pH Balance

This post is a continuation of the short story I teased in my last post. In writing—and rewriting and rewriting—I noticed that every once in awhile, you need to step back and see how the small details fit in with the big picture. It’s like this with the work I do in research and some other projects I picked up. It’s like the things we do everyday without really thinking about them. Every once in awhile, it’s nice to stop and think: What am I doing this all for?

Chapter I

Ten days earlier, Laila decided to visit her mother at work. This was easier said than done, as her mother harbored a distaste for how Laila “squandered” her education. The head curator of the British Museum once had high hopes for her daughter. They were all crushed to pieces when her only child turned down Oxford to study fashion and art history—at an American institution, no less. Most parents would be happy if their children had an Ivy-League education. But Laila’s mother was different. Her saber-tooth-tiger-mom parenting philosophy mirrored that of her museum acquisition strategy: you’d better do what she asked, and if you didn’t, she’d find a way for you to make you wish you had.

Laila’s tried explaining to her mother that her interest in fashion came from growing up in exhibition halls and dusty archives; from being raised by one of the most esteemed scholars in the world. Wandering the British Museum allowed Laila to travel the world without ever leaving London; but, she hated the sterility of it all: glass cases, velvet ropes, and the cultural erasure that came with divorcing objects from their homeland. Forget imperialist and colonialist—it was anti-human to display these artifacts without showing the people who made and used them. That’s why she became interested in fashion: it made art, history, and culture come alive.

She channeled her frustration into a triple major at Columbia in art history, anthropology, and design (if you asked Laila’s mum, only one of those degrees “counted”). She then landed a conservatory in one of Paris’s top fashion institutes and eventually became a cultural consultant to fashion houses and independent designers worldwide. Laila spent as much time in studios as she did archives. Her latest project took her back to the British Museum, where she was hardly looking forward to another career “conversation” (read: lecture) with her mum. As she sat in the Tube, she could already hear the sharp words: “why not do something worthwhile with your degree, time, and whatever intelligence you managed to retain?”

The project itself was the most prestigious one that Laila had landed so far. She was working with a team of designers dressing the British Royals for the Met Gala. The theme was Intersections. The Royals thought wanted to wear outfits that blended different cultures’ garments with British Regency-era attire. When Laila perused the design team’s file, she noticed something odd about the countries they wanted her to research: every one of them was once a part of the British Empire. That’s not really saying much, though, is it? Laila thought. If you picked a country at random, what were the odds that we’d colonized it? Whether this was appropriation or some sort of bold social statement, Laila didn’t know. That decision was above her pay grade. Her job was just to come to the meetings with conceptual sketches and hope for the best.

As the meetings progressed, the discourse she heard from the Royals made her a little queasy. They would often describe styles, motifs, or even entire cultures as “savage” or “backwards.” They felt entitled to cherry-pick what they’d like to use and leave the rest to be forgotten. What they chose to wear had more to do with aesthetics than anything of social, historical, or cultural significance. Laila thought back to her mother’s work at the museum: what the Royals were doing paralleled what curators did when acquiring new objects. They’d exhibit what they thought was worth showing, on their own land, and in their own words. People around the world lost control of the narrative once these artifacts hit museum halls.

Laila liked to think of herself as someone who stood up for what she believed in. But words wouldn’t get her very far—not here, where she was at the bottom of the pecking order. Instead, she began to hatch a plan where she wouldn’t need to say anything at all. She suggested to her supervisors that it would be even more jaw-dropping if the Royals wore actual artifacts instead of merely drawing inspiration from them. They loved the idea—and so did the nobility, of course. Laila started compiling a list of eligible objects in the British Museum and other collections in the UK. It took weeks of prodding and manipulation, but Laila finally had the team where she wanted them: It was decided that Kate Middleton would walk up the red-carpeted Met steps wearing the Kohinoor Diamond.

