The Original Is Not Here

A ‘provocative’ story about a British Museum statue that belongs to Sri Lanka by Piyumi Kapugeekiyana

Past the banyan trees, through sun-bleached wooden doors and a lobby watched over by a meditating Buddha, beyond the cracked terracotta bust of Parakramabahu VI and the gilt bronze sandals of a Bodhisattva, stands a small replica of Tārā, the goddess of compassion. Charitha, the youngest ever curator of the National Museum of Antiquities, does not care for it.

The pretender also wears a crown of matted hair and holds her right hand in varadamudrā, poised to dispense blessings. But no one is fooled. This Tārā is a plaster cast of the eighth-century original—made of gilded bronze, now mounted on a marble block in England. Donated by the British Museum, custodian of the real statue, her gold paint falls as flat as their gesture. A reproachful sign at her feet tells viewers exactly where they can find the authentic figure.

Charitha often peppers her guided tours with pointed remarks: ‘At the British Museum, the statue of Tārā is identified by the accession number 1830,0612.4, which securely links every object to its history—the first four digits indicate the year of acquisition.’

It’s a mouthful, but the public never seems fazed.

For some thirty years of the British Museum’s custodianship, the real Tārā—nearly five feet tall, wearing only a sarong knotted at the hips—was hidden in the Secretum, a special room once reserved for objects deemed too perverse for public display. Charitha finds it vexing that the statue remains in the care of those who do not quite understand its spiritual significance. She scoffs each time her eyes land on ‘high tubular coiffure’, the museum’s description of Tārā’s jatamukuta, the crown of the ascetic. Periodically, she revisits the statue’s exhibition history, as if expecting something new will have transpired, but the last feature remains the 2010 BBC radio series ‘A History of the World in 100 Objects’. Her latest loan request was declined with a galling line: ‘We appreciate your interest in cultural exchange.’

Charitha writes about these and other pet peeves at Notes from the Margins. Her blog barely has a readership, mostly comprising other South Asian curators and historians. All the same, her last entry on Tārā’s repatriation—amplified by a wokefluencer angling for clout—has triggered a politely scathing email from the Ministry of Culture, Artefacts, and Technology.

While your passion is commendable, Ms. Wijesinghe, we must remind you that repatriation efforts were pursued in 1937 and again in 1980—with no favourable outcome. We urge you to reflect on the remit of your position and respect the delicate balance of international cultural relations.

Athul reads the note over her shoulder during breakfast, chuckling in his usual gormless fashion.

‘Sounds like someone used ChatGPT,’ he says, breathing crumbs all over her kola kanda.

‘They’re more worried about the latest trade deal than about cultural heritage.’

‘Maybe,’ he says, idly skimming her blog. ‘But calling them imperialists in the first paragraph probably didn’t help.’

‘I call it like I see it.’

‘Bully for you. But you know very well if we got our precious statues back, they’d be crumbling in a week. Not like we can afford all those climate-controlled latrines.’

‘Vitrines,’ she corrects, even though she’s used to his hyperbole.

‘Tomayto, tomahto.’

‘A little support would be nice, you know,’ she says, glancing at him sideways. ‘But I’m your biggest advocate, Charitha.’

‘Really? Because it doesn’t always feel like that.’

‘I hate it when you get this way,’ he sighs.

‘And what way is that?’ she asks, raring for a fight.

Athul shrugs and stuffs a piece of toast into his mouth.

‘Fractious.’

Everyone expects disenchantment to sneak up on them in a marriage, but Charitha braced for it at seven years, not twenty.

They do not have the distraction of children. And here they are, having made it to a milestone where they should be toasting their endurance, but she finds it harder than ever to feign enthusiasm at his glib remarks. The irritation that was once fleeting now lingers; easing herself out of it takes a day and a half. She doubts Athul even notices. He oversees a chain of ayurvedic spas, and it shows. Lately, he’s been more concerned with the beard he’s growing than with anything she has to say. He spends hours manicuring it; their credit card statements reference oils and balms from Stubble & Spice. Sometimes, she wonders who he’s primping for.

At work, Charitha considers how she can leverage the interest in her latest post to advance the conversation on cultural repatriation.

‘Restitution can’t just be performative,’ she tells Kanishka, her curatorial assistant, over lunch. ‘There has to be something real behind it.’

Kanishka, who recently completed a degree in ethnography at the University of Colombo, nods vigorously.

