Tariq Ali - Night of the Golden Butterfly

He agreed that there was a great deal of Dai-yu in Jindié. The swirling of passions but inability to fulfil them. No wonder Bao-yu had gone for the maids in such a big way.

‘He never went for anything in a big way. He waited for everything to happen to him.’

‘He reminded me in some ways of Anis. Remember him?’

‘How could one forget him? I know he was a friend of yours, but he was so affected that I never really liked him. Even the way he walked. As if there were something stuck up his arse. I was polite to him only because I knew your families went back a long way.’

Poor Anis. Zahid’s view of him was quite common. It was also unfair.

‘Listen to me, Ziddi. It wasn’t his fault his father sent him off to an English public school. Allah knows what happened to him there. There was an incident and he was expelled. He was gay. Had he been born ten years later it would have been fine. His mother was a paranoid lady. Spied on him when he returned. Bought girls for him. It became too much. Unable to face life, he removed himself from the scene in the only way he knew. Suicide.’

‘They were pampered kids, Daraji. They had everything. If he wanted men, what was the problem? Is Fatherland short on this front? I didn’t know him as well as you so I can’t say much more. How’s Zaynab?’

‘She’s well.’

‘Just well? Not thriving, not passionately in love with you, not successfully moving you from London to Paris? She’s just well. I see.’

He always used to make me laugh. I did so now, but said nothing.

‘If you think the news hasn’t spread to Fatherland, you can think again. Everyone knows that you and Zaynab are together. I used to envy the fact that you had done your biological duty and returned to being a bachelor. It seems I was wrong.’

‘We live separately, but strike together. And, since you asked, her intelligence matches her beauty.’

‘Of course. How could it not? How could you go just for beauty?’

As luck would have it, at that very moment my phone buzzed with a text message from Zaynab:

When pleasure has entirely run its course it is clear one sinks back into indifference, but an indifference which is not the same as before. This second state differs from the first in that it appears we are no longer able to take such delight in enjoying the pleasure we have just experienced… but if in the midst of pleasure we are wrenched away from it, suffering will result.

I showed it to Zahid, who gave an appreciative whistle.

‘You’ve struck gold.’

‘She didn’t write that. It’s from Stendhal, whom I know you haven’t read.’

‘At least she knew where to look. You seem happy and relaxed. The children well?’

‘Yes. And the grandchildren.’

‘What did you think of Jindié’s notes on China and her diary?’

‘Both were incomplete, but the China material was gripping. I was looking forward in the diary to a few salty references to our youth, but they had been destroyed.’

‘I read them. They weren’t that hot. I keep telling you that she’s not a passionate person.’

‘Shut up about that, and anyway I’m not sure your assessment is accurate on that front. It’s too late. How many nurses and fellow doctors did you find to make up for Jindié’s deficiencies?’

‘Not that many.’

‘Nothing serious.’

‘One could have been, but Jindié moved swiftly and put a stop to it. The details are dull.’

‘She told me about Anjum and your chance meeting in Norfolk.’ He stopped walking. We found a bench.

‘Dara, that was truly depressing. She was a complete wreck. She looked like a very old Christian lady, with a stoop. Remember when we first started going to Nathiagali? There used to be old English ladies who were nice to us. They couldn’t bear returning to England. They were old but still full of life, active, going for long hikes. Anjum was the exact opposite. It wasn’t just that her appearance was shrivelled. She had dried up inside. I felt very sad when she told me her story. Her first husband an alcoholic disaster, the second a teetotalling religious maniac. No children from either.’

‘Why didn’t her sisters fly over and rescue her?’

‘I asked her. She hasn’t told anyone where she is now. She gave me her address and phone number, but only for emergencies. She’s the one in an emergency. Anyway I e-mailed Nazleen, her younger sister, and gave her the details. She must be taken away from this monster.’

‘And the old flame?’

‘That went out in the last century when I received reports of her family life. A scene out of a Russian novel.’

‘Which one?’

‘Bastard. Dog. Catamite. Should I try Dostoevsky?’

‘Good guess. You were saying?’

‘When I heard what was going on from mutual friends, I did make one attempt to see her.’

‘Pre-or post-Jindié?’

‘Pre. I drove to Sahiwal. We met at a prearranged spot and I followed her car to some godforsaken place. A tiny stream and a few trees is all I can remember. We talked for a few hours, but she was not prepared to walk out on the drunkard, who often assaulted her in and out of his cups. There were no children. I couldn’t understand why she didn’t leave him.’

‘Oh, I can. Shame at having failed, fear of parental displeasure, a society scandal, all of that affected her, but there was a basic problem that you avoided discussing with me, and when I hinted at it on one occasion, you told me to shut my mouth and gestured that if I didn’t, you would.’

‘I don’t remember, but what was it?’

‘She wasn’t that bright. I’m sorry, but it’s true. She was very beautiful, she could hold her own at social gatherings, but apart from money and being a society wife there was nothing else. She twittered nonstop about her holidays abroad, like a squawking parrot. A cheerful little birdbrain. Nothing more. Affluence had made her obnoxious. You got so angry when I suggested you ask her if she had ever read a book. And finally, desperate and feeling hopeless, she jumps into bed with some idiot Irish engineer who offers salvation, but not of the variety she wanted. I wonder what you would have done with her.’

He became thoughtful.

‘I don’t know. Perhaps you’re right. Sometimes I think if she’d had children and come to the States it might have worked out.’

‘Suburban bliss as the solution. Is that what you think? Other women like her, all leading empty lives. She might have fitted in. You’re right. She would have learned to cook and bake and everything she made would have been so delicious, and then one day she would have realized it was all going nowhere with you, since you were permanently at the hospital, and run off with the first guy who made a pass. It might have been better for her, but what about Ziddi Mian? You would have cracked, boy. Gone to the dogs. Jindié may not have turned you on, but she was a good mother and extremely sharp-witted. You were never bored.’

‘True, but she’s been a bit rough on Neelam, which reminds me that a chicken biryani is waiting for us at home.’ Jindié said on your last visit you complained nonstop about her cooking.’

‘She meant her noncooking.’

‘Neelam is a great cook. Even you will admit that.’

We walked back to the house.

‘What have you done with all your properties? Four locations? Four homes? Why did you do that?’

‘My accountant did on my behalf. Two were gifted to Neelam and the other two to Suleiman. I think Neelam has sold the beach house in Miami. We kept an apartment in New York, which you’re welcome to use whenever you wish.’

Jindié’s description of her daughter had given me the impression of a young born-again fanatic wedded to her refound faith and uninterested in the rest of the world. This was not my opinion, and not just because she was a wonderful cook. The way she dealt with her children, addressed her father and put me at my ease was admirable. There was much of the young Jindié in her.