Night of the Golden Butterfly

SIX

DEAR D:

You asked far too many questions before you left Lahore. One that irritated me the most was whether I saw myself as a Punjabi or as a Chinese girl. Instead of replying that I was a Chinese Punjabi, which I think is what you wanted to hear, I remained silent because it is more complicated. Did you ever notice how often I remained silent when you questioned me? Did you? It would have been impolite to tell you that they were usually stupid questions that irritated me greatly. You always asked about my family history. In this case the reason I did not reply was not because your query was foolish, but somehow I felt the timing was wrong, and, to be truthful, I didn’t want the information passed on to your mother, which you would have done and with a look of triumph.

The enclosed manuscript is really for you. Perhaps it’s too lengthy and dull. If you feel that, don’t even try and be diplomatic. That was never your style. It was such a sad and difficult subject that I was often inclined to stop. But it became a habit and was my way of conducting a one-sided conversation with you, in which you just had to listen and not question me every few sentences. The early section is typewritten! I had a great deal of spare time at Georgetown before the children arrived, while Zahid was saving lives. He’s good at his job but sometimes goes too far. A few years back he saved a life that the entire family, except for him, felt did not deserve to be saved.

I did not much care for the company of other medical wives and was never into shopping as a habit, let alone acquiring jewellery; these objects slip by me unperceived. So I spent many hours in the university library reading Chinese history, something that was impossible to do at dear old Nairn College, where the history we were taught was too, too farcical. So what you have is in three parts. Tales that my paternal great-grandmother told us when we were very small and that were regularly repeated by her grandson and his mother. It is oral history of the kind familiar to most families, though if I remember well your family stories always had alternative versions that were probably closer to what must have happened. The bulk of what I have sent you is oral history, but where I can I have confirmed it during my labours at the library. I have added a map to help you situate Yunnan. Punjabis are genetically provincial and need all the help they can get.

There are my incomplete diaries about what happened to me after your attempted rape failed (I’m teasing; I never thought that for a moment) and you left Lahore never to return. I think I know why. Zahid did return for a while and we began to see each other, first to talk about you and then ourselves, and when he suggested marriage, neither of us pretended it was love or passion. It was friendship and convenience. And, just so that you know, he is a very sweet and kind man and my life has not been unhappy at all. Of course he has become very wealthy now, but this has not made him miserly or disagreeable. In many ways, though not politically, he remains the same. I can’t pretend that all is well. My life has lacked something, but then whose life is perfect? Yours?

One question I will answer now. I always thought of myself as a Lahori Punjabi. If pushed further, I would have said I was a Yunnanese Punjabi. Never a Chinese Fatherlandi. Those two identities were not mine. At the time you would not have understood this, because, like my brother, you were infected with the revolution, and talk of Han domination would have been brushed aside by all of you with contempt as it still is by Zahid. Perhaps the reason for this is that the Punjabis have become the Han equivalents of Fatherland, crushing other nationalities at will, but that’s your story. Better write it before the Baluch and the Pashtuns and the Sindhis produce their own.

Sometimes I wondered whether you ever took me seriously. I suppose I should have written ages ago and told you that Zahid had had nothing to do with Tipu’s arrest, but knowing you I also knew what would happen. You would have established contact with Zahid, apologised, made friends and, being Punjabis, wallowed in a lot of emotion, male camaraderie and self-pity. Had that happened, with you coming in and out of our house on whatever continent, it would have been unbearable for me, since in the shadow of that brotherhood I would have become a cipher. So it was pure selfishness that stopped me from telling you. I prevented him from doing so as well, by employing underhanded arguments. When the children arrived and became the centre of my life, then I could have told you, but we inhabited such different worlds that I thought you’d probably forgotten our very existence. Nothing in your novels that I have read indicated otherwise. Enough. I hope the manuscript answers all the questions you asked when you still loved me, and if there are others I’ll answer them as well, since we’re in the same city again after forty-five years.

— Jindié.

PS: You asked me about the Chinese equivalents for Arab names; here are some of them:

* Ma for Muhammad

* Ha for Hassan

* Hu for Hussain

* Sai for Said

* Sha for Shah

* Zheng for Shams

* Koay for Kamaruddin

* Chuah for Osman