Salt and Saffron

by Kamila Shamsie

  Karachi was full of corners, and I had grown up turning every corner with the hope in my heart that she would be there. How could I continue to live my life between such corners? How could I not?

  Other people never reminded me of Mariam, but that’s not to say I was never reminded of her. In moments when I least expected it everyday objects would become doorways to memory. A shoe buckle, a keyring, a mango seed bleached by the sun; running water, railway tracks, cobblestones and cochineal; cacti, cat’s-eyes, Cocteau and kites; chipped plates, race tracks, swimming pools, diving boards, bluebottles, jellyfish, bougainvillea, stones; crickets and bats and cricket bats.

  I know. Cocteau is not an everyday object, but she loved Orphée.

  What if she were dead? How would I know? Is it better this way, this not knowing? I wondered, tracing circles in the glass. This way she can be immortal to me, in my lifetime. I don’t ever have to face the finality of her death. That thought should have brought me comfort, but it didn’t. If she were dead, I’d want to know so that I could weep. The circles in the glass looped outward and became spirals. I am frozen when I think of you, Mariam. My mind goes everywhere and nowhere. Nothing in my life is untouched by your absence. I think you’d like Khaleel. I don’t know if that makes me run towards him or pull away.

  ‘Aliya, what did your father mean that day over lunch? Remember, just after you got back? I escorted Abida Nani out and when I came back he was saying, “I should have fired Masood when …” and then your mother told him to shut up.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I had forgotten about that entirely.

  Sameer stood up. ‘I’m going to find your mother. Maybe she’ll tell us. You can use my absence to read that e-mail which you’re so desperate for me not to see.’

  He left, and I turned gratefully to my laptop.

  Hi, Ailment.

  Your e-mail about tea at the Starcheds’ had me in hysterics! Seriously. Someone rang the bell and I couldn’t answer it because I was having such a haal picturing Older Starch stuffing food into the older Ali Shah’s mouth to stop him from charming you. But obviously you don’t want to hear any of this, as your last message so subtly hinted. ‘How’s Baji? Have you seen her recently?’ my foot. Why don’t you just come right out and say Cal Butt has hoovered you off your ankles? So, everyone loves him, if that’s what you want to know, but, after he left, Baji (who somehow detected your interest in him, although neither Rehana Apa nor I can recall saying anything about it) said, ‘Of course, you don’t marry an individual. You marry a family.’ Normally I would roll my eyes at this marriage phoo-pha; I mean, flings can be great fun, and if it wasn’t for you I’d fling him in a second. But you’ve never shown signs of being able to do that one-day-at-a-time thing and frankly Liaquatabad should stop you from thinking long-term. I’ve gathered enough info from him to know that his Karachi relatives’ English is weak, they’ve never left the country, and they believe in the joint-family system (the horror, the horror; imagine living in a house teeming with your own relatives, never mind someone else’s). I know he lives in America (claims he wants to get a job that’ll let him travel the globe), but if you and he end up together there’ll have to be family interaction in Karachi and that will be a disaster, the fallout from which will not leave you unscathed at all! Call me a snob if you want to, but what the hell do any one of us have to say to the great mass of our compatriots? We can talk about cricket and complain about the politicians, but then what? I’m not denying that they could be wonderful people, but that’s really not the point.

  There – I’ve done my bit. Now I’m going to give you a message from him, which he wrote on my arm in some bloody indelible ink which refused to come off until half a bar of soap later. He wrote: ‘Footfalls echo in the memory/Down the passage which we did not take/Towards the door we never opened/Into the rose garden. My words echo/Thus, in your mind.’

  It’s all a bit too pseudo for me, but I suppose you think it’s charming. (Quoting Yeats is charming, Aliya; quoting Eliot is showing off.) He’s still not sure when he’ll be in Karachi, but he will be there before the summer is through. I’ve had to thoroughly wrestle with my conscience about relaying his message to you, but Rehana Apa said she’d tie me to Nelson’s column and feed prunes and bran fibre to the pigeons if I didn’t do it and pronto. Now, don’t expect another message from me for a while. This is all too exhausting and I have to read too many books on fiscal policies of Indian rulers in the eighteenth century.

