Night of the Golden Butterfly

TWO

ZAHID WAS IN LIGHT sleep mode, dreaming. It was the pissing dream, he told me later, the bladder-full alert dream, the core of which had remained constant throughout his life. Water, forever flowing. Usually, he was having a shower, but sometimes it was a running tap or, on a few rare occasions, a turbulent sea. At school and in the mountains where our families spent the summer, he would describe his affliction in some detail. It was, he explained, a crude, effective internal alarm system. If he delayed too long, his tap began to drip. His mother once provided a more Jungian explanation, but it must have been forgettable, since she could not recall it a week later.

Zahid himself was convinced that he was unique. When he was a baby, his amah had patiently weaned him off the muslin nappies, training him to pee by turning on a tap and whistling the national anthem. It worked — the muslin nappies were permanently discarded when he was only a year old — but it must have left a mark on his psyche. He would often joke that, Allah be praised, it was water that had entered his dreams and not the national anthem, though after a brief discussion, we agreed it might have been better the other way round. At the end of a movie or a radio broadcast he could always find a pissoir. Much better than bed-wetting.

Later, when he was already a distinguished heart surgeon in the United States, treating important people, Zahid discovered that his dream was not as unusual as he had once thought. The revelation came as a disappointment. He used to joke that it was the end of all illusions. It was then that he decided, against the advice of his son, to invest some of his savings in banks and properties in undesirable locations all over the world: Marbella and Miami, Bermuda and Nice as well as — and this very much for old times’ sake — a mountain retreat in the Kaghan valley, sadly destroyed by the earthquake of 2004. All this I discovered later. I had heard, of course, that he had become a Republican and was head of the medical team that operated on Dick Cheney in 1999, saving his life, but had not known that he had moved from DC to London after the explosions of 9/11 or that he was now in semi-retirement in a palatial villa in Richmond, overlooking the Thames. We had lived in different worlds for almost half a century.

When the phone rang, soon after dawn, Zahid automatically groaned and stretched an arm out to grab the clock. Must be an emergency at the hospital, he thought, before realizing he was no longer working. It was ten past five in the morning; must be someone from the east. Early calls upset him. They were invariably from Fatherland and it was usually bad news: another death in the family, a new military coup, an expected assassination, but still they could not be ignored. His wife was still asleep. He rose and lifted the phone, and went over to draw the curtains. Dark clouds. Like him, the city suffered from a weak bladder. He cursed.

The caller heard him swearing, chuckled and hailed him in Punjabi, the mother tongue to beat all other motherfucking mother tongues, or so its partisans boast. No translation can ever do justice to this multilayered language, so rich in puns and double entendres that some scholars have argued that virtually every word of every Punjabi dialect has a dual or hidden meaning. I’m not sure this is the case. That would have created insurmountable problems for the Sikh religion, whose founder, the visionary mystic poet Nanak, a great master of the language, would never… I mean, he must have known what he was doing when he elevated his native Punjabi into a divine language for the new faith, split off from the caste-ridden Hindus.

Nor are the problems of translation simplified by the profusion of dialects. The voice that addressed Dr Mian Zahid Hussain spoke in the guttural dialect common to Lahore and Amritsar. As the narrator, I will keep the translation literal as far as this first exchange is concerned; but, wishing neither to tax the reader’s patience nor to expose my own limitations, I may be compelled to revert to a less louche mode in the chapters that lie ahead. Or I may not.

‘I say, Zahid Mian. Salaamaleikum.’

The recipient of the greeting cursed again, but inwardly. He did not recognize the voice. Clumsily unbuttoning his pyjamas with one hand while holding the phone in the other, he stumbled into the bathroom and gave much-needed relief to his neurotic bladder, just as a delightful drizzle began to water London’s numerous parks and private gardens. Despite decades of wisdom accumulated at the George Washington Hospital in Washington, DC, he did not know that speaking on the phone directly above the commode creates a slight distortion, an echo easily recognized by an alert person at the other end. And this particular caller relished embarrassing his friends.

‘So frightened by my voice that it makes you piss, catamite?’

‘Forgive me, friend. It’s early here. I don’t recognize your voice.’

‘I won’t forgive you, catamite. The only friend you have is in your hand. Why not put some soap on him and fuck your fist? Then you might recognize my voice, you frogfucker.’