Laila envisioned the Duchess wearing the jewel in a necklace modeled after Ranjit Singh’s armlet that once held the gem, centuries ago. When she finished the conceptual sketch, Laila was sure that her Indian ancestors would be rolling over in their graves (had they not been cremated and scattered in the Ganges). Even if they had graves, Laila thought bitterly, I wouldn’t know where to find them. Laila’s mother came from generations of British nobility, but her father’s parentage was a mystery. The only thing her mother divulged was that they parted ways before Laila was born due to “irreconcilable ideological differences.” She never told Laila’s father she was pregnant. Yet, somehow, when Laila’s mother woke up in the delivery room after giving birth, she found her daughter wearing a gold coin around her neck. Her tiny hands were clutching what looked like a museum display placard: “Gold coin issued by Chandragupta II (circa 380 – 414 CE).” Under it, in tiny handwriting: “Every child should know their roots.”

Years later, Laila still wasn’t sure if this coin held any clues to her father’s identity. It seemed more like a reminder that even though she was a British woman raised by a British woman, there was another part to her story that was worth exploring. She still wears the coin around her neck.

Maybe it was this legacy from an otherwise absent father that allowed such a daft idea to take root in her head. Filching the Kohinoor? Ridiculous! And yet, there’s never been a more perfect time for anyone to steal it back…

The jewel, normally housed at the very secure Tower of London, would be moved at the absolute last possible moment: one week before the Royals left England for the Met Gala. It would be replaced with a fake so as to not attract attention. The Crown didn’t want anyone outside the inner circle to know that the jewel was being moved. Most of the preparatory work—designing, fitting, and so on—would be done with a replica of the Kohinoor at the British Museum. Because the team needed a few fake diamonds to carry out their plan, Kohinoor replicas were scattered around the studio. Nobody would notice if one went missing, Laila thought as she swiped one. I’ll need this later.

After leaving the Tower, the Kohinoor would arrive at the British Museum, where the tools and security necessary for the final fitting would be ready. It would also give a few select geologists a rare chance to study the brilliant gem before it went back into the Tower. As Head Curator, Laila’s mother was in charge of the transfer.

Once Laila stole the diamond (if she got that far), she’d stash it in a shipment of antique jewelry heading to Vogue India’s Delhi office in a few days. There was no other way to transport such a large gem without avoiding airport security. Luckily, she was able to swing working on this photoshoot by trading it for one in Milan (sigh). In between sessions, she’d leave the diamond at Delhi’s National Museum. If the timing worked just so, it would receive the Kohinoor on the same evening that Kate Middleton paraded its fake up the Met Steps.

The actual theft was still a big gaping hole in the repatriation plan. Now that Laila finished designing the necklace, her professional involvement with was done. There was no way she’d be allowed anywhere near the real Kohinoor. She had no idea where her mother would hide it, and with what kind of security. But she had a few days to figure it out and enough work to warrant her presence in the Museum Archives. Besides, she’d gotten away with everything short of bloody murder right under her mum’s nose. How hard would stealing the Kohinoor be?

Laila had the four levels of clearance and enough self-confidence to march right into her mother’s office (after knocking, of course). Much to Laila’s delight, it was empty. Her mother’s office looked exactly the way you’d expect it to look: bookshelves with old, thick volumes. Stolen artifacts from around the world. Lots of mahogany. Laila did a quick sweep of the room for any visible cameras. She was sure there wouldn’t be any hidden cameras: why hide surveillance in the most famous museum in the world? People expect there to be cameras around every corner. It looks like her mother’s office was spared the invasion of privacy: god forbid anyone sees the Head Curator exhibit any signs of humanity, like picking her nose or itching her bum.

Laila took a GoPro out of her bag and stopped once she heard footsteps. Shit. Laila held her breath as the steps grew progressively louder, closer to the door. Shit shit bloody shit—oh thank god. She let out a heavy exhale as the steps faded away. False alarm—but I have to act fast. She quickly put the camera behind a mask facing the desk and synced it to her phone. Then, she went behind the desk, stuck a bug underneath it, and copied her mother’s digital calendar over to her own. After making sure everything was in place, she rushed back to a chair in the corner, taking out a sketchbook. Moments later, her mother entered, towering over her in four-inch heels. The shoes brought her height all the way up to 6’2”.

