Night of the Golden Butterfly Read Online Free PDF Page A

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 Not to be published, but I would like to know what you think.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