That last was not a common abuse in Lahore but unique to an old circle of friends. Zahid smiled, struggling to identify the now familiar voice and hurriedly getting rid of the after-drops, with only partial success. The traditions of our faith, alas, are divided on this crucially important Islamic ritual. The Shia insist on the Twelver: the penis is shaken vigorously twelve times to get rid of everything lurking inside. The Sunni are more relaxed: six shakes are considered sufficient. In his hurry, Zahid had taken the Sufi path — one strong existentialist tug — and spattered his pyjamas as a result. Simultaneously, he recognized the caller’s voice.

‘Plato! Plato. Of course, it’s you.’

‘Glad you recognized your name, frogfucker.’

Zahid’s loud laugh, slightly tinged with hysteria, was typical of the city where he was born. He responded in kind.

‘For twenty-five sisterfucking years you disappeared yourself, Plato. Did you climb up your own arse? You ring while it’s barely light in this fucked city and complain I don’t recognize your voice. I thought you were dead.’

‘Mean-spirited catamite, why aren’t you? Your mother’s pudendum.’

‘You vanished, Plato. Just like your motherfucked paintings.’

‘Only from your dogfucking Western world. My exhibitions here are always packed.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Lahore, but flying to Karachi later. I have a studio there.’

‘Long live Puristan. Never fucked there, is it? Why are you ringing me at this hour? Are you dying? Been working it hard? Need an arse transplant?’

‘Shut your mouth, catamite. I thought you’d already be up. Aren’t you fasting? Too early to say the morning prayers? Heard you’d gone religious and abased yourself in Makkah.’

Zahid was angered. ‘We’ve all changed, Plato. You, too. Fasting is going a bit far. Better not to than to cheat, like we did when we were kids?’

‘Many of our old friends are fasting now. Try calling them catamites. They’re ready to kill. Why not you? Listen, Mr Big Surgeon or whatever corrupt business you’re screwing up these days, I rang for something special. My arse is torn, friend. Torn. Badly torn.’

‘Tell me something new.’

‘Love has happened. I need your help. No jokes or cuntish questions about my age. It’s happened.’

Plato was seventy-five, exactly fourteen years older than his country, as he never tired of telling us when we were growing up. He was ten or so years older than us, too, and used his seniority to boast about his sexual exploits, real and imagined, without restraint. About how he disliked docile and gentle middle-class women, obsessed with pimple removers. How he preferred the raw energy and rough hands of peasant wenches. All this we knew. But love? What depths had unleashed this monster? Wondering whether this was real or yet another Plato fantasy, Zahid decided to strike a lighter note.

‘Woman, man or beast?’ Abuse polluted the phone lines, lashing the recipient like hard rain. By the time the monsoon ended, Zahid was laughing so hysterically and stupidly that he woke his wife. From the way he was laughing, Jindié knew the call must be from Lahore, and that it was neither bad news nor his mother. She immediately demanded to know who was ringing up so early. By now it was pouring outside. Plato overheard her melodious voice.

‘Ah, the sunehri titli has arisen. My salaams to the great lady. She was created to inflame the imagination of painters. Tell her that after she left, our city never recovered. Why didn’t she dump you and find a better person? Like me, for instance. Catamite, I’m really pleased you haven’t abandoned her for a younger wife. Some young nurse with milkmaid breasts—’

‘Plato, it’s early and I—’

‘I’ll be brief. The woman I love is Zaynab. She’s married. No children, but adores her nieces. She needs help. She asks me for only one thing: my story and hers; collated in one manuscript, with my colour illustrations. Never to be published. Don’t ask why. I don’t know. It’s her only request. How can I refuse? I only rang you because I can’t track down that catamite who once was a friend of ours — Dara. He’ll remember me. We spent enough time together in the kebab shops and the teahouse, especially during Ramadan, when we always broke the fast early and often. Remind him that I once did him a very big favour at some cost to my self-esteem. He promised me one in return whenever and wherever. The time for that is now. I need him, Zahid Mian. I can paint and sign my name. Someone else will have to write the stories. Or has Dara become too grand for Fatherland friends?’

‘Plato, please try and find Dara’s e-mail address. I don’t see him. The motherfucker still treats me like a traitor. The last time I met him was at a Punjabi wedding in New York. I smiled politely in his direction, and he turned away contemptuously. Always an arrogant motherfucker. He might respond better to a direct request from you.’

