Kamila Shamsie: Broken Verses

I would like to thank the Arts Council for a fellowship to the Santa Maddalena Foundation during the writing of this book — and Beatrice Monti della Corte for her extraordinary hospitality at Santa Maddalena.

The old dream, once more.

I stand in a beach hut, looking out. The window frame in front of me reduces the world to a square of sun and sea. Into that square a woman falls, her arm drawn up in front of her face. She splashes into the water. I run out. Her body is caught in the surf, a dark tumbling shape. Above, there is nothing but sky. The waves recede, leaving her on the sand. I rush down, see scales where I expect legs. I have seen a mermaid once before, spent hours splashing water on to it to save it from dehydration. I remember the ache of my arm from the effort, but not whether I saved the creature. It is evident nothing will save this one. I turn towards the hut to see why people are shouting, and when I look back she is gone, only her impression remaining. I know what is necessary. I must cut out the sand which is imprinted with her body, lift it up, and bury it. But the sea is coming in again and I know that, faster than I can respond, waves will wash away the contours of her body, the graceful curve of her tail.

When I awoke, this line came to mind: Dreams, sometimes, are rehearsals.

I sat up in bed, scratching the faded scar which criss-crossed my palm, and a shark lunged at my shoulder. I really had to do something about these walls. The bedroom had been a children’s nursery when the previous tenants lived in this flat, and the walls were covered with water-colour paintings of sea-creatures: jellyfish, turtle, barracuda, flying fish, octopus, swordfish, angel-fish, shark, sea-horse, and a mermaid sitting on the back of a manta ray. I couldn’t look in the full-length mirror without some creature extending tentacles, fin, snout or tail towards my reflection. If it were a fixed image it would be easy enough to get accustomed to it, but the mirror was attached to the closet door which opened and closed with any gust of air, and the angles of the room shifted even as I stood still looking into the mirror. Even so, occupying this room was preferable to moving into the master bedroom — directly across from a mosque which, my sister had warned me, broadcast fiery sermons just before the dawn azaan. ‘If you sleep there, you’ll wake up angry every morning,’ Rabia had said.

I stepped, naked, out of bed and belted on my dressing-gown. Then I remembered: I’m living alone. I shrugged off the dressing-gown and for a moment I was giddy with imagining all the flats around me that might be filled with single occupants wandering nudely around their homes. But you can really only imagine people in states of nudity for so long before your internal censors step in and relieve you of the images. For me, it was the image of the madman of 3B doing push-ups on the hideous beige carpet I’d seen through his window which made me cast about for other things to fill my brain.

But what other things?

I stepped into the kitchen, and ducked right out again. There were no blinds over the kitchen window. So much for my one-woman nudist colony.

Minutes later, I was back in my dressing-gown, sipping a cup of tea and wondering whether to go next door and steal Rabia and her husband Shakeel’s copy of the morning paper. I had told them earlier that I didn’t want a subscription — what was there in the news these days that I could possibly benefit from knowing? — but I hadn’t contended with the sheer boredom of waking into an empty flat. If this persisted I’d have to take up yoga, or morning television. Or both. At the same time. I’d have to start watching morning yoga programmes.

Clever Beema, I thought.

My father and stepmother weren’t flying out to Islamabad until that evening, but my stepmother — Beema — had still insisted that I move into this flat a day before they ‘migrated’, rather than spending one final night in the bedroom I’d occupied my entire life. ‘Because the house will be in turmoil with everything being packed up,’ Beema had explained, but I knew now that she hoped this waking up into silence would convince me to have a last-minute change of heart about staying in Karachi instead of going with them.

Looking around into the emptiness, I had to admit her hope was not without foundation.

You’re a grown woman, I told myself. Behave like one!

Assistance came in the form of a ringing telephone. I picked it up with gratitude and an unfamiliar voice on the other end said, ‘Aasmaani Inqalab?’

Aasmaani Inqalab — my first and middle names, self-important trisyllables that long ago pushed my shorter surname off everything except the most official documents. My mother’s choice, the name. My mother had made all the important choices regarding my early life; the only thing she left to Dad and Beema was the actual business of raising me. Aasmaani Inqalab: Celestial Revolution. Such a name never really admits the notion of childhood. But Beema used to whisper in my ear, ‘Azure.’ Aasmaani can also mean azure. An azure revolution. Like Picasso’s Blue Period, she’d say, without the gloom.

Picasso never had a period, my mother replied once, when she was around to hear Beema. Men know nothing of inevitable pain.

I wish I could say she had been attempting humour.

The unfamiliar voice was calling from Save the Date studios — fondly known as STD — to tell me my afternoon interview with the CEO had been moved up to the morning, so could I come to the studio straightaway.

‘With bells on,’ I said.

‘Belzon?’ echoed the voice, with a hint of panic. ‘I think you’re expected alone.’

One of the only fortunate things I inherited from my mother was the ability to be entertained by a mediocre joke for a very long time. I was still chuckling over Belzon when I got into my car to make the short drive over to STD. And when I pulled up outside the startlingly yellow house which had been converted into the STD studio a few months earlier the thought of encountering the voice behind the joke brought on a fresh bout of laughter which I had to try to suppress as I slid out from the passenger-side door of my car to avoid the gaping manhole next to which I had parked, walked up the palm-lined driveway, gave my name to the armed guard sitting on a fold-up chair near the front door and was ushered into reception.

Reception was a desk and unoccupied chair at one end of a long, freshly painted white hallway which led to offices, smaller hallways and — at the far end — an imposing staircase with rosewood banister leading both up and down. Two twentysomethings in jeans and short kurtas were walking down the hall, one saying, ‘What do you mean they don’t want any two-shots?’ and the other one shaking her head, ‘Yaar, celebrities, yaar.’

Standing there — seen but unnoticed — in a shalwar-kameez with a dupata tossed over one shoulder, I felt instantly old. They had that light in their eyes, those girls did, of believing they were a part of something bigger than their own lives. They were going to beam youth culture, progressive thought, multiple perspectives, in-depth reporting to a nation which until so recently had only known news channels which spoke with the voice of the government. 2002 would be remembered as the year of the cable TV explosion in Pakistan, and these girls were right bang in the middle of it, making history happen. For a moment I tried to step into their minds, to remember what it was to be that hopeful.