‘Just the sleeve,’ Aba said. ‘The rest of the kameez goes back to your mother’s cupboard. What’s the matter, little bug?’
So, finally, I told them about the family tree.
Aba snorted.
Ami rolled her eyes.
Dadi looked at me. And nodded. And sighed.
Aba turned to his mother. ‘Mama, don’t you dare,’ he said.
Dadi stood up in her most regal way. ‘The one thing left to us was the ability to hold our heads up high. She took even that from us. The curse has already come to pass.’ She looked at me. ‘You had no part in it. The histories teach us that the twins aren’t always directly responsible for what happens. Sometimes they are victims of others. Sometimes only one twin is responsible. Sameer, escort me to my car.’
Sameer glanced at me, and I loved him for that moment of treason. I nodded, inclined my head towards Dadi. Should I be angry with her for saying Mariam had brought a curse upon us; or should I be grateful for her declaration that I had no part in the curse? Just before she turned to walk out with Sameer, Dadi bent down and kissed the top of my head.
Aba watched her go, his expression bordering on petulance. ‘She gets worse with age.’ He threw a stick of ginger at me, his expression of paternal command restored. ‘Ignore what she said. The twin thing hits a raw nerve in her.’ He pointed at Ami. ‘Your mother didn’t want her filling your head with all of that from such an early age, but I said they’re good stories. Nothing more.’
‘Are you saying you don’t believe any of it, Aba?’
‘I don’t believe it,’ Ami said. ‘He wants not to. But he was raised on the stories, too.’
‘You and Mariam aren’t twins. Not in any sense of the word. What she did, she did. She would have done it even if you’d been born a day later.’ Aba folded and unfolded his napkin repeatedly. ‘I should have fired Masood when—’
‘Nasser!’ Ami said. ‘Be quiet.’
Sameer came back in and sat down. ‘Clones,’ he said, picking up the stick of ginger that had bounced off my shoulder, and pointing it at me. ‘Human cloning. Theoretically, it’s possible.’
‘Point?’ I said.
‘If someone … say, Ghair Insaan, is cloned, then he and his clone are … what?’
‘Used to settle the nature versus nurture debate?’
‘Wrong. They are twins. More than twins. So they’re not-quite-twins. Yes?’
‘Point?’
‘Theoretically, in the next generation or two of Dard-e-Dils there could be dozens of sets of clones. Imagine every baby cloned in all the extended family. If that were to happen it would be impossible for every set of not-quites to bring downfall upon us because, after all, there’s only so much downfall that can happen in one generation, and only so many people who can be responsible for it.’
Aba nodded. ‘Point.’
I shook my head. ‘Rubbish.’
Sameer threw the ginger at me. I ate it before it could be used as a missile again. ‘Theoretically, it’s possible. Theoretically, a mass cloning across the family would prove that the theory of not-quite-twins fated to bring about disaster is rubbish.’
Ami stood up. ‘This whole family is mad, bhai, cent percent banana bread. I’m going to lie down with cucumbers over my eyes.’
‘There’s something you should know, little bug,’ Aba said. ‘Your Dadi didn’t believe the legend of not-quites when she was young. It’s just that with Partition, the horror of what went on then, and the whole Akbar and Sulaiman thing, believing the legend was the easiest way of making sense of things. Even your mother admits it was strange how everything unfolded — the break-up of the family and my father and uncle’s roles in it. It makes it hard to dismiss family lore.’ He walked out of the room, turning in the doorway to glance briefly at me.
He still couldn’t dismiss family lore entirely.
Chapter Thirteen
A couple of days later, at Dadi’s house, the Starched Aunts entered the room and I said, ‘At last! The tarts are here.’
I was referring to the lemon tarts which Dadi’s bearer wheeled in on the tea-trolley, just after the aunts entered, but it was an inauspicious start to the evening, nonetheless. The two aunts did their round of the room, kissing their aunts and uncles and cousins and nephews and nieces, and when it was my turn they both pinched my cheeks and said to each other, ‘She still gets excited about pastries. Like a baby! Sho shweet.’
They pulled their signature crisp, starched kurtas taut as they sat down, so that the material wouldn’t crease, and the older sister spread her hands as though to ward off any accusations. ‘So sorry to arrive in this haalat —’ she pointed at the incongruous running shoes on her feet — ‘but we’ve both been for a walk and came straight over from the park. Bhai, I said maybe we should skip the walk today, but you know, have to look good for Kishoo’s wedding next week. We saw Kishoo’s mother yesterday and tobah! She’s put on so much weight and was wearing a sari on top of that and I swear a tidal wave of fat came lurching towards us when she walked into the room. And Kishoo’s in-laws-to-be are so stylish. I mean if I looked like that at my daughter’s wedding I’d do her a favour and stay away altogether.’
‘Or claim overflowing of religion and cover yourself in a burkha,’ said Younger Starch.
The sisters beamed and looked around. ‘So good to be with family. Why don’t we do this more often?’
Any of the twenty or so relatives in the room who might have been asking the same question minutes earlier were not doing so any more.
‘Kishoo? You mean Kishwar? Lily’s daughter? Hanh, I heard she was getting married. Who to?’ While Dadi was asking the questions she was also using hand gestures to direct two of my young cousins to hand around plates and tea things and find out how much sugar everyone took in his or her tea. Sameer and I watched this with great satisfaction; not too long ago we were the two considered both old enough and young enough to have this chore placed on us.
‘Quite a catch!’ Younger Starch said. ‘The oldest son of the Ali Shahs. He has the family seat in the National Assembly.’
‘Really?’ Great-Aunt One-Liner sniffed. ‘Lily’s daughter is marrying a Sindhi?’ Great-Aunt One-Liner generally made only one comment in an evening. She usually waited until late to make it; just when she realized everyone was about to leave and she hadn’t said anything memorable to leave her stamp on the occasion she’d speak, and then everyone would feel that the evening had truly come to an end. The only exceptions to her policy of delayed vocalization occurred, as now, when someone gave her an opportunity to reveal her disdain for anyone not from Dard-e-Dil or the states around it.
I glanced over at Sameer’s father, whose mother was Sindhi. He winked at me.
‘They’re very important people, the Ali Shahs,’ Older Starch said. ‘Kishoo’s parents are thrilled with the match. After all, why should the Ali Shahs have settled for a girl who isn’t from a political family? They won’t get any mileage from the match. And yet, they’re conscious of lineage, they understand these things matter, so they’re welcoming her with open arms.’
‘In fact —’ and here both the sisters looked at me — ‘the Ali Shahs have a younger son. Unmarried. Very intelligent, very ambitious. They say he won’t remain in the shadows long. In fact, some say, if democracy survives, future prime minister. And he’s looking for a girl from a good family. He’ll be in Karachi for the wedding. Aliya, you should come with us to all the functions. We’ve been invited to everything — even the really small dholkis.’