‘You know what I’d like to see?’ he says. ‘A statue swap. I mean, they do it with prisoners, don’t they?’

Charitha looks at him quizzically.

‘What?’ he asks. ‘Shouldn’t colonial statues be returned to the metropole?’

‘I think that might be a little tricky,’ she backtracks, realizing he’s hinting at the regnal statue by the museum’s side entrance. ‘Politically speaking.’

Kanishka shrugs. ‘Reparations aren’t just a buzzword.’

He’s a protégé of sorts. Charitha sees in him the same rebellious streak that runs through her. But his ideas stretch boundaries in ways that his current position cannot sustain. She feels compelled to offer both guidance and protection—at least until he can stand on his own.

‘I’ve been looking at this manuscript,’ she says, changing tacks. ‘Twenty-four double-sided palm leaves, bound in wooden covers decorated with dharma wheels. The British Museum has it, but it’s not even on display.’

Kanishka leans in, squinting at the screen. ‘Says here it was a donation from the United Society for the Propagation of the Gospel…?’

‘Might have been a missionary trophy,’ she says, her frown deepening. ‘Hard to know for sure.’

‘That could be something new for your blog,’ he offers helpfully. ‘Why don’t we dig deeper?’

Just then, Charitha’s phone buzzes. It’s another push notification from the bank:

Your purchase at Lankatilaka One Galle Face has been approved.

She sighs in frustration. It’s the third time this month. It’s not enough that her husband spends on artisanal skincare—must he also keep buying overpriced tchotchkes?

She comes home that evening to find a new wooden door stopper, painted to look like a Sinhalese village woman in a red cloth and green jacket. The figure looks uncomfortable, its flat feet tucked beneath its solid oak door. On their bookshelves, a pair of Kandyan aristocrats raise their hands in the traditional greeting of ayubowan.

‘Weren’t last week’s fishermen enough?’ she asks Athul derisively.

‘What? I find them charming.’

‘Yes, cultural commodification is delightful, isn’t it?’

‘Must everything be a battle, Charitha?’

‘It wouldn’t be if you weren’t so clueless. I’m always having to explain things to you.’

‘Have you considered that I don’t live for your lectures?’ he asks, his voice rising.

She stares at him for a moment, trying to muster a retort.

‘Of course you haven’t,’ he continues. ‘Because that would force you to confront your saviour complex, wouldn’t it?’

With that, he disappears into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. ‘Maybe you’d like me more if I sold beard oil!’ she shouts after him.

Charitha stands there for a minute, feeling foolish. She needs a huffy exit too—something to spare her from the sting of Athul’s words and her own pettiness. She storms to the balcony for some air. Outside, a neon sun is setting over the Kotte cemetery, edging the scudding clouds with fire. She looks out over Maligawa Road.

Before the graves, there had been a Portuguese church. And before that, the royal palace of the Kotte kingdom. The old sandesha poetry spoke of an edifice made of blue gems, a pinnacle that could be seen from the surrounding villages.

That’s long gone.

Somewhere along the way, the Dutch took the foundational stones for monuments in the capital, the British carted off the rubble for the breakwater at Galle Face, and the moonstones reappeared in the homes of contractors. Today, electrical wires streak the skies and multistoried homes stand like sentries along their lane, braving smoke from the cremator.

Charitha, raised on stories of Sri Lanka’s golden past, had pushed Athul to buy the apartment, hoping it might anchor them to that lost world. There was a time she looked forward to passing those tales on—she would picture wonder dawning on a pair of little faces as they listened to the exploits of old kings like Kassapa and Dutugamunu. Tales that had captivated her, back when she sat nestled in the cradle of her father’s sarong. But now, all that seems a little naive—a maternal ideal that never materialised. Is that why Tārā matters so much? Somewhere along the way, did the statue become a stand-in—for everything lost, for stories left untold?

She steps back inside, where the air is cooler but no less heavy. Athul is still holed up in the bathroom and the paper bag from Lankatilaka sits insolently on the counter. As she moves to clear it, something inside catches her eye. A note.

‘It was lovely chatting today, A — let me know if you still want the engraved elephants.’ — M

Her hand stills. Who the hell is M?

The next day, Charitha drives to the One Galle Face mall on her lunch break, takes the escalator up two floors in a daze and makes a beeline for the Lankatilaka store. Walking in, she finds the place festooned with coconut shell bowls and batik shirts, rattan mats and clay pots, raksha masks and sesath fans.

