‘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 If I challenged him and told my friends, my No Objection Certificate might have been withdrawn and I wouldn’t have been able to leave the country.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.’