I discovered orhan pamuk rather late, in 1998, in Granta 61. In an issue looking outward to the sea, Pamuk wrote about an 11-year-old boy—himself—watching ships sail through the Bosporus straits, that links Turkey with Europe and Asia. “We had been taught all through school that the Bosporus was the key to world domination... I began keeping track of the sea lane outside my window, not only to ease my own anxieties, but also for the sake of world peace and order.”

Granta 68 on Love Stories had another gem Famous People—also about a little boy who’d just been witness to a family break-up. The writing brought to mind favourite writers like Marquez, Dostoevsky… it lingered, and hinted at the possible pleasures of a long, long Pamuk novel. Finally, four years later, I read my first Pamuk book (his sixth)—My Name is Red—and was mesmerised.

Set at the end of the 16th century, with the Ottoman empire’s glory fading, the Sultan commissions a book, a celebration of his life and empire, to be illuminated by the best miniature painters of Istanbul. His contractor, Enishte, is so taken in by the works of art he sees in Venice that he wants to replicate them, and thereby lies the challenge. “He was frightened because he suddenly understood—and perhaps desired—that Islamic artistry would meet its end on account of the appeal of portraiture.” The workers must work in secret, each painting a section at a time, so they do not realise they are creating heretical images.

... contd.