‘Can I help you find something, madam?’

Charitha spins around to face the lilting voice, her gaze sharpening on the woman’s badge. Meaghan.

With a clinical eye, she surveys the woman’s long legs, freckled cheeks, and fair hair—suddenly, Athul’s new obsession with handicrafts makes perfect sense. The discovery doesn’t bring the bolt of jealousy she expected, though her first thought is still uncharitable: Couldn’t they get a local for this job?

‘Are you looking for a gift?’

‘Er, yes,’ Charitha says, stiffening. ‘Do you have any engraved elephants?’

‘Of course,’ Meaghan says, gliding through the aisles. She gestures to a shelf lined with every manner of pachyderm—painted, engraved, metal, wood, fabric, and plastic.

‘All our pieces tell a story.’

‘And what story is that? Capitalism?’ Charitha blurts, before she can stop herself.

Good grief, maybe she really is insufferable.

Meaghan smiles awkwardly.

‘We help local craftspeople make a living’.

Charitha stares at her, discomfort deepening.

Trying to salvage the moment, she grabs the first elephant she sees, a fever dream of a creature, daubed in the saffron, green, and maroon of the national flag.

‘I’ll take this one.’

‘It’s one of our bestsellers,’ Meaghan says brightly.

Charitha pays for the gaudy memento in silence, then leaves before she can say anything else.

---

‘So what if he likes a cute shop girl?’ Nandani asks, sipping her tamarind margarita. ‘It’s a couple of ornaments, Charitha. Not like the man bought her an apartment. As far as affairs go, this one is pretty tame.’

Charitha fixes her friend with a hard look.

‘Who said anything about an affair? For all I know, the note is part of her sales pitch.’

‘Fine, a bit of banter then,’ Nandani says. ‘Nothing wrong with a harmless flirtation.’

‘Maybe you’re not the right person to discuss this with,’ Charitha says.

‘Why? Because I don’t subscribe to your narrow ideals about monogamy?’

‘I couldn’t care less about that. It’s more about what she represents. You wouldn’t get it.’

Nandani narrows her eyes.

‘Oh, I see. This has to do with her being white.’

Charitha looks down, her eyes darting between her sensible black flats and Nandani’s pointy pink suede heels.

‘That’s a disgusting amount of toe cleavage,’ she says, trying to change the subject.

‘Careful!’ Nandani says, ignoring the deflection. ‘You’re heading into reverse racism territory.’

‘You know very well that’s a myth,’ Charitha starts.

‘Racism is prejudice anchored in institutional power, blah blah blah,’ Nandani says, rolling her eyes. ‘Yeah, I caught your Ted talk. I’m more interested in why you’re so rattled. You say you’re not jealous, and yet this is all you’ve talked about since we sat down.’

Charitha sighs. ‘Fine. It’s not that he’s noticed another woman—it’s what he might have noticed about her. Blonde hair, blue eyes, skin like a peach. What if it’s her otherness he’s drawn to? What if he fetishises her? Or am I just projecting?’

‘See? I called it.’

‘Well? What do you think?’

‘For starters, Charitha, you sound like a bloody thesis,’ Nandani groans. ‘But honestly? I’m a little surprised you care.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Lately, all you’ve done is complain about the man. I kind of thought things were running their course.’

‘How could you say that?’ Charitha asks, flashing indignance.

Nandani sighs and takes another sip of her drink.

‘When you married Athul, fresh out of university, do you remember what I asked you?’

‘Yeah,’ Charitha says wryly. ‘Are you sure?’

‘And do you recall what you said?’

‘Yeah, I’m sure. He’s my counterpoint,’ Charitha quotes.

‘Exactly. Now, when was the last time you felt that way?’

‘I don’t know, Nandani,’ she says, frowning. ‘Things were different back then. I was angry, full of theory, wanting to prove myself in a field dominated by men. He was calm, grounded…older. He’d travelled the world but still loved Sri Lanka best. I thought we were kindred spirits.’

‘So… what’s changed?’ Charitha sighs.

‘It’s hard to put my finger on it. I just don’t recognize him anymore. It’s not only about this flirtation… or banter…or whatever it is. Athul acts like I’m wasting my time at the museum. I’m trying to reclaim our heritage, and all he can do is make light of it. What am I supposed to feel?’

‘Babe, I get it. Your work matters to you.’ Nandani says, gently. ‘But no one wants to be locked in a war all the time. Maybe the man just wants to live.’

