Kamila Shamsie - Salt and Saffron

I had heard their story for the first time at Baji’s flat that morning, between the time Samia first pointed out the stars on the family tree and Rehana Apa mentioned the not-quites who cost us the Taj Mahal. So perhaps I should have mentioned it earlier, but I think you’ll agree it fits in better here.

Cast your mind back to Baji’s crowded flat and the unrolling of the family tree.

‘Hang on just a little tiny minute,’ Samia said. ‘Who’re these two miscreants?’ Right at the top of the page beside the name Nur-ul-Jahan, the founder of Dard-e-Dil, victor of the Battle of Surkh Khait, were the names of his two wives, Kulsoom and Shahrukh. Their names were starred.

Kulsoom I knew. Her father, Qadiruddin Shah, fought alongside Nur-ul-Jahan during the Battle of Surkh Khait in 1423. There is nothing original in Qadiruddin’s story. Scion of an old royal line from Persia, Qadiruddin dreamt of restoring his family to its former debauchery, but lacked the means and the ability to do so. In the Central Asian marauder, Nur-ul-Jahan, Qadiruddin saw, as his memoirs report, ‘a man so high in ambition that he would tear out his own liver and eat it to secure advancement’. Which means, I suppose, that Nur-ul-Jahan had ability, while Qadiruddin had only the knack of recognizing ability in others. Determined to tie his fortunes to those of Nur-ul-Jahan, Qadiruddin presented himself to Nur in the ceremonial garb of the kings of Persia and, by his own account, so impressed the hardened military man with his manner and deportment that, within minutes of their introduction, Nur-ul-Jahan offered Qadiruddin the position of advisor. (Many of my relatives find this account somewhat suspect, since Nur-ul-Jahan was from the royal and cultured Timurid line and was hardly likely to be taken in by some old Persian robes. It is true, however, that his grandmother, Tamburlaine’s daughter, was married off to a man known more for his warmongering than for his finesse, and it was in this man’s tribe that Nur-ul-Jahan grew up. It is also true that Nur-ul-Jahan had many many advisors.)

After the Battle of Surkh Khait and the little skirmishes that followed, a marriage was arranged between Qadiruddin’s daughter, Kulsoom, and the new ruler, Nur-ul-Jahan of Dard-e-Dil (no one knows why he chose that name for his realm). Shortly after providing the new royal family with an impeccable Persian lineage to add to their somewhat diffused Timurid blood, Qadiruddin was poisoned.

I had heard enough stories of Nur-ul-Jahan to know the name of his wife, so when Samia pointed out the starred names on the family tree I recognized immediately the name of Qadiruddin’s daughter, Kulsoom. But her not-quite-twin, this Shahrukh character, I had never heard of.

Baji laughed at Samia’s and my confusion. ‘Poor Shahrukh! Exiled to the fringes of history.’ She leant back in her chair and smiled, and I knew from her expression (such a familiar expression! I’d seen it often enough on Dadi’s face) that she was about to tell a wonderful story. ‘Qadiruddin’s wife had died in childbirth and the baby, Kulsoom, was suckled by a wet-nurse. This wet-nurse had a daughter, Shahrukh, born the same day as Kulsoom. They say Shahrukh’s father was Qadiruddin’s brother, but this may just be a rumour born of the fact that Kulsoom and Shahrukh were twinned in appearance, voice and mannerism. Qadiruddin himself could not tell them apart. Now, after the marriage of Nur-ul-Jahan and Kulsoom, Qadiruddin’s enemies told Nur that Qadiruddin had sworn he would never taint his own bloodline with that of a barbaric marauder, and so he had given Shahrukh — illegitimate daughter of a wet-nurse — to Nur in marriage.’

‘That’s why Nur poisoned Qadiruddin.’

‘Exactly, Aliya Begum. But he still needed Qadiruddin’s lineage to bolster his own claim to power, so he married his wife’s foster sister.’

‘Shahrukh!’ I said.

‘Kulsoom!’ Samia said.

Baji laughed again. ‘Well, no one knows. Qadiruddin’s enemies might have been lying, or they might not. The foster sisters never revealed which was which, and with the wet-nurse dead no one else could tell them apart. All their lives they each answered to both “Kulsoom” and “Shahrukh”; each claimed to belong to the royal family of Persia, each referred to that wet-nurse as her mother.’

‘So they were the first not-quite-twins?’ I ran my fingers over their names. When Baji nodded, I said, ‘But then the myth is untrue. The first not-quite-twins didn’t bring ruin to the family. Okay, so they didn’t do Qadiruddin any good, but as far as the Dard-e-Dil family goes, they were … that is, Kulsoom was, I mean … Oh my God.’

Baji clapped her hands and sat back, watching Samia and me gape at each other. ‘We’re all descended from the illegitimate child of a wet nurse,’ Baji giggled. ‘As likely as not.’

‘So you see,’ I told Khaleel, ‘the Liaquatabad problem isn’t about lineage as such. If it were, if that was the issue I was having to struggle with, I wouldn’t just be reprehensible, I’d be stupid. Right?’

‘Er … well. Hey, is that your cousin?’

In a newsagent’s doorway stood a woman I’d never seen before, with dark hair and beautiful eyes. ‘We all look alike to you, don’t we? You Americans!’

He checked to make sure I was teasing, and then laughed. ‘Don’t tell me you don’t see the resemblance. But no, I guess it’s pretty obvious that woman is not related to you.’

‘Why’s that?’ By now we’d walked past her, and I looked back once more because really, she did look a little like Samia.

‘Didn’t you see her hands? She’s clearly not from a privileged background.’

‘What, you read her palm as we walked past?’

‘No. But she’s grown up having to do some kind of manual labour. Didn’t you see the veins bulging out from the back of her hands?’

There was a bench nearby, so I sat down. I looked back at the woman with beautiful eyes whose collarbone was hidden entirely beneath her high-necked shirt. Khaleel said my name, twice, and when I didn’t answer he put his hand to my forehead, his wrist just inches from my lips. His other hand rested on my knee and when I looked down I saw him holding the half-eaten apple, his teeth marks embedded in its flesh. I looked up at him and smiled. ‘As I was saying, it’s not about lineage or, to give it its more modern term, family background. It’s not that simple.’

The woman with beautiful eyes walked by, talking to a man. I heard him say, ‘How’s the new sculpture coming along?’

‘A sculptor. Hence the hands.’ I stood up. ‘I was just about to go up to her and say … I don’t know … Show me your clavicle, or something equally suave.’

‘So what is it about if not lineage?’

‘Do you know what I found out today? That I’m fated to bring ruin to my family. Me and Mariam.’ I said it, and then I stopped to think about it for the first time. Oh, I told the stories often enough. The curse of the not-quite-twins. The inevitability of destruction trailing in their wake. But if you’d asked me whether I believed, truly believed, the stories, I’d have laughed. But seeing that star against my name, seeing that other star against Mariam’s name and thinking of what she’d done and how my family had reacted, something more primeval than logic or cynicism or nineties cool had made me feel — still made me feel — so sick, so trapped.

‘Cal,’ I said, taking the apple core from his hands and dropping it in a garbage can. ‘In another life, maybe even in another year, we’d meet each other’s friends, we’d watch movies together, we’d talk on the telephone about nothing, and I’d order such meals for you in restaurants! But, instead, I’m going to get on a plane tomorrow and go home. And it’s still May. This time I booked my ticket back for May. And look, Khaleel, we’ve reached my flat, and I can see Samia through the window, so even if it had occurred to me to invite you up, now I won’t. So you’re right. Let’s shake hands and say goodbye.’