1/15/01

A Review of Salt and Saffron by Kamila Shamsie

     Is it possible for food to taste better on the page than on the tongue? Read Pakistani writer Kamila Shamsie’s second novel, Salt and Saffron, and you will encounter “mangoes, gol guppas, nihari and naans” more delicious than you have ever tasted. Set in London, Karachi, and the imagined region of Dard-e-Dil before Partition, Salt and Saffron offers up a delectable menu of flavors, literally and figuratively.

     Literally, because the descriptions of mouth-watering meals—“Curly shaped jalaibees, hot and gooey, that trickled sweet syrup down your chin when you bit into them; diced potatoes drowned in yogurt, sprinkled in spices; triangles of fried samosas, the smaller ones filled with mince-meat, the larger ones filled with potatoes and green chillies”—will send you scrambling for the nearest Indian restaurant, though you know your dining experience will fail in comparison to the gustatory pleasures evoked by Shamsie’s prose.

     Figuratively, because this novel itself is a veritable smorgasbord of stories in its multi-layered structure. At the center of the novel are two stories of forbidden love. The narrator, Aliya, on summer break from working on her master’s degree in English, meets Khaleel when they share a flight from the U.S. to London. The sparks fly and they meet again before Aliya continues her journey to Karachi. But the budding romance is quickly troubled by one word: Liaquatabad, the poor Karachi neighborhood where Khaleel’s family lives. The disquieting divisions of class become even noisier as Aliya’s inability to forget Khaleel, no matter how much her high-born family encourages it, prompts her to piece together the crumbs of another love story troubled by the seemingly insurmountable class differences in Pakistani culture.

     Only a few years before the novel begins, Aliya’s older cousin Mariam Apa—her “not-quite twin” as family legend ominously foretells it—had eloped with the family’s cook, Masood, whose cuisine sends family members into shivers of delight. As Aliya tells us, her relatives “swear the finest meals they’ve eaten have all come from Masood’s kitchen. Such a compliment is not to be slighted when it comes from people who’ve eaten food from the fabled kitchens of the Dard-e-Dil palace where legions of cooks plied their trade, each one specializing in a different kind of food.” But even cooks with unsurpassed talent can not bridge the class divide, and when Mariam and Masood marry, it’s considered an unmentionable disgrace to the family’s royal lineage. The subsequently imposed silence has left many gaps in Mariam’s story so Aliya starts asking the family questions. Aliya’s inquisitiveness stirs up not only the memory of her own heartbreak at Mariam’s departure but also the stories of other heartbreaks in a family still haunted by 1947 when Partition divided a country and the Dard-e-Dil dynasty.

     Fortunately, on the first page Shamsie presents us with a family tree of the Dard-e-Dils, spotted with giggle-producing names such as Hairless Nawab and Smelly and Stinky. Without this guide, the many family members and their complex relationships might easily bog us down as Aliya unfolds enchanting stories within stories. Shamsie’s wit and elegant prose also keep us afloat. The dialogue is often fast and furious, recalling the dizzying wit of an Oscar Wilde play, or even Shakespeare, who is referenced frequently in this highly literate novel. But lest you think only a highbrow would enjoy Salt and Saffron, you should also know that Shamsie reveals her appetite for Hollywood “flicks” (subtly underscoring a tale of cross-class relationships) and even gently teases readers raised on the narrative ploys of tinseltown. In one story of ancestral jealousy and revenge, a royal Fariduddin suspects his wife and brother of sleeping together and threatens to kill them and the newborn son who resembles his brother. Aliya reminds us, “We’ve watched enough movies, all of us, to know that when you say a thing like that all three of your intended victims survive, and you’ll be the one with the bullet through your heart. You see, I’m not even pretending there’s suspense attached to this bit.”

     Academics call this meta-narrative, when the story comments on its own storytelling techniques. But without seeming at all academic, Salt and Saffron, like Shamsie’s first novel, In the City of the Sea, displays her ability to cook up a good story, or, in this case, many good stories. Stunningly, this novel throws an array of elements into the pot—stories of forbidden love, myth, history, movies, classic literature, food, American slang, Britishisms, and Urdu—and stirs up a deliciously satisfying meal as only a skillful writer could. It’s furthermore astounding to think that Salt and Saffron encompasses three continents and at least as many cultures, appealing to a multi-national audience. Ultimately, Salt and Saffron is a tribute to the power of the imagination to envision what otherwise remains unimaginable as a result of the oppressive divisions of class, culture, and even nationality. Thanks to Shamsie’s imagination, we have a veritable feast to be savored in Salt and Saffron.

     Salt and Saffron by Kamila Shamsie. New York: Bloomsbury, 2000. Hardcover. $24.95 ISBN 1-58234-093-5