‘That’s unfair,’ Charitha says, sulking. ‘Whose side are you even on?’

Nandani reaches over and touches her wrist. ‘I’m not saying you’re wrong to care. But maybe ease up a little?’

Charitha stares at the condensation running down her glass.

There it is again—her husband’s words, echoed now by her friend. Nandani’s honesty can be brutal, but she’s rarely wrong. Must everything be a battle? And yet Charitha cannot bring herself to let it go. If she doesn’t move the needle on cultural repatriation, what other legacy is there? She thinks of Kanishka, who keeps nudging her to do more. She can’t spend her life crafting eloquent laments. What kind of a weak and ineffectual mentor would that make her?

That night, she comes home and plonks the elephant in front of Athul. ‘For your collection.’

He looks up from his phone, puzzled, and takes in the offering. ‘Thanks?’

For a moment, the room is quiet. Charitha stares hard at her husband, wanting him to say something.

But Athul stays put, giving the ornament another glance.

‘Bit on the nose, isn’t it?’

Charitha can’t tell if he means the elephant’s ridiculous nationalism or her unspoken accusation.

She glances at it, as if looking for the answer. The elephant stares back, trunk frozen mid-salute.

‘I know you saw the note,’ Athul says, finally. ‘It’s not what you think.’

‘So you’re not flirting with a shop girl?’

‘Okay—maybe a little,’ he says, refusing to meet her eyes. ‘But that’s all it is.’

‘Must be nice to be admired,’ she mutters. ‘Bet she praised your beard.’

‘Stop it, Charitha.’

She drops her head into her hands. Suddenly, she feels drained.

Athul’s tone softens. ‘Why are we always sniping at each other?’

‘I don’t know,’ she says, voice muffled through her hands.

The next morning, Charitha wakes up to find the elephant in the trash. She takes the gesture as a sign that Athul has come to his senses. But the other ornaments remain stubbornly in place, as if hinting at the precariousness of their reconciliation.

A note from Athul sits on the kitchen counter:

Off to work early. Black Gram product line launches today.

After a moment’s hesitation, Charitha rounds up the offending tchotchkes and, patriotism be damned, tips them into the bin. She drives to work in better spirit,s and the momentum carries into her day at the museum.

The conversation with Nandani—about Athul being her counterpoint—has unlocked a memory.

Post-pandemic, Charitha’s first work trip had taken her to the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford. There, an exhibit by the same name, Counterpoint, caught her eye. She hadn’t thought of it in years, but now the word draws a clean line between past and present, sparking an idea.

She decides to run it past Kanishka. Even as Charitha walks over to his desk, a niggling feeling tells her she might be acting irresponsibly. Should she really drag her assistant into this plan? For a moment, Charitha considers consulting one of the other curators in her network. But fearing they might dissuade her—or worse, pounce on the idea themselves—she banishes the thought. Kanishka is the only one she trusts to understand.

‘Let me get this straight,’ Kanishka says. ‘The Ashmolean’s Chantrey Wall features a bunch of oldies who benefited from the slave trade.’

‘Yes, sixteen busts of the notoriously rich.’

‘And Mary Chamberlain created Counterpoint as a response to the Chantrey busts?’

‘That’s right. She ran community workshops to get to know people of colour—those who have shaped modern Britain but remain absent from its museum walls.’

‘And then she sketched them?’

‘Using pigments from colonial imports like coffee and saffron, on vellum.’

‘The stuff they used to encode the law? That’s poetic.’

‘It’s incredible. The work is confronting, yet still full of vulnerability.’

‘So…it’s kind of a posthumous face-off then?’

‘Or a symbolic showdown,’ she smiles.

‘And you want to do what?’

‘Commission a local artist to paint Sir Robert Brownrigg and have him confront our replica of Tārā.’

Kanishka raises an eyebrow.

‘The Governor of Ceylon who brought the original to Britain? You can’t be serious.’

‘Why not? No one knows how he came into its possession.’

‘Maybe he thought she’d keep him safe on the high seas,’ Kanishka chuckles. ‘Isn’t she the protectress of earthly travel?’

‘Never mind that. What do you think?’

‘I mean… it works as an homage,’ he says slowly. ‘But as an actual exhibit? Isn’t it… derivative? You’d be replicating someone else’s idea.’

‘Exactly,’ Charitha says.

Kanishka stares at her in surprise.

