best left where it is, where many people can see it.
Me: But it belonged to the Maharajah. It should be back in India, shouldn’t it?
Dad: Maharajah Duleep Singh was from Lahore. It’s not part of India any more.
There’s a bit of a silence.
Me: Will you go back? You never have, have you? Dad shakes his head & looks down: No. It is a very different place.
Me: But you could now.
Dad: Maybe I will.
Me: Can I come with you?
Dad nods and smiles. Would you like to?
Me: Yes please!
Dad shakes my hand: Well, we will shake on it. This is our pact. When you are grown up, we will go together. I will show you my school, the bazaars, the Shalimar Gardens, Lahore Fort, built by the great Akbar. It is a very beautiful city, Lahore.
I feel sad then, that Dad has lived most of his life in another country. It’s a part of me, and I don’t know it.
Me: Do you miss it?
D: I miss my father, & my brothers. But they’re dead.
Me: How did they die?
D: They were killed, after Partition. Many, many people died then. It was a terrible time.
Me: Who killed them?
Dad is silent, then he says: Ignorant men. They slit their throats. While my brothers slept. They killed my father when he tried to run away, in the night.
I’ve been trying to remember everything as accurately as possible as he said it, because I don’t know any of this and I’d like to record it properly. But all I remember really clearly is his face as he said this. Awful. I just stared at him.
Me: I never knew that. Honestly?
Dad smiles: Honestly. My cousin wrote to me of it.
I was in London, in Spring. You were a few months old. I saw the letter . . . very old it was, battered & the address was faint, the ink had run . .
. And I knew. I had been reading the papers, I had tried to get messages to them, to telephone the old school, the Post Office where Govind (think that’s how he said it) worked . . . then that letter came. I remember walking to the door. It was on the wooden floor. Staring up at me. I knew what was in it. I knew they had been killed. My cousin wrote about the many trains pulling into Lahore Station. Filled with bodies. Hundreds, thousands of them, slaughtered on the way up. Blood dripping onto the tracks. The smell of it, in the heat.
Diary it was so awful just hearing his voice, monotone, saying these terrible things, in this warm, quiet room with green outside the window, blue sea in the distance.
Me: It must seem a very long way away.
Dad looks round the study, out of the window: It’s a very long way away. I do not know if I could even go back to Lahore, now. But we could certainly go to the Punjab in India. To Amritsar, the Holy City of the Sikhs, & the Golden Temple. Would you like that?
Me: Yes, I’d love that. When shall we go?
Dad: When you leave school, my little child. We will go then.
We talked for a long time. I looked down & saw the Times on Dad’s desk. Odd to think they started the summing up in the Stephen Ward trial today. It seems so silly, so gossipy & . . . tawdry. When I looked at my watch it was one-thirty, & no one had rung the bell for lunch.
‘Alas, you cannot hear the bell in here,’ Dad said, which I thought was pretty funny. That’s why he’s always late.
In the afternoon the others were playing tennis and going for a swim but I went for a walk along the coast by myself. I felt all sort of churned up, at what Dad said, about his brothers, my uncles, how they died. That is a part of me, & I know nothing about it. It seems we never discuss it, not because it is something bad, but because we are so complete in our world here, I always thought.
We have a lovely house, we have money, we have Mummy & Dad, the sea & the knowledge that we are well-off & intellectually satisfied with our lot.
We have made our own way of life, the Kapoors. As I walked along the cliffs, with the wind blowing my hair so it turned into little fluffy knots, I wondered then, WHY? Why does it feel like there is something missing, something wrong. There’s Dad, in his study, so remote he can’t hear the bell for lunch, and there’s Mummy, in her studio, for hours on end. I don’t think either of them looks out of the window. They don’t go for walks on the beach or swim in the sea.