Plato erupted. ‘Hockey stick up your arse, catamite… and his. I never use e-mail. That stuff is for catamites and impotents. Just give him the message and my number. Tell him mine is badly torn. I really need that fistfucker’s help. If you’re too shy, ask the Golden Butterfly to ring him. She’ll do it for me.’

The reference to the hockey stick revived memories. Plato was an elephant. Trust him to remember Zahid’s distaste for the sport. Zahid’s father had captained the Punjab university team in the late nineteen-thirties, and some years later scored a goal in the Olympics that won the silver for Fatherland. National acclaim followed, but not from his Communist friends. Moved by their disdain, he had turned down the offer of a medal and money from the government. Zahid was six years old at the time, but growing up surrounded by sports medals and cups only increased his aversion to hockey. His father had turned equally successfully to business and set up an import-export agency, which, with the help of civil servants in need of a commission, had prospered. Zahid’s reaction had been to join an underground Communist cell, cementing our friendship. But nothing is ever really underground in Fatherland. Everybody knew.

Reluctantly, Zahid agreed to make the fatal call. A few hours later, as I was carefully tamping the coffee to make myself an espresso, the phone rang. My first instinct was to hang up. It was only the mention of Plato’s name that stopped me. I hadn’t spoken to Zahid for forty-five years — not since his departure from Lahore in the mid-Sixties to read medicine at Johns Hopkins University in Baltimore, after his marriage.

To leave the country, he had had to obtain a No Objection Certificate from the Ministry of Interior. In order to do that, we later learned, he had revealed the whereabouts of Comrade Tipu, a Bengali Communist from Chittagong who was at college with us in Lahore. Tipu was much better educated than we in both the Marxist classics and pre-marital sex, and we learned a great deal from him. That cursed spring, he was warned by a friendly bureaucrat that he had just been put on the wanted list for subversive activities against the state. Tipu felt honoured, but also scared. Nobody likes to think of electric rods, icicles or the penises of the secret police being shoved up his arse in a dingy cellar of the Lahore Fort. Someone we all knew had been tortured to death a few years previously and fear was not an irrational response. Tipu decided to go underground. An aunt of mine in a remote and mountainous part of the country was looking for a gardener. I suggested Tipu, who borrowed a few gardening manuals and left for the hills. A few months later he was tracked and arrested. The CID had been tipped off and a senior police chief was heard boasting after a few whiskies in the Gymkhana Club that it was the hockey star’s son who had obliged them. A second cousin present at the occasion made sure that I was informed about it, but only after Zahid had left for Baltimore. The news spread in the city and I broke off all relations with him. Youthful arrogance, now conformist, now rebellious, rarely permits any serious questioning or re-evaluation of actions, events, experiences. We were no different. Zahid was a traitor. I cast him out of my mind, though I could hardly avoid hearing about his success as a surgeon. Since Zahid moved to London we had exchanged curt nods at the odd wedding reception and a funeral or two, including that of an old Fatherland Communist whose son had insisted on prayers in the lavish but ugly Regents Park Mosque. Tipu himself was there. He had led a chequered career as an arms dealer, and I saw the two embrace. By then I had come to know innumerable, deeper, worse betrayals. If Zahid’s was not to be forgiven, it might be qualified. But above all I wanted to hear about Plato. And suddenly, after all these years, I wanted to know about Zahid’s wife. Somewhat impulsively and to my own surprise, I agreed to have dinner with them in Richmond.

We had not spoken for almost half a century. Old age circumscribes the future, the laws of biology push one to reflect mainly on the past, but if anything, I have tended in the other direction. Why concentrate exclusively on the past? Some friends have become testy and ultra-pessimistic, seeing no value at all in the postmodern world. Biological conservatism or old hopes gone musty, in both cases inducing melancholia, despair-filled days and alcohol-fuelled evenings.

School friendships are notoriously fickle. Some survive for purely practical reasons, the more privileged schools in every country creating social networks that make up for the loss or nonexistence of real friendship. Zahid and I had attended different schools, but we met up in the mountains each summer. And yet ours was not just a seasonal friendship. We continued to talk when we returned to Lahore. Later we were at the same college, and our shared politics brought us closer still.

