At the stroke of midnight, Nadira poured herself another vodka and lit her umpteenth Dunhill cigarette. Dressed in a sleeveless fishnet blouse and a black chiffon sari, tucked in well below the navel, the attractive young housewife was the centre of attraction at the unusually quiet party in suburban Lahore. As the evening progressed, a tipsy middle-aged actor turned on by the sight of Nadira's pink brassiere and emboldened by her husband's drunken state, made a pass at her—"what a pity that such a beautiful woman should look so lonely on a lovely night like this"—which she rejected, blowing smoke in his face as she got up to look for some ice.
This was the second party one had gate crashed within hours of landing in Pakistan, and common to both was the ready availability of liquor which, quite unlike Gujarati homes in dry Ahmedabad, was served without fear of domestic servants reporting to the police. The first party, hosted by a European, not only served superior imported liquor, but the bar itself had been set up in the driveway facing the bungalow's main...
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