‘By adapting the visual language of the Counterpoint exhibit, I want to critique colonial theft.’

‘So you want to take something to draw attention to what was taken?’

‘Yes, mimicry as a form of resistance,’ she says.

‘But Charitha…’ he gasps. ‘That’s brilliant.’

She smiles. ‘I figure it’s about time we stirred the waters.’

With that, they dive into the project, brimming with excitement. In an afternoon, Charitha scrapes together funding for the installation and its publicity, while Kanishka puts out an open call for artists’ expressions of interest. To make it work, Charitha has to shave a sliver off the air conditioning budget for the numismatics exhibit—but the coins have survived several imperial regimes already; they can take the heat.

---

A month later, the museum is milling with people for the launch of the new installation, mostly academics and journalists, but also history buffs. Nerdy types, Nandani declared upon walking in—and she isn’t wrong.

Her friend stands now before the display, eyeing it with a wry smile.

‘I mean, it’s something.’

She pivots between the five-foot oil portrait of Brownrigg, pristine in full military regalia, and the replica of Tārā.

‘Couldn’t you have given her a wipe down, though?’ she asks. ‘The goddess looks crusty.’

‘It’s intentional,’ Charitha says. ‘He’s in all his power and glory, confronting the consequences of his actions…taking the original statue, that is…and the contrast is only magnified by this shabby replica.’

Charitha plays it cool, rehearsing lines she hopes to use on other attendees, but her palms are moist, and she presses them discreetly against her cotton saree.

An early tweet has already skewered the museum for ‘aping the West’ and ‘appropriating ideas from other artists’.

Another tweet criticises Charitha for her unrelenting campaign against the British Museum, calling it a #CulturalGem with a deep commitment to preserving history.

Kanishka comes over, offering the women a pair of champagne flutes.

‘The results are in,’ he says. ‘A solid 74% say institutions should not co-opt original work.’

‘Interesting,’ Charitha smiles. Earlier, she’d enlisted Kanishka to run a poll among the evening’s attendees. They’d posed a single question: ‘Is it acceptable for an institution to take an artist’s idea and repurpose it for its own ends?’

‘I said it’s okay if the artist consents,’ Nandani pipes in. ‘Otherwise it’s plain exploitative, isn’t it?’

‘She’s in the 10% of respondents who picked that option,’ Kanishka reports. ‘Another 10% said it depended on the context and purpose.’

‘The rest actually believe that institutions can do as they please?’ Charitha asks, incredulously.

Kanishka nods. ‘A minority, yes. But don’t worry. A little controversy drives engagement.’

‘Why do I feel like there’s more to this…face-off?’ Nandani asks, raising an eyebrow.

‘There’s always more when Charitha’s involved,’ Athul says, joining them. ‘Sorry I’m late—still managing the PR circus.’

Charitha nods and gives him a brief hug. Several customers of his black gram product line have developed skin reactions lately—the Ayurvedic specialists have chalked it down to excess pitta dosha, or internal heat.

‘Thank you for coming,’ she whispers, politely.

When the time is right, Kanishka taps her on the shoulder. Charitha makes her way to the centre of the hall, feeling nervous. She takes a deep breath and starts speaking:

On the surface, our exhibit functions both as an homage to Mary Chamberlain’s Counterpoint and as a spotlight on the real statue of Tārā, which remains at the British Museum—far from its rightful home.

But it is also more than that. Today, we asked you a question about artistic ownership, and many of you responded by critiquing us for co-opting Chamberlain’s ideas—we couldn’t agree more. When institutions take without permission, it echoes a long history of appropriation, both colonial and corporate.

Our simple poll is only a stand-in for a much bigger question—that of cultural ownership—and this installation is not merely a reproduction: It’s a subversive act. By deliberately echoing the visual language of the Counterpoint exhibit, by taking something that is not ours to take, we are holding a mirror to the very mechanisms by which cultural artefacts—like the statue of Tārā—have been appropriated, displayed, and misinterpreted by colonial powers.

At this, a scattering of applause breaks out among the academics in the group.

‘Bloody hell, I still don’t get it!’ Nandani hisses.

‘In plain English, someone?’

‘They’re stealing from the West to stick it to the West.’ Athul chuckles.

‘That’s an oversimplification,’ Kanishka whispers. ‘But, yeah.’