For almost ten years we confided all of our political and sexual fantasies to each other. When Zahid developed an obsessive crush on a general’s daughter, he insisted that I accompany him on his Vespa to the women’s college that she attended. We would wait outside and then follow her car, overtaking it just before it reached her house. She knew. Occasionally she smiled. The memory of a single smile kept him going for weeks. Then she graduated and was soon married off to the scion of some feudal family. Zahid’s offer, transmitted via his mother, had been rudely rejected. Zahid’s political bent and his father’s rejection of honours had made him out of bounds for daughters of army officers and bureaucrats, the two groups that ran Fatherland in those days, presiding over the kind of tyrannies that break a people’s heart and their pride. The boy had no future. How could he expect to marry into privilege?

Zahid recovered, though, and shocked his parents by insisting on marrying Jindié, the daughter of a modest but extremely well off Chinese shoemaker in Lahore. It was a Muslim family, but caste prejudices went deep in Fatherland. A cobbler’s daughter for the only son of a wealthy Punjabi family? Unacceptable. He might as well marry a Negro woman.

Zahid ignored them. ‘What are we?’ he would mock. ‘Peasants descended from low-caste Hindus whose job it was to grow vegetables for the rulers of this city. Our forebears grew turnips and pumpkins; Jindié’s father is a craftsman. Just because he measures your feet for sandals you think he’s lower than you.’ He married Jindié, the sunehri titli, as Zahid’s Punjabi friends called her — the Golden Butterfly. Her brother was a member of our political circle. She was a marvel of beauty and intelligence, a rare combination in Lahore. There was an air of gaiety about her as well as majesty. She had thin lips and profoundly expressive eyes. She had read more books than all of us put together, and in three languages. Her knowledge of Punjabi Sufi poetry went deep, and when she sang her voice resembled a flute. And she did sing sometimes, usually when she thought she was alone with our sisters and female cousins, unaware that we were listening. We all loved her. I more than the others, and I think she loved me. She had married Zahid just before his political treachery was exposed, but I thought she must have known of it and that had angered me greatly. It mattered in those days. Consequently, she, too, had been assigned to the deepest circle of my memory.

Now I found myself looking forward to seeing Jindié again. Our relationship had consisted mainly of letters, lengthy phone calls and attempted rendezvous. The last time we had met on our own, forty-five years before, she had been in a state of unspeakable confusion. Covered with shame, she had fled.

The next time I’d seen her had been at a farewell dinner for a retiring professor. She had come with her brother. It was a very proper occasion, not that she was ever capable of relapsing into coquetry. We did not speak and she appeared to be in fragile shape. Her melancholy glances cut me deeply, but there was nothing to be done. Some months later I received a letter informing me of her engagement to Zahid. It was a very long, self-justifying missive of the sort that women are better at writing than men, at least in my limited experience. I was so enraged at the news of her engagement that I never reached the end. In later years I did wonder whether it had contained any words of affection for me. I tore it up into little pieces and flushed it to the depths of the city. It was better confined to the sewers, I thought, where the rats could read bits of it. She should appreciate that, since she was marrying one. Years later, a mutual woman friend told me she had not detected any awkward corners in Jindié’s life. There were two children and they were the centre of her existence. I wondered what had become of them and her life after they left home.

I arrived early and went for a short walk by the river. There was a sudden sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. Perhaps this was a mistake, after all. Why was I dining with perfidy? The passage of time doesn’t always heal wounds incurred in political or emotional conflicts. Tipu’s shift from politics to business did not retrospectively justify Zahid’s betrayal. As for Jindié, I hadn’t thought of her for a very long time and when I did she appeared as a tender ghost. I couldn’t help feeling that a restaurant, neutral territory, might have been less stressful. I walked back to my parked car, took out the bottle of wine and inspected their Richmond home carefully before alerting them to my presence. The house, a late Georgian mansion, was certainly well appointed. A mature garden sloped gently to the river and a tiny quay where a boat was moored. But I had been sighted and the French windows were pushed apart as Zahid walked down to greet me. There wasn’t a hair on his head. It was polished and smooth like a carrom board. Given our history, a warm embrace or even a perfunctory hug was out of the question. We shook hands. And then Jindié walked out, and the clouds disappeared. Her hair was white, but her face was unaltered and her figure had not coarsened with age. Her smile was enough to flood decaying memory banks. I managed a few banalities as we walked indoors. While Zahid went to get some drinks — just to be difficult, I asked for fresh pomegranate juice and was told it was possible — I looked over the interior of the house.

