waiting outside shouted at them. Once they had left, Younis whispered, ‘I hear from Bostaan Khan that the girl from Peshawar will be here next week.’
Bostaan was an old waiter at the Pines, and a cardsharp. Why had they been gossiping about her?
‘Because of you.’
The previous summer I had made a fool of myself with Greeneyes and she had enjoyed snubbing me in public. One day I noticed her in a corner of the club avidly devouring a letter, obviously a billet-doux. Her white face turned deep red when she saw me.
‘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
Bostaan was an old waiter at the Pines, and a cardsharp. Why had they been gossiping about her?
‘Because of you.’
The previous summer I had made a fool of myself with Greeneyes and she had enjoyed snubbing me in public. One day I noticed her in a corner of the club avidly devouring a letter, obviously a billet-doux. Her white face turned deep red when she saw me.
‘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
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