‘That’s right . . . I forgot you’re a descendant of the Maharaja of Patiala!’ retorted Arathi.

Rajan twirled an imaginary handlebar moustache in jest.

‘My granddad did go to school with one of the Maharajas of Patiala—at Aitchison College in Lahore—so it could be a gift from his royal buddy.’

Arathi rolled her eyes. ‘So, how many of your school friends have gifted you priceless antique jewellery, Rajan?’

‘Can we have lunch now?’ said Jai, interrupting this volley between his parents. ‘And can we order pizza, please? This mouse has jumped in all the food here.’

‘Come on, I’m sure that’s not true, Jai,’ said his father. ‘Is it, Ma?’ Rajan turned to look at his mother.

But she hadn’t heard him. She just stood still, a faraway look in her eyes. She brought the diary close to her face and peered at it with her failing sight, holding it as if she was afraid of what she might be reminded of.

Almost inaudibly, she read out the date of the last entry in the diary: ‘17 August 1947.’

There’s More to Life than Cricket

Rawalpindi, Pakistan

A loud crash announced Inaya’s misjudged attempt at hitting a sixer in the tape-ball cricket tournament taking place in the street adjoining Haider Mansion. It startled Mudassar, the Haiders’ elderly help, almost causing him to drop the figurine of the ballerina that he was dusting. A tennis ball covered in insulation tape had shot through the open French windows in the drawing room, bouncing off a painting over the mantelpiece and knocking over a crystal photo frame. The ball deftly made its way through the shards of glass that now covered the floor to finally disappear beneath the large leather sofa. Moments later, a breathless fifteen-year-old burst into the room.

‘Sorry, sorry, Mudassar Chacha,’ Inaya panted, pushing away the mop of unruly curls from her eyes. Impenitently, she crouched down and retrieved the ball. ‘Please blame this on Zain. Please!’

There was the sound of footsteps and Inaya spun around.

‘What are we blaming on Zain, Inaya?’ asked her father, Irfan, as he strode in, followed at a more sedate pace by her grandparents. Inaya gulped and looked at them sheepishly. The trio surveyed the scene in silence. Inaya clutched the ball behind her back, hoping they wouldn’t notice the smashed photo frame.

Inaya’s grandmother straightened the painting that had tilted leftwards with the ball’s impact. ‘If you don’t like your grandfather’s paintings, you should just tell him so, Inaya. As I do,’ said Humaira. ‘Why go to all the trouble of taking potshots at them through windows?’

‘But I do like Daada’s paintings—that was an accident,’ muttered Inaya.

Inaya’s father retrieved the photograph that was on the floor. He carefully removed the fragments of glass and propped the photograph against the ballerina on the mantelpiece.

‘Inaya, look at your great-grandmother—she was . . . the epitome of grace. She would be appalled by all this,’ he said, gesturing at the destruction that lay before him. ‘There’s more to life than cricket, you know.’