‘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.” ’

‘So what are you thinking now?’

‘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 one branch 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.’

‘Who’s Masood.’

‘Our cook. He’s the only person I’ve ever known her to speak to.’

‘All right. Time out.’ He waved his napkin in the air. ‘That’s it. There’s no way you’re not making this up.’

‘And the only food she ever ate was the food he cooked. You still want to shake hands and walk away?’

‘What is this? Are you doing some Sheherazade thing on me?’

‘No. I can’t live in anticipation for one thousand and one nights.’

‘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?’

‘Why can’t we roll with it; see where time and tide take us?’

‘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—’

‘Revolt.’

‘Sorry?’

‘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—’

‘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.

‘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 didn’t mention the first pair. You want to hear about them?’

‘I want to hear. Anything. Just keep talking.’

I had heard their story for the first time at Baji’s flat that morning, between the time Samia first pointed out the stars on the family tree and Rehana Apa mentioned the not-quites who cost us the Taj Mahal. So perhaps I should have mentioned it earlier, but I think you’ll agree it fits in better here.

Cast your mind back to Baji’s crowded flat and the unrolling of the family tree.

‘Hang on just a little tiny minute,’ Samia said. ‘Who’re these two miscreants?’ Right at the top of the page beside the name Nur-ul-Jahan, the founder of Dard-e-Dil, victor of the Battle of Surkh Khait, were the names of his two wives, Kulsoom and Shahrukh. Their names were starred.

Kulsoom I knew. Her father, Qadiruddin Shah, fought alongside Nur-ul-Jahan during the Battle of Surkh Khait in 1423. There is nothing original in Qadiruddin’s story. Scion of an old royal line from Persia, Qadiruddin dreamt of restoring his family to its former debauchery, but lacked the means and the ability to do so. In the Central Asian marauder, Nur-ul-Jahan, Qadiruddin saw, as his memoirs report, ‘a man so high in ambition that he would tear out his own liver and eat it to secure advancement’. Which means, I suppose, that Nur-ul-Jahan had ability, while Qadiruddin had only the knack of recognizing ability in others. Determined to tie his fortunes to those of Nur-ul-Jahan, Qadiruddin presented himself to Nur in the ceremonial garb of the kings of Persia and, by his own account, so impressed the hardened military man with his manner and deportment that, within minutes of their introduction, Nur-ul-Jahan offered Qadiruddin the position of advisor. (Many of my relatives find this account somewhat suspect, since Nur-ul-Jahan was from the royal and cultured Timurid line and was hardly likely to be taken in by some old Persian robes. It is true, however, that his grandmother, Tamburlaine’s daughter, was married off to a man known more for his warmongering than for his finesse, and it was in this man’s tribe that Nur-ul-Jahan grew up. It is also true that Nur-ul-Jahan had many many advisors.)

After the Battle of Surkh Khait and the little skirmishes that followed, a marriage was arranged between Qadiruddin’s daughter, Kulsoom, and the new ruler, Nur-ul-Jahan of Dard-e-Dil (no one knows why he chose that name for his realm). Shortly after providing the new royal family with an impeccable Persian lineage to add to their somewhat diffused Timurid blood, Qadiruddin was poisoned.

I had heard enough stories of Nur-ul-Jahan to know the name of his wife, so when Samia pointed out the starred names on the family tree I recognized immediately the name of Qadiruddin’s daughter, Kulsoom. But her not-quite-twin, this Shahrukh character, I had never heard of.

Baji laughed at Samia’s and my confusion. ‘Poor Shahrukh! Exiled to the fringes of history.’ She leant back in her chair and smiled, and I knew from her expression (such a familiar expression! I’d seen it often enough on Dadi’s face) that she was about to tell a wonderful story. ‘Qadiruddin’s wife had died in childbirth and the baby, Kulsoom, was suckled by a wet-nurse. This wet-nurse had a daughter, Shahrukh, born the same day as Kulsoom. They say Shahrukh’s father was Qadiruddin’s brother, but this may just be a rumour born of the fact that Kulsoom and Shahrukh were twinned in appearance, voice and mannerism. Qadiruddin himself could not tell them apart. Now, after the marriage of Nur-ul-Jahan and Kulsoom, Qadiruddin’s enemies told Nur that Qadiruddin had sworn he would never taint his own bloodline with that of a barbaric marauder, and so he had given Shahrukh — illegitimate daughter of a wet-nurse — to Nur in marriage.’

‘That’s why Nur poisoned Qadiruddin.’

‘Exactly, Aliya Begum. But he still needed Qadiruddin’s lineage to bolster his own claim to power, so he married his wife’s foster sister.’

‘Shahrukh!’ I said.

‘Kulsoom!’ Samia said.

Baji laughed again. ‘Well, no one knows. Qadiruddin’s enemies might have been lying, or they might not. The foster sisters never revealed which was which, and with the wet-nurse dead no one else could tell them apart. All their lives they each answered to both “Kulsoom” and “Shahrukh”; each claimed to belong to the royal family of Persia, each referred to that wet-nurse as her mother.’