  Love to the family (excl. Starcheds),

  Samia.

  The passage we didn’t take. The door we never opened. What was I thinking? Sameer was right – I’d talked to Khaleel for half an hour … No, actually, it was more like an hour. I’ve never drunk a cup of coffee so slowly. Still, just an hour. Besides, I had no intention of getting married before I finished my MA, and let’s be honest, when I thought of Khaleel it wasn’t wedding bells I heard but something a little more akin to slow jazz. And yet … Samia had said something to me the night before I left London. She said, ‘I don’t believe in love at first sight, and neither do you. But I know, and after today you know also, that sometimes it only takes a few minutes to recognize that a person is capable of breaking your heart.’ Yes.

  I had mentioned heartbreak to Mariam Apa when I was sixteen and devastated over a boy who was flirting with me just to make some bleached blonde jealous. Not dyed, bleached. I ask you!

  I said to Mariam Apa, ‘Well at least I found out now. Bruised ego, but no broken heart. Must avoid broken hearts.’

  She shredded a piece of Masood’s roast chicken, flavoured with chillis and garlic and yoghurt, and poured gravy over the shreds. She gestured to the chicken on my plate, still in one piece. A broken heart has more surface area than a heart that is intact. Anyone who’s bilingual knows that shock of surprise when you think you’ve been speaking in one language and someone else points out that no, you haven’t. It was like that with Mariam Apa. I was so accustomed to translating her gestures into sentences that I sometimes wondered why people looked so perplexed when I claimed to be quoting her words exactly.

  She had somehow got word to Babuji to star our names on the family tree. I was convinced of it. She had starred the names and now I would never hear the term not-quite-twins without adding myself and Mariam Apa to their list. And soon the rest of the family would add our names to the list, too, if they hadn’t already. How long before word of the latest not-quites crossed the border? The news would not be met with surprise. I could think of only a handful of relatives who would refrain from saying that Mariam had already brought about the inevitable disaster by robbing us of our pride. And, to be quite honest, even that handful probably wouldn’t refrain from thinking it. Was I about to compound our disgrace by mirroring her actions, with a choice far less shocking than hers, yet also more significant for its refusal to walk a path far removed? Or were we, was I, in a position to show the others that not-quites were not necessarily harbingers of doom? This, then, was Mariam’s farewell gift to me: the courage to take Khaleel’s hand in mine and say to my parents, say to Dadi, say to Sameer and Samia and the Starched Aunts and Great-Aunt One-Liner and Bachelor Uncle and Mousy Cousin and all the rest of them, Just because a thing has always been so, it does not always have to be so.

  I opened my desk drawer and smiled at Celeste’s painting of Mariam, greying and radiant.

  Then I remembered what Samia had said. No one, not even you, will trust any feelings you have for him.

  Sameer barged into the room. ‘There was a love triangle in your house. Mariam and Masood and Hibiscus-Eating Ayah.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  ‘No, you have to go to see your grandmother instead.’

  ‘Aba!’

  ‘Aliya, this is not open to discussion.’ Aba turned to Ami. ‘I can’t believe you told her.’

  Ami looked up from the samples of red carpet material laid across the floor. ‘Nasser, you opened the bag. The cat was going to let itself o
ut soon enough, so I saw no harm in giving it a little prod. At least our daughter can say we weren’t keeping secrets from her when she was old enough to deal with everything that has twisted our lives around for the last four years. And now this man wants not only the reddest carpet in the world but one which bird droppings will not show up against.’ She returned to staring gloomily at her samples.

  ‘Well, fine then, you’ve told her. So there’s no need for her to go and see any ayahs and start discussing family members with them.’

  ‘Aba, please! She hasn’t told me anything except that Hibiscus-Eating Ayah left in some jealous fit because of Masood.’

  ‘Well, there’s nothing more for her to tell you. That’s all we know. In fact, let me correct that. We don’t even know that; it’s just conjecture.’

  Ami snorted.

  Aba and I glowered at each other.

  ‘I’ll go to see her after I see Dadi. Happy?’

  ‘No. You’re not going. I forbid it. Who knows what stories that woman will invent just to see your reaction.’

