Nadeem Aslam - Season of the Rainbirds

‘Maulana-ji,’ Mujeeb Ali said irritably, ‘when the news gets out tomorrow, the two things are going to become so strongly linked in people’s minds that in future the one is bound to lead to the other.’

Tightly gripping the ends of the arm-rests Maulana Hafeez tilted his head and considered. His breathing was calmer now. ‘What will I say to him? It’s a matter for the civil authorities. I don’t think he has it within his powers to suppress the delivery.’

Mujeeb Ali shook his head. ‘Nothing will be suppressed, Maulana-ji. The majority of them, perhaps all of them, will only be delayed. We’ll examine each letter and withhold any that might result in the kind of crime that has already taken place.’

‘Who is we? ’

Mujeeb Ali shrugged. ‘A group of people, responsible citizens, chosen by … chosen by yourself and Maulana Dawood.’

Maulana Hafeez closed his eyes. After a few moments he opened them and said, ‘I’ll see what can be done. But I can’t guarantee anything.’ His voice was muted and uncertain.

Placing a foot diagonally on to the sheet of paper Zébun carefully drew around it with the fountain pen. The outline would serve as measurement for a new pair of slippers that Alice was to buy for her. It was Sunday and Alice would be journeying, with her parents and a group of friends, to the neighbouring town for the ten o’clock Mass. It was the nearest Christian church and cemetery; and since there was a bustling bazaar not too far from the church Alice was often asked to shop for commodities that were either too dear nearer home or altogether unavailable.

The outline and the pen lay beside her on the bed. She had begun untangling the ribbons woven into her hair when she heard footsteps on the veranda. She could tell by the shuffle that it was Mr Kasmi and reached for her stole.

‘It’s you, brother-ji,’ she said as Mr Kasmi appeared in the door. ‘I thought it was that girl.’

Mr Kasmi reminded her that it was Sunday, Alice’s day off. He was dressed in his usual blue-grey trousers and white half-sleeved shirt. He had come downstairs to pay Zébun the rent. When Zébun explained that Alice had promised to stop by on her way to Mass, Mr Kasmi said that the trip must have been cancelled because of the rain that had been falling without a break since yesterday afternoon.

‘In all the years I’ve known her she’s never missed Mass,’ Zébun said, drawing the ivory comb through the curtain of grey and silver hair. The stole covered the other half of the head. She held up before her a small mirror, its bright reflection dancing on the wall behind her. The circular spot darted up towards the ceiling as she set down the mirror on the counterpane to receive the money.

Mr Kasmi had got to know Zébun soon after his arrival in the town, where he had come to make inquiries about a teaching post that Yusuf Rao — his friend since university — had written to him about. He had spent the first few days as a guest at the lawyer’s house, and after securing the job — he would be teaching all subjects — had asked around for a room he could rent. He was told about Zébun and the upstairs room she had recently added to her house. Mr Kasmi still remembered clearly that one of the first things he had noticed about Zébun was her great delicate beauty. Other more subtle characteristics — patterns that needed the passage of time to make themselves clear — had been revealed over the twenty-four years that had elapsed since then. An irreverent combination of strict religious practice and blind superstition gave structure to her day. She prayed five times daily, regularly recited the Qur’an, said her rosary and never failed to observe Ramadan. And she never threw away her old clothes, clippings from her nails, or her loose hair.

‘You must ask Alice to put up the mosquito nettings tomorrow,’ Mr Kasmi said, following Zébun with his gaze to the other side of the room.

She placed the money in a small trinket box carved with writhing vines and returned across the room. ‘I too heard mosquitoes last night,’ she said, taking up the mirror and comb once more. ‘I’ll get her to buy some fumigation coils from the bazaar.’

Mr Kasmi looked across the courtyard at the front door. ‘I don’t think she’s coming.’

‘She’ll be here. A talkative person is always late. She must have stopped by to chat at someone’s house.’

Mr Kasmi smiled at the exquisite logic of the comment. He nodded. ‘By now the whole town should be humming with the news about the nightwatchman.’

‘Gul-kalam?’ Zébun said with a puzzled look. ‘What about him?’ She was carefully removing the fine silvery strands caught between the ivory teeth and winding them around her finger until the tangle resembled a miniature bird’s nest.

While Mr Kasmi spoke — repeating what he had heard last night from various people on his way back from Mujeeb Ali’s house — Zébun, listening intently, pulled the comb through her hair, giving tentative tugs whenever the flow was hampered by twists and knots.

‘No wonder they were able to walk in like relatives,’ she said when Mr Kasmi finished. ‘They’d arranged everything so carefully beforehand.’ And she asked: ‘Why did he do it?’

Mr Kasmi gave a shrug. ‘The obvious reason, sister-ji.’

She nodded. ‘Riddles appear so simple once you know the answer.’ During the last elections Gul-kalam’s brother’s wrists were broken on Judge Anwar’s orders because he had painted a banner for the opposition. The bone setter’s treatment had gone wrong and both arms had shrivelled right up to the elbows. The crippled man who had once made a living by painting houses and caravans and carts was now dependent on his brother. Zébun said, ‘These people from the mountains never forget an insult.’ She collected the tiny hummingbirds’ nests from her lap and stood up. ‘To us outsiders, all that seems such a long time ago.’

‘You’re right, sister-ji. It does seem a long time ago,’ Mr Kasmi said from the door. ‘But don’t forget that that man was reminded of it every day.’

Reaching under the bed Zébun had pulled out a small cardboard box and was placing her hair inside. Once full, the box would be buried in the flowerbeds. She pushed the container back under the bed and stood up.

Mr Kasmi was watching. ‘You’re still doing that, sister-ji?’

Zébun gave a nod, her eyes downturned. ‘You yourself have just finished telling me what hate can do to people, brother-ji,’ she said. ‘I know they’ll use my hair to cast a spell on me, do something evil to me.’

After Mr Kasmi had gone, Zébun performed her ablutions and took down the Qur’an from the top of the wardrobe. ‘Poor man,’ she said under her breath. With a clarity that defied the passing of more than three decades, the image of Gul-kalam as a twenty-year-old, leaning against the doorframe of her bedroom, remained with Zébun. She was alone in the house: the man who had had the house built — intended as a family home — had abandoned her two days before they were to be married, having decided at the last minute that the honour of his family, stretching back decades, was more important to him than his love for her, a woman of the hira mundi, the diamond market. She had turned around from making the bed and seen Gul-kalam — then unknown to her — at the entrance to the bedroom with his gaze fixed on her. The young man was not under the influence of hemp as she first thought but had drunk half a bottle of turpentine. For the next twenty minutes both of them had stared at each other across a distance of two yards without moving from their positions. The silence rang in Zébun’s ears like the noise of cicadas. The room became saturated with the metallic smell of turpentine. Then he turned around and — swaying and gently stumbling — crossed the courtyard into the street.