Night of the Golden Butterfly

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FORTY-FIVE YEARS AGO, when I lived in Lahore, I had an older friend called Plato, who once did me a favour. In a fit of youthful generosity, I promised to return it with interest if and whenever he needed my help. Plato taught mathematics at a posh school, but hated some of his pupils, the ones he said were there only to learn the fine art of debauchery. And being a Punjabi Plato, he asked whether I would repay his favour with compound interest. Foolishly, I agreed.

I was in love, much to Plato’s annoyance. In his eyes love was simply an excuse for juvenile lechery and, by its very nature, could never be eternal. A chaste friendship was much more important and could last a lifetime. I wasn’t in the mood for this type of philosophy at the time and would have signed any piece of paper he laid in front of me.

For a man whose judgements were usually strong and clear, Plato’s dislikes could be irrational and the border that separated his irony from his hatred was always blurred. He would, for instance, be deeply offended by students who clipped their fountain pens to the front pockets of their nylon shirts during the summer months. When asked why, he did not respond, but when pressed would mutter that if these were their aesthetic values while in the flower and heat of their youth, he feared to think what values they would espouse when they grew older. Even though this is not a good example of it, it was his wit that first drew one to him, long before he became known as a painter.

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