  ‘That woman, Aba? Oh, so she could be trusted to look after me when I was a child, but she’s not trustworthy enough to repeat a few simple facts.’

  ‘Don’t you speak to me like that, young lady.’

  His words were a roar, and I grabbed on to a table to give myself strength. ‘Just because you’re too ashamed to discuss Mariam with anyone doesn’t mean—’

  ‘Ashamed? Ashamed! How dare you think you have a monopoly on unconditional love!’ That took me aback. He had always been so tight-lipped about Mariam’s marriage; I had taken his silence as censure, but perhaps it was only pain. Lord, what had I been doing these last four years? In what cocoon of self-pity had I been stifling myself?

  But before I could apologize or ask him what he was feeling, my mother cut in. ‘Stop it. Both of you.’ I could answer back to my father any time, even in the face of his rage, but when Ami barked out a command, both Aba and I turned into mush. She claimed she had learnt how to counterfeit steely resolve in order to avoid being quashed by her mother-in-law, and it certainly worked. There’s no one else with whom Dadi gets on so harmoniously. Nine times out of ten Ami allows Dadi to be domineering, but that tenth time she just raises an eyebrow and Dadi subsides. There’s a great deal I need to learn from Ami.

  ‘Aliya, go and see your Dadi. Ask her if she needs help with packing. She’ll say no, but you should ask all the same. Nasser, go out and find me some samples of bird droppings.’

  ‘Would you like them gift-wrapped?’

  ‘My jaan, the red carpet was your idea. Now stop looking ineffectual.’

  Aba turned to me. ‘Aliya, collect bird droppings. Go and stand motionless – Ha ha! Motionless, get it? – under the badaam tree for an hour. If you whistle bird-calls you may only have to be there half an hour. Wear a hat, otherwise your mother won’t let you wash your hair until she’s sorted out this carpet problem.’

  ‘Men are so easily restored to good humour,’ I whispered, bending down near my mother to pick up the car keys.

  She nodded. ‘Any lavatorial remark will do the trick.’

  ‘Hat!’ Aba yelled as I walked out.

  I drove to Dadi’s, thinking of Celeste’s e-mail. She walks out of her élite neighbourhood and notices the poverty in other parts of the city. I hadn’t really thought about it before, but affluence and lack sat cheek by jowl in Karachi. Between the large old houses near Mohatta Palace and the smaller, modern houses on Khayaban-e-Shujaat, which displayed their wealth in accessories rather than in size, was a shortcut that took you past streets where shiny cars and designer shalwar-kameezes and English-speaking voices all but disappeared, replaced by tiny storefronts, narrow streets crowded with people and cycles and the occasional goat, children selling vegetables or fixing tyres or chasing each other along the roads without pavements.

  I was thinking about this with such concentration that I ran a red light. Sameer did that at least twice a day and nothing ever happened to him, but I try it just once and a traffic cop appears. The cop pulled me over and stuck his head in through the window.

  ‘Do you need glasses?’ he said.

  ‘I don’t need glasses. Ten pairs of glasses wouldn’t enable me to see that light at this time of day. Look how strong the sun is. It shines on the traffic light so brightly it’s blinding, and you can’t see which colour is lit up. I thought the light just wasn’t working as usual.’

  The cop looked up at the cloudy sky.

  ‘The clouds have just come in,’ I said. ‘Three seconds ago they weren’t there. Look how strong the breeze is; it’s making the clouds rush around.’

  The cop shook his head. ‘You can either go to court and pay the fine there, or you can pay it directly to me.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll go to court.’

  The cop was not happy with this deviation from the script. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Don’t talk like this. I have a family to support. The courts will take hours, there’ll be paperwork and all sorts of men hanging around there who misbehave around women. Why don’t you just make life easier for yourself?’

  ‘How much is the fine?’

  ‘Three hundred rupees.’

  I bargained him down to fifty, waited for him to get change for a five-hundred note from the mango seller who had been watching this with amusement, and continued on to Dadi’s feeling proud of my largesse in omitting to mention to the cop my connection to the high-ranking police officer who was Younger Starch’s sister-in-law’s husband.

