Kamila Shamsie: Salt and Saffron

The real question, the one that only I could answer, was this: Was I willing to take that first step? To take Khaleel with me into a room full of relatives and say, ‘Mariam and I are not-quite-twins. This man, I don’t know what will happen between us, but I think he’s worth the risk of heartbreak. He’s worth it not because of Masood, not because of Taimur, not because of Taj or Dadi or anyone, but because. Just because. Why do you call us not-quite-twins as though we are something incomplete? More than twins, say that. Or better still, say fallible, like you; capable of error, like you; given to passion, like you.’ This was a speech that I’d prepared, rehearsed in front of the mirror. Could I ever make it when even the best of the Dard-e-Dils, even my parents, had quailed when he walked in?

My mother said something I didn’t catch and Khaleel replied, ‘When our hearts live, we are more than ourselves.’

I stood up and walked over to the window. My parents took this as some sort of signal. They told Khaleel there was no need to clear the table, Wasim would do that, then said goodbye and retreated to their room. Sameer had disappeared somewhere. Wasim took a stack of plates and vanished into the kitchen. There was such an air of familiarity about the silence in the room. I looked out at Mariam’s hibiscus branch. The glass between it and me was both a window and a mirror. I reached out to run my fingers through the air, parallel to the branch. Khaleel bent down to pick up a plate. My fingers traced the curve of his spine.

I’d like to thank: Saman, for the moment of fear; my parents, for double-checking facts and pointing out errors; my grandmother, Begum Jahanara Habibullah, whose memoirs were a wonderful source of information about courtly life; Marianna Karim, for helping with the historical details (the errors are all mine); Aamer Hussein, for correcting my Urdu, and other such helpful matters; the Haiders, for the lizard stories; Elizabeth Porto, for her insight; and Margaret Halton, for making this into a better book.

Kamila Shamsie was born in 1973 in Pakistan. She is the author of In the City by the Sea, Kartography (shortlisted for the John Llewellyn Rhys Prize), Salt and Saffron, Broken Verses and, most recently, Burnt Shadows , shortlisted for the Orange Prize. In 1999 she received the Prime Minister’s Award for Literature and in 2004 the Patras Bokhari Award — both awarded by the Pakistan Academy of Letters. Kamila Shamsie lives in London.