Night of the Golden Butterfly by Tariq Ali

outside the Shalimar Gardens. It could work.
    ‘The gardens are locked. There are night watchmen. How will we get in?’
    Plato had no idea that I had solved this one. Close family friends were the hereditary guardians of Shalimar, their reward for having tilled the soil and sown the seeds when the gardens—a Mughal passion—were being constructed. Anis, the younger son with languid eyes, a few years older than me, was a dear friend. Sent at a very young age to board at an English public school, he had first become a bit puffed up and then suffered a breakdown, from which he never fully recovered. His forebears had grabbed the adjoining lands when the Mughal Empire collapsed, and had become gentry. We used to laugh a great deal when his father, a radical member of Fatherland’s Constituent Assembly, described the rise of his family.
    I rang Anis, explaining my dilemma. He offered his car and the key to a private entry gate that had been used for assignations for centuries. And I was not to worry about the guards. They were tenants and would be instructed to protect our privacy. Did I need food and wine? No. A sitar player hidden behind the bushes to enhance the atmosphere? No! He made it sound like a Bollywood movie. Plato and I went to pick up the key and the car. Anis drew us a little map showing exactly where the hidden gate was situated. ‘Dara’, he said in a loud voice as I was about to leave, ‘is this the Chinese beauty your mother has warned us all against?’
    I nodded.
    ‘Hmm. Thought so. Whatever it is, I hope you succeed. Don’t take no for an answer. Elope with her. Take the car. Allah protect us from our mothers. Did you say you were spending the night here? It’s fine.
    Perfectly fine. I’ll alert the servants. Best of luck, dear Dara. Afraid I can’t offer you any meaningful advice.’
    Everything was now settled, except Jindié’s consent. I was twenty. She was eighteen. Neither of us had any real experience of life, which is why we regarded our private conversations, mainly on the telephone, as rare forms of happiness. I had gone through dark imaginings, wondering what existence might be without her. Would my eyes ever light up at a substitute well-curved breast? What would she say when I told her I had secured Shalimar just so that we could talk in peace for the whole night face to face rather than holding a receiver close to our ears? I thought all my persuasive powers would need to be deployed in order to convince her to even speak with me. But our breach had lasted a week, and speaking to each other about everything, as good friends do, had become such a habit for both of us that she, too, must have suffered withdrawal symptoms.
    And perhaps it was this that had brought about a complete change in her mood. She agreed readily to the entire plan, oblivious to the surprise in my voice as I expressed my delight. I felt quietly confident. She would be mine. All would be well. We would never part.
    Plato played his part to perfection. It was a beautiful October evening. At first we walked to the ramparts above the old wall and gazed at the lights of Lahore. She let me hold her hand and kiss it, which I did repeatedly. She told me, without my asking, all the bad things that were said of me by her friends at Nairn. Since most of them were true I thought it best to sport a lofty air and refrain from responding in kind. The gardens were magical at night, with the city at a distance and the stars above. There was total silence, except for the hoot of a solitary owl. Gradually we got used to the starlight. At first we talked in whispers, till we realized we were the only two people there and could speak in our normal voices.
    I remember that we both wore shawls and paced up and down the empty garden as we talked. I wanted to know about her family. When and why had her forebears left China? It was a long story, she said, and would require at least three hundred nights and one. Let’s start now, I