  When I got to Dadi’s I heard her cook, Mohommed, chastising her as he served her tea in her bedroom. ‘Begum Sahib, that’s a very bad idea. Why stay in the heat of this tandoor if you can help it? You always fall sick in the heat. Remember that summer in Dard-e-Dil when you collapsed near the fountain while Nawab Sahib was talking to you?’

  ‘That was over fifty years ago, Mohommed. Were you even born then?’

  ‘Born? Was I born? Who do you think ran to tell Akbar Sahib?’

  ‘I’m just joking, Mohommed. Old age has made you very crabby. Besides, the heat of Dard-e-Dil was something else.’

  ‘Yes,’ he conceded. ‘Yes, it was.’ He saw me and made a gesture of relief. ‘Aliya Bibi. You try and talk sense into her. Tell her if she falls sick I’m not going to run around for doctors and medicines, and I’m absolutely not going to cook bland soup. I’ll bring you some tea.’ And with that he left the room.

  ‘What would you do without him?’ I bent to kiss Dadi’s cheek.

  ‘Remember when I suggested he retire?’ Dadi smiled wickedly. ‘He was so irate he threatened to quit. Come and sit closer to me.’

  I sat cross-legged on the bed beside her, directly across from a framed photograph of Dadi and her female cousins in their childhood, all decked out in ghararas, with tikas of precious and semi-precious stones hanging over their foreheads. Three strands of pearls going over and around the girls’ heads held each tear-shaped tika in place. I used to assume the photograph was taken during some momentous occasion, like Eid or a wedding, but Dadi had told me, no, that’s just how they used to dress every day. It struck me for the first time that she had far more photographs of life in Dard-e-Dil than she did of life in Karachi.

  ‘No wonder you collapsed in the heat, dressed like that.’ I gestured to the photograph. ‘What was Mohommed going on about?’

  ‘I’ve changed my booking for Paris. I’m leaving in September.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Hmm. It makes no sense to leave while you and Meher are here. Particularly since your violent tendencies seem to have been curbed.’ She laughed and took my hand in hers, and I clasped my fingers around hers. ‘Besides, I can’t keep running away from the monsoon rains.’

  ‘Why do you? Run away, I mean.’

  Dadi nodded her head slowly. ‘The hierarchy of love. Should I tell you about Taimur?’

  I swallowed. ‘Please.’

  Mohommed walked in with the tea, and Dadi started talkin
g about her tailor. When he left she told me to check that he wasn’t listening outside the door. He wasn’t.

  ‘I loved Taimur.’

  Her voice was flat, and for a moment I thought I hadn’t heard correctly. Then she smiled, exhaled, and rested her head against the headboard. ‘I loved Taimur. I’ve never said that aloud before. I loved Taimur.’ She started to giggle, but stopped to shake her head in wonder. ‘We were eighteen. So young. What does anyone know at eighteen? But I loved him all the same.’

  I didn’t know what to say. I felt … What did I feel? Something similar to the feeling you get at the end of a movie when you can’t quite believe the final twist but, as soon as it happens, you can’t imagine any other ending. The difference was, when you watch a movie, no matter how good it is, you’re never sure if it’ll stay with you for ever.

  I needed to say something, so I said, ‘Why him?’

  ‘Because him. Oh, Aliya.’

  What had I said to make her look at me with such sorrow?

  ‘What was he like, Dadi?’

  ‘Like nothing else. Like my soul. Like his daughter.’

  My spine prickled. I had never heard her speak in this voice before. I had a fleeting image of Taimur leaving Dard-e-Dil with this voice of Abida’s nestled in his breast pocket. ‘So did you … I mean, what did you … What happened?’

  ‘He didn’t love me.’ She picked up the photograph by her bedside and looked at it closely. ‘He didn’t love me. I’ve never said that aloud either. I didn’t think saying it would give me this urge to cry.’

  ‘He said he didn’t love you?’ My eyes darted to the photograph of Dadi and the triplets. How could you, Taimur?

  ‘Aliya, he left. Just weeks after this picture was taken, he left.’ I took the photograph from her. When I first saw the picture on Baji’s wall I looked at the girl’s smile and thought, Was Dadi ever that young? Now I thought, Was I ever that young? Will I ever be that young?