“Laila, what are you doing here?” She asked, her eyes widening. Aside from the red-bottomed heels (worn purely for intimidatory, not aesthetic, purposes) and a thin string of pearls, there was nothing feminine about her attire. She dressed like the Oxford professor she used to be, in well-tailored tweed and a ballet-tight brunette bun. Her headmistress-like aesthetic was accentuated by her almost impossibly angular cheekbones and stormy grey eyes. The only soft part about her were her full lips, which invited comparisons to Angelina Jolie from those who incorrectly assumed she’d be flattered by the compliment. They never made the same mistake twice.

“Hello, mum,” Laila said, folding up her sketchbook. “It’s nice to see you too.” Laila stowed the book away in a loud tote reminiscent of Yayoi Kusama’s trademark polkadots. It clashed (intentionally) with her lavender skirt and blazer, under which she wore a white knit shirt. While her mother wore pearls conservatively on her neck and earlobes, Laila wove them into her two French braids, which ended below her shoulders. Laila’s platform Prada sneakers (a work freebie) were half as high as her mothers’ heels, but cost about as much. At 5’3”, she could use whatever height she could get.

“Laila, I don’t have much time. We’re acquiring an asset, and the envoy is on the way.” Laila’s heartbeat quickened. She thought she’d have at least a few days before the diamond arrived, but it looks like the team was ahead of schedule. “And it’s classified.” The Kohinoor. It had to be.

“I take it this acquisition came from outside the European continent?” Laila asked, covering up her nervousness with a snarky comment.

“Laila, please,” her mother snapped. She sat at her desk, removed her glasses, and began cleaning them aggressively with a microfiber cloth. “And if you must know, it’s coming from just across town. But that’s all I can say.” After setting her glasses back on the bridge of her nose, the Curator looked at her daughter pointedly. “You should leave.”

“Alright, I’ll get my things,” Laila said, rolling her eyes. I can’t believe I’m still rolling my eyes—I’m almost bloody thirty years old! Then again, mum does have a way of bringing out my inner child. As Laila slung her tote over her shoulder, there was a knock on the door.

“Bloody hell,” her mother whispered. What’s gotten mum so on edge? This was completely out of character—something wasn’t adding up. It couldn’t be that this diamond was a priceless artifact—Laila’s mother handled those every day. Laila started to sweat as she jumped to the conclusion that her mother knew about the theft she was planning. She couldn’t possibly know. She’s good, but she’s not that good.

“Mum, I see you’re on edge about this. I’ll get going, then.”

“Laila, I’m not on edge, I—” The knock again. “Why don’t you take the back door out?”

“But why I’m—“ Her mother glared at her.

“Dr. Croft?” A voice ventured, accented with something Laila couldn’t place: it wasn’t fully British, but it sounded almost like it could slip into something foreign quite naturally at any moment.

“Oh all right—come in,” Laila’s mother said, throwing her hands up in the air and letting out a huge sigh. Something about this envoy really had her mother quaking in her Louboutins, Laila thought. The last time she saw her mother like this, she was haggling with the Director of the Smithsonian over some statues stolen from the Andes.

The door opened slowly. Laila looked at the man who just entered and gasped. Every feature that she didn’t share with her Blue-Blooded British mother—the wild, curly hair, brown skin, and pitch-black eyes—she saw in the stranger standing before her.

“Laila,” he said with twinkling eyes, “I suppose it’s time you met your father.”

This Week’s Top 3

• Shaun of the Dead 🧟‍♀️ – fun horror-comedy. We’ve had bad luck with watching movies for awhile, so this was a nice turn of events
• Baar Baar 🪷 – South Asian-inspired Brunch food & vibes. I’m not even sure if brunch is even a thing in India…
• The Twist of a Knife 🔪 – this one takes Horowitz’s fake-autobiographical murder mysteries to a new level. 4 out of 4 books in the series, eagerly awaiting book 5…