changed. Something was amiss.

“Grandpa,” I called out to him, reaching out for his hand. He took his hand away and pointed towards an artifact in the display ahead. His hand was shivering— his whole body was.

The collection of old toys was continuing here, and he was pointing towards a spinning wooden top. Very ordinary looking, almost breaking apart, nothing that pleasing to look at. But for some reason, it was making my grandfather shiver.

“What about it, Grandpa?” I said, putting my hand on his shivering arm, “Are you okay?”

He remained silent, and I started to worry. Was he having some sort of stroke?

“Hey” I put my arm around his shoulder and tried to console him, “It’s okay, it’s just some old toy—”

“No,” he said, whimpering. A tear fell from his eye, and I suggested that we go sit down. He wouldn't budge, and my efforts to move him were fatal.

I stood there, lightly rubbing his shoulder, hoping he got over whatever this was. And then finally, after two whole minutes, in a shaky voice, he said,

“Tha…that’s mine. That’s m…my top. My toy.”

I looked at the spinning top again. Its label said that it was acquired from somewhere in Karachi, Pakistan, back in the 1940s.

No way.

“It says it’s from Karachi,” I said.

“I’m telling you…it’s m…mine,” more tears rolled down his cheek.

Until the age of eight, my grandfather had resided in Karachi, a city in the state of Sindh, which was then a part of India. The partition changed everything. A British official drew a line on a map, and that line became a border, and we were divided, forever.

Sindh went into Pakistan, and my grandfather, being Hindu, was forced to migrate to India, leaving everything behind. There was no space for spinning tops and dolls on the crowded ships that brought them to India— there was barely any space for humans.

This top might be his, but the chances were very low. It might be similar to something that he once had, but not the same exact piece. That would be a bit of a stretch, right?

I suggested this to him, but he dismissed me.

“Check…check if there’s a red mark on it. It’ll be like a little cross. A tiny little cross. I can’t see properly; you will have to check. Check and tell me.” he said, gently pushing me towards the exhibit. I examined the top closely and found no such mark. Even if it had been there, it would have gone away after all these years.

I had a choice to make here. I could tell him that there was a red mark and make his day, make him believe that he had found a long-lost toy. I mean, if it was so similar, and acquired literally from where he was from, then why not just give him the satisfaction.

Or I could tell him the truth, and we could move on.

I chose the first option, and gravely regretted it.

His sadness turned into rage. Rage, I had never seen before. Rage, I didn’t know he had.

“THIEVES, BASTARDS, THAT’S MINE, EVERYTHING HERE IS MINE, MY TOYS, MY CLOTHES, IT’S ALL MINE” he barked at anyone who was willing to listen. Something in him had triggered; he had lost all control.

My efforts to calm him down failed. His screams echoed through the South Asian Gallery as he fell onto his knees. Bouts of tears poured out, along with his curses for the Empire. It was as if he had gone back a hundred years, and was ready to rebel, ready to burn this place to the ground, and considering what this place was doing to him, I would gladly accompany him in that, but first I had to calm him down. He had already attracted enough attention and I could see guards rushing towards us.

Where the fuck are Mom and Dad?

Before I could call them, the guards arrived, threatening to take my grandfather away if he didn’t calm down.

“I’ll kill you all, fuckin’ thieves, all of you!” he said, pointing a finger at them, his voice cracking a bit. Even I was a little scared of him at that moment.

They took him away, despite my constant pleas.

“Please. leave him, I’ll handle him...please,” I cried after them.

“Ma’am, he’s causing too much of a commotion.” said one of the lady officers holding my grandfather by the arm, with him still screaming curses left and right.

Should have just told him that it wasn’t his top.

He was taken to a secure room, and luckily, I was allowed to accompany him. My parents, who were lavishly enjoying a full-course meal at the café instead of exploring exhibits, were also here now, in disbelief of what had happened.

Gradually, things settled, Grandpa calmed down and came back to his normal self. It was as if he had entered some trance and had now snapped back out of it. I explained to him how I had lied about the red mark on the spinning top, but he told me he still believed that it was his, so it didn’t matter.

A few days later, he almost forgot about the whole incident. It was around this time that his memory started fading, I don’t know if there was any connection with the incident. Their trip wasn’t the same after that. I showed them a few more sights around the city, nothing even remotely related to the Empire’s rule over India, and then they returned home.

And the following year, so did I. Following my Master's, I had always thought of doing my PhD in the UK as well, but after that incident, something changed. Seeing one’s grandfather break down in the middle of the British Museum— witnessing the look of sheer horror on his face after he comes across a mere spinning top, changes a person. A place that had inflicted so much trauma upon my family, was the place I hoped to call home. It no longer sat right.

I somehow completed my Master's, and immediately moved back to India to pursue a PhD at Delhi University. I continued with English Literature, but now I critiqued it more than I appreciated it; my gaze had shifted. It was a necessary shift, one that greatly helped my writing.

That look of horror on my grandfather’s face remains ingrained in my brain, and all his rage, I hope to channel through my writing, because it is not just his, but the rage of generations— it is the rage of an entire civilization, waiting to be expressed, not with a katana or Viking axe or rifle, but with words.