Tariq Ali - Night of the Golden Butterfly

‘Who is the lucky boy?’

‘None of your business.’

But it was. I’d approached Younis, who, as usual, was slightly tipsy. He had become a friend and regaled Zahid and me with stories of ever-so-respectable families being torn asunder by news of constant intrigues and infidelities. How did he know? He read their letters, of course, steaming them open at will and resealing them carefully before delivery. He swore that he only targeted the most snobbish families, the ones who looked down on him and treated him as a serf. I did think of asking him to open the exchange between my parents just to read what they were writing about me, but decided against it on the grounds that there might some embarrassing declarations of love and loyalty. In general it would be accurate to say that what Younis knew, we knew. Today he would be called a hacker and secretly admired, but at the time it was considered quite scandalous and had we spread the word he would have lost his job. Even Zahid, usually immune to ethics, was slightly shocked. We never did betray him. How could we? We were heavily implicated. So Younis was now told what was needed.

There were no photocopiers then. Every time Lailuma, the golden-haired, green-eyed Pashtun beauty — her name meant Moonlit Night — received or posted a letter, a messenger from Younis, usually the local postman, would rush over to wherever I was and drag me to the post office saying there was an urgent phone call from Zahid in Murree. There were few phones in those days and Zahid often rang. Though the telephone engineer at the exchange often let me use his phone in emergencies and took messages, the only public phone was located in the veranda of the post office.

In a small back room, I read Lailuma’s letters to her lover regularly and dispassionately. They touched me and were, in any case, far more endearing than her lover’s ultra-emotional, overbearing and permanently embittered tone. She was the constant butt of his irony, but for no reason. He was the type who makes me feel that some of us have more in common with apes than with other men. I gave up all hope. She was obviously in love with this stupid beast. The letters revealed how strongly her parents disapproved of the match. I agreed with their instincts if not their reasoning. The young man came from the wrong social class: his father was a shawl-trader with a stall in the Kissakhani bazaar. Despite my strong interest in her, I would have been on the man’s side in this whole affair had his character been even marginally more attractive. Either he couldn’t express himself properly or he really was obnoxious. After a rambling discussion fuelled by many cups of apricot liquor-laced tea, Younis, Zahid and I agreed that the match should be discouraged.

A few days before Lailuma left Nathiagali, I found her on her own, seated underneath a chestnut tree not far from Pines Hotel. I hinted that a friend of mine in Peshawar had informed me of her dilemma. She was stunned.

‘I don’t believe you.’

I then revealed her would-be-lover’s name and his father’s occupation. She nearly fainted.

‘Allah help me.’

‘He won’t, but I will.’

‘You!’

I calmed her down first and promised that her secret was safely buried in my heart. However, according to my friend who knew her beloved well, it was obvious that he was prone to fits of uncontrollable ill temper and was boorish in other ways too. Was it true, I asked, that his tenderness alternated with fury? If so, his jealous temperament would create insurmountable problems and for no reason at all. If he even saw her talking to a girlfriend he didn’t know, he would lose control. I carried on in this way, describing the worst characteristics of many of my acquaintances. To my astonishment, her startled eyes fixed their gaze on mine and she nodded strongly in agreement.

‘Your friend must know him really well. I’m beginning to think exactly the same. I was thinking of breaking off all contact with him, but I delayed writing the letter. I really don’t want him to think my parents have anything to do with it. They’re just stupid. Just because his father sells shawls and furs.’

‘That alone would be reason to wed the boy’, I said, ‘especially if the father has a treasure trove of old pashminas and shahtoosh.’

For the first time ever, she laughed. My heart missed a few beats. There is an awful Punjabi saying that attaches great importance to laughter as an adjunct of sexual conquest, ‘ hasi te phasi’ (if she laughs, you’ve trapped her). It was not true, but for once I did believe I had improved my chances. Younis, too, was convinced that this was the case.

‘I know these Pashtun girls. They’re much more advanced than your Punjabi beauties. Make your move, my friend. Cement the Punjabi — Pashtun alliance. Give Fatherland something to be proud of.’

But it was too late to make any further moves that summer. She left a few days later, after we’d exchanged English novels. I had suggested she send the break-off letter from here so that she could start a new chapter in her life when she reached Peshawar and not be bothered by him. She thought this was a good idea. Younis and I both agreed that the letter was beautifully written, extremely dignified and far too generous. She went up even more in my estimation.

It would have been disloyal if I had kept Plato and Younis in the dark about Jindié, and in Zahid’s absence I needed to talk about her with someone. I told them. Plato was philosophical.

‘These things happen. You just need a tiny bit of hope for love to be born. Has she given you cause for hope?’

‘Not sure.’

‘Then you think she has. Well, we’re all here to help.’

Younis was disappointed. ‘I was imagining you with the moonlit Lailuma, but Allah decides. There is no reason to seal off that option. Am I to open all the letters addressed to the Chinese lady?’

‘No,’ I said, mortified by what Jindié might think if she ever found out. ‘Let’s wait.’

I had sprained my ankle while playing tennis and was incapacitated the day they arrived, but ordered a horse and rode over to the Pines the next day to pay my respects and drag Confucius to the old club. When Jindié saw me being helped down from the horse she burst out laughing, stopping only when she noticed that I was limping with the help of a stick.

‘I’m sorry, but I just never imagined you on horseback. You’re hurt?’ I explained. Confucius had gone in search of me. How we missed each other I don’t know, but Mrs Ma ordered some tea and Bostaan duly arrived with a tray and some truly terrible cucumber sandwiches made with stale bread, lightly soaked in water to make it appear fresh. He gave me a knowing smile, which could only mean that Younis had alerted him to my state of mind.

I warned Jindié and her mother against eating too often in the hotel and told Bostaan to offer the sandwiches to my horse, which he promptly did, only to have them rejected by the animal. This caused general merriment and a cheerful Mrs Ma went indoors to unpack.

‘It’s really beautiful here. You’ve been here every summer since you were two?’

I nodded, trying not to look at her too openly. She was wearing a blouse over a pair of black trousers and her hair was in a bun held together by ivory clips.

‘My foot is on the mend and in a few days I’ll be walking again. We’re all going up that mountain. Mukshpuri. A path leads to it from the other side of this hotel. The grown-ups usually stop halfway up, at Lalazar, where everyone eats lunch after we kids have returned from the summit.’

‘And after lunch?’

‘We pick daisies, sing, listen to Zahid play the accordion, tell stories and then come down and light a fire.’

‘Where will you light the fire?’