The large living room was conventional and unsurprising. It could have been lifted straight from Interiors or one of the many other consumerist magazines that disgrace a dentist’s waiting room. Do they think that their patients are all empty-headed, or are the glossy pictures meant to make up for the dingy decor of their surgeries? The walls were covered with mostly unprepossessing paintings, with every continent unsuitably represented. No Plato, but two gouaches by his dreadfully fashionable rival, I. M. Malik. There were also a few swords and daggers, which had not been dusted for some time.

The only object that made an impression on me was an exquisitely painted Chinese screen depicting three women in earnest conversation with each other. Not a trace here of earthly existence being a mere illusion. Had I been forced to guess, I would have ventured that it was from the late seventeenth century and by someone who either inspired or was inspired by Yongzheng. She saw my appreciative look and smiled.

‘Genuine or a copy?’

‘It’s not a copy. It really is Yongzheng. Early eighteenth century. A gift from my son when he lived in Hong Kong, earning too much money for his own good. I have no idea how he managed to get it out of the country.’

It was a bit early in the evening to start discussing progeny, and I was wondering where the books were kept, when Zahid took me by the arm.

‘Jindié knows how fussy you are about food. She’s prepared a feast tonight. While she’s applying the finishing touches, let me show you my study.’

They seemed happy together, which pleased me. Not that Jindié was the sort who would have accepted being mired in misery for too long. She would have left ages ago.

The large oak-panelled study was certainly impressive; the eclectic collection accurately reflected the different tastes of the household. Zahid said, ‘I’ve bought all your books. Thumbprint them before you leave.’ He spoke Punjabi, as we always had when we were alone. He wanted to clear up the past. ‘Daraji, what hurt the most was that you rushed to judgement without speaking to me.’

I sat down on his desk and stared at him. His eyes were still the same and looked straight back at me. He then told me what had really happened. His father had simply bribed a senior police officer to get the No Objection Certificate, and all Zahid had done was sign an affidavit affirming that he was not a member of any clandestine Communist organization.

‘We are neither of us young, Zahid. Let’s not try to deceive each other or give sweet names to things that were never nice. Who betrayed Tipu?’

‘Was I the only one who knew he was working for your aunt?’

‘You mean it could have been Jamshed?’

‘It was that sisterfucker. He admitted as much to me.’

‘When?’

‘Forty years ago, when shame was still an emotion he wrestled with. He said he couldn’t face you after that and asked me to forgive him for allowing the blame to rest on my shoulders

‘And I thought he couldn’t face me because he’d become a corrupt, amoral businessman in bed with every military dictator.’

‘Is there any other kind?’

We laughed.

‘Zahid. You knew me better than most. Everyone in Lahore was told it was you. If I was in a rage and didn’t ring you, why didn’t you contact me? Your silence confirmed your guilt in my eyes.’

‘It was the cop who took the bribe who spread the vile rumours. My father was scared. If I challenged him and told my friends, my No Objection Certificate might have been withdrawn and I wouldn’t have been able to leave the country. I knew that if I told you, you would confront the cop, talk to journalists, tell the whole world and make a big fuss. That would have meant no medical studies at Johns Hopkins and I was desperate to become a doctor. You encouraged me. But this is truth and reconciliation time. There was another reason why I did not contact you.’

‘What was it?’

‘Jindié. I knew how close you two were. You’d told me everything and I thought…’

‘Might as well let him think the worst of me as long as I’ve got Jindié.’

‘Something like that.’

‘But you never loved her. You would have told me.’

‘True, but I liked her a great deal and wanted to marry someone. You loved her but were not prepared to marry her…’

‘Or anyone else.’

‘Yes, but that’s not the way she or most girls thought at the time, let alone her parents. You offered her some crazy bohemian alternative, and that, too, in Lahore, where girls learned the art of leaning on window sills to catch sight of their lovers, in such a way as to never be visible from outside. Even logistically your suggestion was crazy.’

‘It was a test of our love. Jindié failed. As for bohemian lifestyles and logistics, our poets, professors and artists used them constantly and not just before Partition. Plato had a list in his head of who did it with whom and where… boats on the Ravi were regular meeting places. Lawrence Gardens in the moonlight when the wolves in the Zoo were howling. Now the river that so arrogantly and regularly flooded our city has no water left. Were you ever in love with her?’

‘No, but I grew to love and respect her, and Dara, please accept this as a fact. We’ve been happy. Two children and an adorable grandchild.’

