Kamila Shamsie - Salt and Saffron

At first it seemed like just another conversation about politics, although how anyone could think any discussion of politics was ‘just another conversation’ in 1946, I don’t know. In fact, I’m sure that right from the beginning there must have been something about the conversation which marked it as unusual. Why else would Meher Dadi have stayed to eavesdrop?

Imagine a summer night with crickets chirping and a cool breeze carrying away the oppressive heat of the sunlight hours. In the background, the tinkle of glass and laughter and the spurt of water from fountains. But something else was in the air — an edge of desperation to the revelries. Someone that evening had reached down to a flower bed and let a handful of rich loam trickle through his fingers and, though he was merely looking for a fallen pearl button, the word ‘symbolic’ raced through the gathering. Seemingly oblivious to this, two brothers, identical, reclined on garden chairs, the glow of cigarettes held between their gesturing fingers prompting fireflies to swoop in for a closer look.

‘How can you say you believe both in secularism and in this Pakistan idea?’ Sulaiman picked up an ashtray and held it on his knee, within Akbar’s reach.

‘I believe in secularism. But I don’t believe in Congress. If they aren’t willing to compromise now, why should they do so when the British leave? Oh, Sully, the divisions exist. Blame it on who you will — the British, the politicians, the Hindus, the Muslims, whoever. Fact is, they exist today to an extent they never have before. And relationships are not motor cars; they can’t be reversed. Not between individuals; not between groups. Certainly not between Congress and the League. If the English had left after World War One things might have been different. But now it’s too late for the dream, Sulaiman.’

‘If this Pakistan comes into being and you support it, then it will be too late.’

‘Don’t you see that history has left us behind?’ He passed his cigarette to Sulaiman, who always liked the last drag best. ‘The other not-quites shaped history; we are shaped by it. We have no power except over our own lives.’

‘And each other’s, Akbar.’ Sulaiman stood up and Meher Dadi ducked back into the shadows of the room to avoid being seen. She always regretted doing that, she said. Maybe if she’d stepped out, stopped the conversation, everything would have been different.

‘How can you even consider leaving your home?’ Sulaiman said with a gesture meant to encompass all of Dard-e-Dil. ‘Because that’s what you’re thinking about, isn’t it? It’s not just in theory that you’re “for” Pakistan. You actually want to go there, don’t you? We both know that however the borders are decided — I can’t believe I’m talking about this as though it will really happen — but if it does, there’s no chance that Dard-e-Dil will fall in Pakistan. So if you choose Pakistan you have to forfeit home. How can you do that? I don’t understand how anyone can do that, let alone my brothers. First Taimur, now you.’

Akbar sighed. ‘When Pakistan happens — and it will happen, Sulaiman … I thought for a while that the Cabinet Mission Plan might work, but since Nehru has chosen not to accept … Oh, but never mind that for the moment. Yes, when Pakistan happens we’ll all have to choose whether to stay here or go there, and I believe I’ll go. But I’ll only be going next door.’ He laughed. ‘I mean, it’s hardly as though I’m planning never to see the rest of my family again. Most of the Dard-e-Dils will stay here, I know that. But I wish you’d think about coming with me. Think of it, Sulaiman: a new country with all the potential in the world.’ He gestured around him, just as Sulaiman had done seconds earlier. ‘Let’s admit it, this life is over. And for all its decadence and claustrophobia we’ll weep for it. But we’ll scold our children if they do the same. Maybe that’s why Taimur left when he did. He didn’t want to watch his world die.’

‘Oh, good God.’ Sulaiman smacked a palm against his forehead and stood up to pace the verandah. ‘That’s the real reason you’re planning on leaving for Pakistan, isn’t it? You think you’ll find Taimur there. Why? Because Liaquat’s the only politician he ever said a kind word about? Because of those times he said he wanted an option other than England or Dard-e-Dil? Akbar, you idiot.’

Can we believe Meher Dadi’s account of what happened next? How clear a view did she have while trying to hide out of the brothers’ sight? She claims that even as Sulaiman seemed to insult Akbar his hand reached out to brush an insect off Akbar’s shoulder. Akbar did not see Sulaiman, but he felt — or saw — the insect, and his own hand reached back to flick it off. He flicked Sulaiman’s hand away instead, without realizing that it was the very tips of Sulaiman’s fingers he had touched. He must have thought he’d made contact with the insect, because he didn’t turn round and hold Sulaiman’s hand in apology as he would otherwise have done, but said instead, ‘Get that damn thing off me.’ Sulaiman’s face turned to stone and he cursed Akbar, ‘Go to hell,’ and then Akbar’s face, too, became granite.

‘One of us has moved on with his life since Taimur left. One of us isn’t going to spend the rest of his life amidst the crumbling decay of what was once grand just because he’s sure that’s the place his brother will return to. I’m not the idiot here, Sulaiman. Taimur isn’t coming back. So stop tailoring your politics to fit his return and admit the truth. You’ve been miserable since you married that poor woman, and rather than facing the present you concoct visions of future happiness that anyone else can recognize as a pathetic substitute for living. India, free and united and blissfully democratic. Taimur home. Your marriage … Well, I don’t know how great a leap of the imagination transforms that into joy. Sometimes you’re such a child.’

Meher Dadi rushed out to stop the impossible from happening, but it was too late. Sulaiman caught Akbar by the collar. ‘You’re right. You’ve moved on. I haven’t heard you mention Taimur’s name in over a year. And you’ll move on again. Move on from me. Move on from your home. Is there nothing, no one you’re tied to except yourself?’ Sulaiman pushed Akbar away as though his touch was contaminating. ‘When Taimur wrote about kites that have their strings snipped he must have anticipated a moment like this. So pack your bags, brother. Go. Who knows? Maybe Taimur really will come back. Maybe he’s only waiting for you to leave.’

‘Oh, please.’ Akbar made a dismissive gesture and turned to go back inside.

‘He came back four years ago. Akbar, he came back.’

Everything happened in slow motion. The expression on Akbar’s face changing from disbelief to bafflement to anger; the explosion of fireworks in the sky behind the brothers; Akbar’s fist slamming into Sulaiman’s jaw.

Sulaiman cupped his chin and tried to sit up. ‘It’s true. When Mama was dying he came back. Taimur came back. I was in her room when he slipped in. Just after dinner. He stayed all night talking about the past, making her smile, making me laugh. In the morning he left.’

‘When Abida and I were in Delhi?’

Sulaiman shook his head. ‘The two of you were in the room next door.’

‘And you didn’t call me?’

‘Taimur said if I did that he’d leave.’

‘Liar! You damned liar.’ Akbar picked Sulaiman off the ground and hit him again.

Sulaiman made a horrible sound. It took Meher Dadi a second to realize he was laughing. ‘Is that an emotion, Akbar? Sorry. Did I bruise your ego?’

‘You’re lying. He didn’t come back. You’re lying.’