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480 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2009
'Why? Can't women travel alone in India?'Here is how to write a novel with emotional truth: find your characters, and let them make their stories. But Kamila Shamsie, who in Burnt Shadows does this so superbly, has done so much more. When I shared the opening themes of the book with my brother, who lives in Japan (I will spare readers of this review a lengthy account of all the many borders this story crossed into my own life), said, referring to the bombing of Nagasaki art is essential to capture such feelings. Even to call it essential doesn't do justice to this text, which covers such an immense ground, making a kind of sense of the world that has been terrifyingly coming into being since 1945 from the perspective of what one character, with fatal disdain, calls ordinary, little-picture morality, the spider's eye view, people and their relationships...
Elizabeth almost laughed. So much for those demure Japanese women of all the stories she'd heard. Here was one who would squeeze the sun in her fist if she ever got the chance; yes, and tilt her head back to swallow its liquid light.
it didn't bother her in the least to know she would always be a foreigner in Pakistan - she had no interest in belonging to anything as contradictorily insubstantial and damaging as a nation) and ambiguously generous benefactors, but an extraordinarily desirable opposite number, countless sources of delight written and unwritten, a son who earns his own story, and always the last word. Frequently, in other characters' strands, we are made aware of barriers raised against women, but Hiroko always knows exactly which boundary is worthy of respect, which border may be politely or heedlessly transgressed.
'James!' Elizabeth said, coming to stand beside her husband. 'Did you know Sajjad's family came here from Turkey seven centuries ago?'
'Young Turk are you?' James smiled at Sajjad.
'No, Mr Burton,' Sajjad said, not understanding the reference. 'I'm Indian.' He glanced at Hiroko, who had her back to the three of them, looking up at the Arabic inscriptions on the minaret. She was offended, he knew, but what could he do about it? He looked at James, as though considering something that had never occurred to him before. 'Why have the English remained so English? Throughout India's history conquerors have come from elsewhere, and all of them - Turk, Arab, Hun, Mongol, Persian - have become Indian. If - when - this Pakistan happens, those Muslims who leave Delhi and Lucknow and Hyderabad to go there, they will be leaving their homes. But when the English leave, they'll be going home.'
Hiroko turned towards Sajjad, surprised and accutely self-conscious. She had been speaking to him of Konrad's interest in the foreigners who made their homes in Nagasaki, and now she saw her words filtering into his thoughts and becoming part of the way he saw the world.
'Henry thinks of India as home,', Elizabeth said, seeing how wounded James was by Sajjad's unexpected attack, and wanting to deflect it.
'Yes.' There was a tightening of Sajjad's voice. 'He does.' And you sent him away because of it, he wanted to say, the sense of offence which had started as an act to impress Hiroko no longer feigned. He recalled it very well, the day her opposition to the idea of boarding school ended. He had been playing cricket in the garden with Henry when Elizabeth came out and told her son he was 'such a young Englishman'. Henry had scowled, and backed up towards Sajjad. 'I'm Indian,' he'd said. The next day James Burton had told Sajjad how relieved he was that his wife had suddenly decided to withdraw all her 'sentimental' objections to sending Henry to boarding school.
'Something you want to say, Sajjad?'
'No, Mr Burton. Only that I don't suppose he'll continue to think of India that way for much longer.'
'For the best,' Elizabeth said, looking around her, feeling something that was almost sorrow to think that the descendants of the English would not come to the churches and monuments of British India seven centuries from now and say this is a reminder of when my family history and India's history entered the same stream irrevocably and for ever.
'Why is it for the best?' Sajjad's voice was as near angry as anyone had ever heard it. It was hard to say if Elizabeth or Sajjad was more surprised at his tone after eight years during which he used only excessive politeness as a weapon against her. But they were both aware that this would not have happened if Hiroko hadn't been there, disrupting all hierarchies.