‘What has the production of children and grandchildren got to do with happiness? I hope you’re happy because you like her, because you can talk to her about the world and…’

‘When I first proposed marriage, she told me there could never be a replacement for you. Her only condition was that if we went abroad she never wanted to be in the same town as you. Never ever. Since you had already found me guilty and executed me for a crime I never committed, I was delighted to agree to her condition. No more was said.’

‘Why didn’t she ever write and tell me that you were innocent?’

‘Now that you’re both in the same town, you could ask her.’

‘I’m glad Jamshed is dead. I’m glad you’ve lost all your hair and look really decrepit and aged.’

Zahid burst out laughing. It was spontaneous and unaffected, reminding me of how much we used to laugh when we were young. He looked at me closely.

‘Why the hell haven’t you changed? Does nothing affect you?’

‘I have changed, and in more ways than you think, but some things go far too deep, and however changed the world is, it is criminal to forget what was once possible and will become so again.’

‘Always motherfucking politics. What did happen to Tipu?’

‘He was arrested, tortured and sent back to Chittagong on the request of his uncle, who was a civil servant. The uncle took full responsibility for him. Tipu stayed in touch. I thought he had died in the civil war of 1971, but he was only wounded. The last time I saw him was at the funeral where he hugged you. He’s an arms dealer who uses his Maoist past to pimp for the Chinese. A Parisian wife helps with the French side of the deals.’

A gong, pretentious but effective, was sounded below. We were being summoned for supper. The table was laid out like a work of art. She must have wasted half a day at least.

‘I never thought I’d ever cook for you.’

‘If it’s not good, you never will again.’

But it was good. In fact, it was a convincing repeat of a Yunnanese meal cooked by her mother that I had enjoyed at her family apartment in Lahore all those years ago, the meal that introduced me to proper Chinese cooking, not the muck they served in the two restaurants in town. What a wonderful way Jindié had chosen to revive the most delicious memories from the past, mingling ancient recipes with adolescent love. To start, there were three types of mushrooms, including the most prized: chi-tzong, which when cooked in a particular way tastes like chicken. Then kan-pa-chun, or ‘dry fungi’, stir-fried with red chillies, spring onions and beef fillet, which gave the palate as much pleasure as one’s first French kiss. The main course was chicken served in the steam pot in which it cooked, which resembled an espresso coffee pot with a chimney protruding from its middle, seasoned with scented herbs, a great deal of ginger, and more mushrooms. The method produces steamed chicken as soft as marshmallows and the most exquisite chicken soup I have ever tasted. To go with this there were some ‘over-the-bridge’ rice noodles and nuo mi, the sticky rice that is only available in Yunnan and parts of Vietnam. Neither of my hosts could eat the baked green chillies that adorned a single plate put next to me; these, too, I had first tasted at the original banquet in Lahore.

Last, but not least, there was ru-shan (dairy fan), another delicacy that sets Yunnan cuisine apart from the cooking of almost all other Han Chinese provinces. This is a cheese-like product, solid, hard, and very thinly sliced into fan-shaped pieces, which are eaten with gooseberry compote and raw mangoes. Since Jindié’s stomach, like those of most Han people, is sensitive to all dairy foods, Zahid and I ended up eating too much of it that evening. I declined the mao tai, a gruesome spirit whose name when spoken in Punjabi means ‘death is near’.

My stomach had been completely won over, but the path to my heart was still blocked by a forest of stinging nettles. In more relaxed mode, I asked after the children and their lives. The son, Suleiman, had tired of making money and turned to Chinese history. He was in love with a Chinese woman and lived in Kunming. No, he was not at all religious and only mildly interested in politics. The daughter, Neelam, was religious, and married to a general in Isloo. Their son would be eleven next year. I smiled, thinking of how desperately Zahid had once been in love with a general’s daughter; now his own daughter was wedded to a general.

It was my turn to be questioned, but it was obvious they already knew a great deal, and I sheepishly confirmed much of the information that Jindié had accumulated regarding my life. She even recalled a few episodes that I had totally forgotten. Jindié had kept a strict watch on me even from afar. She asked for details of my life that I had also long forgotten.

‘You see’, said Zahid, ‘we never really lost touch with you even though we could never be in contact for all those years. Jindié’s spies reported on your every movement. Once when you came to give a lecture at Georgetown, we sat right at the back in dark glasses and funny hats so you wouldn’t recognize us.’

