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by marriage. She left Singapore for India in 1936, five years before the Japanese invasion. 1971. My mother, recently married, travelling by plane from London to Tehran – she didn’t feel as though she was escaping. Eight years later, flying back to London, she did. Tehran, 1979. Outside my window, mountains. The highest, Damavand. Visiting my uncle north of the city, I fell into a drift of snow, chin deep. At school, in the playground, I stepped in the warm wet tar. Just to feel it underfoot, to mark its perfect glossy blackness. It clung to my shoe. Soon we would be leaving. We could see it changing from the window of our apartment. Demonstrations. Tanks. Soldiers. We could hear chanting. There were blackouts. Sitting in our flat, surrounded by boxes and crates packed with antique furniture – dark wood carved with tiny Chinese figures, men with long beards, ladies under cherry trees, curling clouds, dragons. It had travelled from Singapore to India, India to London and then to Iran, part of my grandmother’s and then my mother’s trousseau. The delivery men wouldn’t take it – no antiques could leave the country. They were tightening the borders. People grew ingenious – hid gold coins in jars of jam, jewellery in the hollow of a carved-out heel. Our toys were given to the local hospital – I knew that we were leaving. London, SW13, 1980. At five years old, I dreamed of firing squads. Flinched when I saw policemen. But there was warmth and family and love. Masala omelette, sweet with fried onions. Rice pudding, golden with saffron. 62
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45 Lowther Road. I felt safe in that house, with its greengage trees, the secret musty smell of garden shed, the bright pink and purple swirls, paisley patterns on the duvet that crackled static when we huddled underneath. She’d whisper prayers until we fell asleep and blow them over us, to keep us safe. Patterns. The antique Persian carpet in my grandparents’ house stretched into the afternoons. I used to jump between the different coloured panels, making up stories, dreaming. Tiny feet, treading over rooftops of a miniature world: Cyprus trees and citadels, palaces with copper domes, leopard chasing antelope, the moon in silver scimitar, gardens full of roses. So many stories, knotted into silk. Persepolis. One of my relations met Agatha Christie walking in the ruins of Persepolis. When I visited, it was almost empty. Winged bulls. A lizard darting over sand. They say the lion and the lizard keep / The courts where Jamshýd gloried and drank deep. Ruins of an empire. Perhaps if the Shah had not held that infamous party, none of this would have happened. Millions spent, monarchs, presidents, sultans, ambassadors, movie stars, all invited to Persepolis, to witness the greatness of the Persians. Decadence: 159 chefs, bakers, and waiters, all flown in from Paris. Roasted peacock, caviar, crystal, Limoges china. Thousands of snakes, scorpions and lizards, cleared from the site; zoologists took the unknown species away, packed into special jars. Pine trees were planted in the desert. Bekhab Cyrus, ma beedareem. Sleep on, Cyrus, we are awake. 63

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by marriage. She left Singapore for India in 1936, five years before the Japanese invasion. 1971. My mother, recently married, travelling by plane from London to Tehran – she didn’t feel as though she was escaping. Eight years later, flying back to London, she did. Tehran, 1979. Outside my window, mountains. The highest, Damavand. Visiting my uncle north of the city, I fell into a drift of snow, chin deep. At school, in the playground, I stepped in the warm wet tar. Just to feel it underfoot, to mark its perfect glossy blackness. It clung to my shoe. Soon we would be leaving. We could see it changing from the window of our apartment. Demonstrations. Tanks. Soldiers. We could hear chanting. There were blackouts. Sitting in our flat, surrounded by boxes and crates packed with antique furniture – dark wood carved with tiny Chinese figures, men with long beards, ladies under cherry trees, curling clouds, dragons. It had travelled from Singapore to India, India to London and then to Iran, part of my grandmother’s and then my mother’s trousseau. The delivery men wouldn’t take it – no antiques could leave the country. They were tightening the borders. People grew ingenious – hid gold coins in jars of jam, jewellery in the hollow of a carved-out heel. Our toys were given to the local hospital – I knew that we were leaving.

London, SW13, 1980. At five years old, I dreamed of firing squads. Flinched when I saw policemen. But there was warmth and family and love. Masala omelette, sweet with fried onions. Rice pudding, golden with saffron.

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