block in front of her. She had relaxed
considerably since they had arrived,
warmed by her hosts’ hospitality, and
the friendly welcome from their guests.
They were an odd bunch of friends.
Some of them knew each other from
school, and some were old family
friends of Ahad and Ali. There were
couples and single friends, of various
ages and backgrounds, British,
Pakistani, and Indian. They were
brought together by their similarities
and stayed friends in spite of their
differences.
They seemed to have a lot of catching
up to do with Ahad, and everyone
wanted a few minutes with him. She
noticed that his friends instinctively
turned to him settle arguments, for
ideas, listening attentively when he
spoke. He kept by her side, introducing
her with old world charm to everyone
individually, leaving everyone laughing
and at ease with the stranger in their
midst. He was in his element, a leader
among a group of accomplished,
sophisticated people.
Jehanara, the friend with the stunning
voice, was singing, without music. Even
without any accompaniments, she
carried the rhythm with ease. Her clear,
soft voice swirled around them in the
night, her audience rapt, gathered
around her on stone benches along the
edges of the deck. A small fire crackled
in a stone hearth in the center of the
recess, keeping them warm in the
unseasonably chilly evening.
As her voice faded into the darkness,
Rumi leaned towards Jenny. “Don’t
your neighbors object to the noise?”
Jehanara wasn’t loud, but she was
hitting the high notes effortlessly.
“They love it,” Jenny whispered back at
her. “They’re not home tonight or they
would have been here.” Rumi looked
around at the group. They were all
talking in hushed tones, unwilling to let
go of the sweet notes lingering in the
still night air. Rumi turned back to
Jenny.
“Can I request a song?”
“By all means!” Jenny waved to
Jehanara. “Jehan, Rumi has a request.”
She cleared her throat. “Do you know
‘Kabhi Hum Khubsoorat thay’ by
Ahmed Shamim?”
“Oh ho!”
“Yesss.”
“Good one, Rumi!”
The group gave their unanimous
approval, arms going up in
appreciation.
“I love that song, Rumi.” Jehanara’s
eyes were twinkling, “but Nayyara
Noor’s shoes are pretty big. Forgive me
if I don’t quite manage to fill them.”
Amid laughter and words of
encouragement, Jehanara sang, Kabhi
hum khubsoorat thay, kitaboon main
basi khushboo kay maanind…
Rumi was softly singing along when she
felt Ahad lean close to her. “Enjoying
yourself?”
Buhot se unkahe lafzon se tasveeren
banaatay thay…
Light from the garden lamps threw his
sculpted face in sharp relief,
highlighting the angle of his
cheekbones and the straight nose. His
expressive grey eyes were solemn.
Instinctively, she leaned up and kissed
him lightly, watching as the corners of
his eyes crinkled at her voluntary kiss.
His mobile mouth stretched in a deep
grin. She laughed at the smug look on
his face.
Ke hum ko titliyon ke jugnuon ke des
jaana hai…
“I love butterflies,” she murmured.
Did you have difficulty coming up with
the title?
No. Butterflies are my leitmotif. The
title came together because of a song
that I’ve quoted in the book. It’s a
ghazal (a form of poetry specific to the
Subcontinent) that has a line in it about
travelling to a land of butterflies and
fireflies.
The lines in the excerpt from my book
are translated here:
Kabhi hum khubsoorat thay, kitaboon
main basi khushboo kay maanind…
There was a time when we were
beautiful,
like the fragrance buried inside books
Buhot se unkahe lafzon se tasveeren
banaatay thay…
We p