‘I wouldn’t have recognized you without a hat, you turnip.’

I chattered away in Punjabi, pleased that the thought of Zahid would no longer plunge me into a gloomy reverie tinged with repugnance. The mother tongue encourages imprudence and indiscretions, but both of us were enjoying the reunion. Jindié was silent, even though she was probably more fluent in Punjabi now than Zahid. I thought I detected an anxious look from her at one point, but it soon disappeared. Just as I was about to leave, I realized that we had not yet discussed Plato’s plight. Zahid had no idea to whom or why he had got married or whether this, too, was a fantasy. He admitted that he neither liked nor could understand Plato’s paintings. Jindié disagreed very strongly and we both united, to accuse him of philistinism. I suggested that I. M. Malik’s decorative work should be removed to his study or the washroom. He said that he had paid a great deal for the gouaches and asked why I owed Plato a favour in the first place. Jindié could not totally conceal her nervousness at this. I mumbled something about the distant past and fog-bound memory, but promised I would speak with Plato the following day.

The evening had turned out to be surprisingly pleasant. Just before I left, Jindié disappeared briefly, returning with a large packet that obviously contained a manuscript.

‘All those years ago you told me I should write the story of my family and the long march that brought us from Yunnan to India. I did, and here it is. At first I thought I was writing it for Neelam, but when she went religious I knew she could never understand her mother. For her, all freedom leads to moral corruption. But I carried on writing. Since it was your idea, I thought I’d give it to you. It’s for the grandchildren really. Not to be published, but I would like to know what you think. Sorry it turned out so long.’

I took the manuscript with delight, wondering whether it held up a mirror to the drawing rooms of Lahore. This little butterfly could always sting like a bee. Her waspish descriptions of visits undertaken with her mother to the great houses of the city had always made me laugh.

‘Jindié, I’m touched and honoured. If there is anything I can’t understand, may I ring you for an explanation?’

Zahid looked at both of us in turn and smiled. ‘You’re in the same town again. You’re always welcome here. And you should know that I was never given a chance to read the manuscript.’

Her eyes flashed. ‘You gave up reading a long time ago. Only medical journals and the less demanding airport thrillers. Too wearisome to read proper books. He only bought yours last week.’

‘He told me.’

It was time to take my leave. I rose and shook hands with Jindié. The tremor was unmistakable. Zahid walked me to my car.

‘Seeing you again was a pleasure.’

This time we embraced warmly, as old friends do. I thought about the evening all the way home and for some days afterwards. It was neither political treachery nor the hard school of misfortune nor my pride and ill humour nor his incessant frivolity that had led to the breach. It was Jindié. Somehow this didn’t ring true. I recalled him telling me that he never found her attractive and couldn’t understand what I saw in her. He would always insist that my love for her was neither tender nor pure. I’d strongly denied the charge. My love was certainly tender. As for the other, the love that is pure verges on religious ecstasy and worship and that never meant anything to me. It also separates love from passion. The first for the wife, the latter for a courtesan and later a mistress.

True, he had been obsessed with the general’s daughter at the time, but how could he have changed his mind about Jindié within a few years? And what had possessed her to marry him? These puzzles remained, but, most importantly, he had not betrayed Tipu. Looking back, it wasn’t a surprise that Jamshed was the traitor. His politics and sexuality — ever transient — went in tandem. His charm had once disguised his ambition. He came from a modest Parsi background. All he wanted was to be rich, like the other Parsi businessmen, who had prospered throughout South Asia and especially a great-uncle whose name when pronounced in Punjabi meant testicle. When Jamshed had achieved this aim, the charm disappeared and he became a gangster. His appearance, too, underwent a change. He was bloated and with his awful dark glasses looked like three pimps gone mouldy. Was he paid in cash to betray Tipu? Was that how he had begun his descent to the sewers of big business in Fatherland?

Plato had never trusted him. He would often leave abruptly when Jamshed arrived at the college cafeteria to join our table. The country we grew up in was permanently swathed in cant, and the most tiresome forms of hypocrisy flourished. That was why Plato became so special for us. He urged us to ignore religion, renounce state-sponsored politics, pleasure ourselves in whatever fashion we desired and laugh at officialdom. How in Allah’s name had this man become engulfed in an emotional crisis so late in his life?