Free Salt and Saffron by Kamila Shamsie Page A

and also for reasons as obvious as his smile, there could be no pretence that I was capable of ambling away with only the barest backward glance.
    â€˜If I come to Karachi, will you visit me in Liaquatabad?’
    Moments when the whole world holds its breath. ‘There was a boy I knew at college. No one important. But the last time we attempted to have a conversation he said, “The insurmountable problem is that when you think of me there’s logic to your thoughts.” ’
    â€˜So what are you thinking now?’
    â€˜Every night, Mariam Apa – Did I mention her on the plane? My father’s cousin? – she used to stand in our dining room just after we’d finished dinner, while Masood was clearing away the plates. She’d look out of the glass doors that led into the garden, straight at a hibiscus bush with onebranch that curved out from the rest of the plant. With her index finger she’d trace in the air the length, the curve of that branch. And she never let the mali go near the hibiscus. Tended it herself. Cut, watered and manured it. And traced it every night. I don’t understand that. I would really like to understand that.’
    â€˜Who’s Masood.’
    â€˜Our cook. He’s the only person I’ve ever known her to speak to.’
    â€˜All right. Time out.’ He waved his napkin in the air. ‘That’s it. There’s no way you’re not making this up.’
    â€˜And the only food she ever ate was the food he cooked. You still want to shake hands and walk away?’
    â€˜What is this? Are you doing some Sheherazade thing on me?’
    â€˜No. I can’t live in anticipation for one thousand and one nights.’
    â€˜What exactly are you anticipating?’
    He could be swallowed up by the earth right now and I would never forget the touch of his finger against my elbow. Absurd, absurd thought. Memory does not preserve. How horrifying that morning when you wake up and your first thought is not of the person who has left. That’s when you know, I will never die of a broken heart.
    I moved my elbow. Closer. ‘What now, Khaleel? What do we do now?’
    â€˜Why can’t we roll with it; see where time and tide take us?’
    â€˜Because Liaquatabad.’ I couldn’t believe I’d said it out loud. But instead of looking offended he smiled at me, as though grateful for the truth.
    He paid the bill, and we started walking. ‘A history lesson,’ he said. ‘After the Mutiny of 1857—’
    â€˜Revolt.’
    â€˜Sorry?’
    â€˜Not a mutiny. A revolt. Mutiny implies it was confined to a section of the armed forces, and though it’s true that it started with the Bengal Sepoys—’
    â€˜Whatever. The point is, after it was crushed the Mughal Emperor was stripped of all his rights, his privileges. He died poor; his children lived poorer. They were born princes; they died beggars on the streets of Delhi.’ He stopped at a grocer’s to buy a bag of apples. Took one out and started munching it.
    There was a photograph in an old history book of mine, showing the last Mughal Emperor, Bahadur Shah Zafar, after the Revolt. He lay on a charpoy in a dusty courtyard, no robes of state, no jewels, not even an attendant. His head was turned in the direction of the camera, but that seemed merely accidental. I have never seen anything as pathetic as those eyes. I wanted to look at that picture and say that even in these conditions he looked like a king. But he didn’t. He looked bewildered, and so sad.
    â€˜So there could be descendants of those princes living in Liaquatabad. Have you thought of that? Maybe I’m one of them. Would it make you happier if I told you I was a Mughal prince?’
    I shook my head. ‘You don’t understand. You think this is some simple complication of me believing that lineage is all. On the plane, when I talked about the not-quite-twins, I