Someone overhears them—because the next morning, a version of the exchange makes it into the Daily Gazette headline:

Museum of Antiquities exhibit steals from the West

There’s a colour photograph of the plaster Tārā positioned to face the portrait of Brownrigg, along with a pair of front-facing shots. Also in the mix is a slightly grainy image of Charitha, looking like the ghost of the resistance in white.

Later, several local academics flock to her blog, leaving praise for the museum’s ‘transgressive act of mimicry’ and ‘clever homage’.

An Indian curator in her network catches wind of the news and sends her a one-liner: ‘Wish I’d thought to do that with a replica of the Koh-i-Noor.’

She even gets a LinkedIn message from the director of a South Asian think tank: ‘If you’re ever looking to switch gears, we could use someone with your savvy.’

For a few days, Charitha coasts on a cloud while Athul fumes over the implosion of his black gram line.

Then, another missive arrives from the Ministry:

Critical engagement may be acceptable in academic forums, Ms. Wijesinghe, but public-facing exhibitions must adhere to standards of neutrality, respect, and sensitivity.

Charitha skims the withering email, rolling her eyes at the Ministry’s regret over the ‘unilateral nature of recent programming decisions’ and their demand for ‘clarification on the exhibit’s intent.’ For a moment, she lingers on their final line:

Please refrain from media engagement on this matter until further notice.

But Kanishka has already leveraged a third-degree connection to get the Gazette article on the radar of Tea & Outrage, a political podcast run out of London. The hosts, Zola and Rehan, a pair of youth activists who wish to platform unheard voices, have invited Charitha to participate in a 5-minute segment on the exhibit. It’s the farthest she’s managed to advance the issue, and she can’t resist the opportunity.

She spends days fussing in front of the mirror, double-checking her Zoom setup and tailoring her remarks, as if preparing for an interview with a major news network.

‘I’d be more cautious if I were you,’ Athul says, not unkindly. ‘The Ministry will see it as an impertinence.’

‘With any luck, they won’t even hear about it,’ she says. ‘It’s only an up-and-coming podcast.’

‘What’s all this effort in aid of then?’

Charitha shoots him a stormy glance but decides it’s not worth fighting over. He’s been sore about his failed line and on the back foot ever since their talk about the shop girl. Let the man be.

On the day of the podcast, Charitha starts her segment by describing the exhibit and clarifying its intent. She finishes off with a few soundbites on the importance of Tārā’s return.

‘Your take on mimicry is compelling,’ Zola says. ‘Crafting an exhibit that’s both homage and critique is not an easy line to walk, especially for the curator of a publicly-funded institution. It’s one of the reasons we really wanted you on our show.’

Charitha takes a deep breath, grateful for the validation.

‘Thank you, Zola. It’s never easy finding new ways to shed light on old injustices.’

The compliment barely sinks in before Zola adds—

‘But if I’m honest, Charitha, I’m divided on this one,’ Zola says. ‘Mary Chamberlain’s work challenges the historical erasure of Britain’s marginalized communities. I can’t help but feel that your exhibit undermines her message.’

‘How so?’ she asks, feeling the heat rising in her chest.

‘Mimicry notwithstanding, aren’t you risking a false equivalence? By equating the plunder of artefacts with the horrors of enslavement?’

For a moment, Charitha reels. How did she fail to see that coming? But she has to stay the course.

‘I hear you, Zola,’ she says, trembling slightly. ‘But from my perspective, both evils stem from the same oppressive system. Slavery violates the body and freedom—looting attacks cultural memory and identity.’

‘But that’s not the same thing, is it?’ Zola asks, more fiery now. ‘Enslavement is a crime against humanity, one that’s recognized internationally.’

‘Of course!’ Charitha says, choosing her words carefully. ‘But the comparison underscores the depths of colonial violence, doesn’t it? While we highlight different issues, our exhibit shares the same spirit as Counterpoint. It’s about challenging colonial narratives. Through mimicry, we’re revealing contradictions in how people—universal museums in particular—think about cultural ownership.’

‘I understand your intent, Charitha, truly. But for people like me, the trauma of slavery isn’t abstract. It’s not merely a lens for critiquing colonialism—it’s lived pain. It echoes through our bodies, our families, our words, our silences. It’s not up for debate.’

Charitha nods mutely, letting Zola’s words sink in, her bubble of self-assuredness well and truly punctured.

‘And that’s all the time we have today, folks!’ Rehan pipes in. ‘Tune in next week for more polite outrage.’

Charitha slams the laptop shut, feeling defeated.

‘That was brutal,’ she says.

