Shireen, a doctor with a third-world degree and experience, was given an unexpected gift by her husband Jamil, who had important people visiting from abroad and others to whom he desperately owed a seasonal invitation. She had to cater for over a dozen guests at less than a week’s notice, and she knew that even her best was never good enough for Jamil’s Libran discernment.
In London, Shireen had spent years and money on her medical expertise, but her husband had always found excuses to keep her husband tied to her table, including sundry colleagues. She had to cook for Jamil and his guests, but he suggested they order food from a fancy Pakistani lady caterer. He believed her home cooking wasn’t fancy enough for his guests, but she refused to consider food from elsewhere.
Shireen continued to cook dishes she loved, like spinach with meat or potatoes, oil-rich courgettes and aubergines, rich buttery breads, and dry, fragrant pea-speckled rice tinted yellow. She would freeze the food for days when it rained or snowed and read stories of Han Suyin’s life among the women of China and Malaya.
At a party with associates or prospective clients from Asia-Pacific and the Americas, Shireen was determined to prepare something special and outdo those society hostesses whose homes he dragged her to every six weeks or so when he was there. With the frustrated and frustrating perfectionism that constantly chilled her bones, she wanted to cross the final boundary and cook one of the feasts she’d heard her grandmother describe with such chop-licking ecstasy.
Shireen recalls a sweet rice recipe her grandmother made for her, which she named after her. Her mother’s parents, who had come from Northern India, had lost their landholdings after 1947, and they had never applied for recompense. Shireen’s grandmother lived on her physician’s earnings, and her father was a doctor. They had fallen into a world that respected material manifestations of heritage but hardly elemsee. As she turns the corner from Seymour Place into York Street, she realizes her grandmother is no longer there and her mother may have forgotten the recipe. She struggles to find it in her arthritic hand, exercise books, and Madhur Jaffrey cookbooks. Despite friends’ claims of authentic recipes, Shireen’s vanity prevents her from turning to them. She tries to find a solution in a pile of discarded notebooks, but her determination refuses to give up.
Shireen recalls signing a defiant signature for her home, which was named after her. She recalls her father’s son, an English child, who prefers dubiously prepared hamburgers and chips. She recalls a bundle of books, including Perveen Shakir’s first two volumes of verse, novels by A. R. Khatun, romances of Islam and colonialism, and the ’57 uprising by Abdul Halim Sharar. She also finds a classic book of recipes, Naimatkhana, which she had taken from her grandmother’s cupboard when she died. The book, written in old-fashioned Urdu script, contains recipes for orange rice, chicken or lamb, rice, clarified butter, onions, coriander, garlic, salt, cummin, black pepper, cloves, cardamom, and sugar. She finds the sauce of orange peel, almonds, pistachios, cardamoms, water, and crystallized rock sugar, all easily found in the city with no cuisine of its own. Little Asias of restaurants and eating places have taken over the city, with Drummond Street being a short walk away. Shireen and Yasmien joke about the spice islands’ influence on the city’s cuisine.
Shireen finds herself immersed in a collection of books and recipes. She discovers that the author of one of her favorite books is a turn-of-the-century housewife, Muhammadi Begum. She had written at least a dozen books in just ten years, including guides to housekeeping and good manners, as well as novels for adults.
Begum was a master cook who nurtured generations of women, including doctors, lawyers, opposition leaders, and even prime ministers. She left behind a cookery book, which she would share with others. She would go to the India Office library to excavate and reclaim any of Begum’s writings, spending her remaining fallow years in the foreign country recreating a forgotten time from her own past.
On her way home, Shireen pays little attention to the child’s customary pampered nonsense. She thinks about her husband Mumtaz Ali, who encouraged her endeavors and recognized her superior talent. Recognizing her superior talent, he set up a press for her and published her books.
Shireen wonders if Jamil will remember her when she returns to the city or if living abroad pushes him back into the realm of the colonized, fearing the vocal freedom of their equals and partners. She wonders who will support her research on the life of a woman whose potent writings are probably interred in the mildewed and mite-infested coffers of empire.
Shireen, after spending time with her husband, calls Yasmin to discuss compiling a recipe book called Sweet Rice. Yasmin, who is free all week, suggests a publisher in Pakistan who may be interested in assisting Shireen in writing about her heroine’s life. The Pakistani lady caterers will launch the book, claiming the recipes originated in their mothers’ kitchens. Yasmin suggests a subtitle and a Bountiful Feast with bright illustrations and stories about Muhammadi Begum. The book will serve as a refreshing treat between the recipes.
Summary of Aamer Hussein The Keeper of the Shrine