Kanishka, who has been watching from a corner, lets out a loud exhale.

‘Uncomfortable to say the least.’

‘It’s my fault,’ Charitha says, rubbing her temples. ‘I got so caught up in the fight, I didn’t even realize what I was missing—until she filled in the blanks.’

She looks up, expecting one of Kanishka’s usual quick takes. He stretches his legs and sighs.

‘I guess that’s what makes it a blind spot,’ he says quietly. ‘It’s not like I saw it coming either. We were both too caught up in making a statement.’

Charitha stares at him glumly.

‘But that’s part of the challenge, isn’t it?’ Kanishka continues. ‘All this time, we’ve been locked in an insular fight…blogging for a predominantly South Asian audience…shooting emails into the ether. None of us can see beyond our own hurts.’

‘That’s generous,’ she says. ‘But it won’t get me off the hook, will it?’

‘Hey, at least now you’ve started a conversation. We just have to keep nudging it in the right direction.’

But Charitha doesn’t get the chance. The podcast receives a flurry of comments, slamming her for minimizing the generational trauma of enslavement. Before long, a transcript of the interview makes its way into the Daily Gazette with the headline:

Bold or Blundering? Museum under fire for likening artefact loss to slavery

She spends the next few days on damage control: fielding calls, replying to comments, and hiding under her blanket.

Athul brings her cups of masala chai, her go-to comfort. Though he makes it too sweet, it becomes the only thing she looks forward to.

Within the week, she receives a letter from the Ministry, reassigning her to the role of Assistant Director, Inventory and Conservation Logistics.

‘What does that even mean?’ Athul asks.

But they both already know the answer: Backroom work with no public interface.

‘I’m really kicking myself here, Athul. If I hadn’t been so enamoured with the cleverness of it all—the hope that Tārā’s repatriation would finally make headlines—I might have thought more seriously about how this exhibit would land.’

‘Who are they bringing in to take your place?’

‘Some former diplomat…fresh off a UNESCO posting. Someone better at charming the bigwigs and keeping the museum…globally palatable.’

He nods, saying nothing.

‘Go on, say it,’ she says, wearily. ‘You were right.’

‘I take no pleasure in it.’

Charitha looks up at him, searching for a hint of smugness but finding none. He’s been unusually devoted since the fallout from the podcast, almost as if softened by her failure.

‘I really thought I could bring the statue back,’ she says. ‘That I could be the one to succeed where others had failed, that if I tried hard enough, long enough, that I could skew public perception in our favour. Maybe it was just hubris.’

She offers up this moment of reflection, tied up in a bow, wondering if Athul will tug it loose with a smirk.

But he sits next to her and touches her hand instead.

She pauses for a moment, looking around their immaculate apartment. Their walls crisp and untouched by crayons, the stainless steel fridge free of report cards, their photo frames only ever populated with the two of them. Is this why she feels so compelled to make her mark? But she shakes her head, checking herself. Being childfree hasn’t driven her to prioritise her career; it’s the reason she can afford to take risks.

‘Do you resent me?’ she asks him suddenly.

‘Whatever for?’

‘The life unlived,’ she says, gesturing around their home. ‘Children, or the lack thereof?’

‘That decision was mutual, Charitha.’

‘Just checking.’

‘Does it get lonely sometimes? Sure. Do I wonder how different things might have been? Occasionally. But I look at the life we’ve built and I’m mostly content.’

‘Mostly?’ she asks, thinking of the shop girl.

Athul catches her drift.

‘Despite all our missteps, there’s still more right with us than wrong.’

She weighs his words, running a mental inventory of their past.

‘What do you want to do now?’ he asks after a moment’s silence.

‘Honestly?’ she asks. ‘I need a break.’

Athul sighs. ‘I could use one myself.’

They sit on the couch in perfect equanimity, the TV playing to no one.

‘Do you want to go away together?’ he asks, cautiously. ‘Maybe Ella?’

It’s where they honeymooned.

Charitha shakes her head. ‘I don’t think we’re there yet.’

He nods, not pushing it.

‘Down south then?’

‘Somewhere without history,’ she says.

Charitha isn’t ready to forgive his small betrayals, not yet. But she can’t pretend the high ground is hers anymore.

Quietly, she makes an invocation to Tārā. For travelling mercies and the strength to try again.

–Piyumi Kapugeekiyana is this year’s winner of the Guardian and publisher 4th Estate’s award for unpublished writers of colour