Nadeem Aslam - Season of the Rainbirds

Most of the town was dipped in darkness. Wavering spheres of street light, speckled with drizzle, floated above the streets. Tereza Massih crossed herself and closed the window. She lighted a fumigation coil. Benjamin Massih murmured something in his sleep which she strained to catch. She picked up the plate containing the crusty edges of a chappati and went out.

Two blocks away Dr Sharif twisted the dial of the radio. The needle sliced across a station where a melancholy song was being played. The physician returned to the song and remained immersed in its lulling sentiment long after it had faded.

Mr Kasmi got ready to walk the four blocks to Mujeeb Ali’s house. He collected his umbrella and turned off the bedroom light. As he descended the stairs his shadow trailed behind him like an emperor’s robe. Downstairs Alice felt the day’s washing: it was still damp and would have to be left out on the veranda overnight. Mr Kasmi arrived at the bottom of the staircase and called, ‘Ready?’ He was to walk Alice home before going to Mujeeb Ali’s house to give his daughters their private lesson.

‘Where’s Arshad?’ said Nabila Ali, pushing aside the embroidered mosquito-netting and addressing the cook who had come to the bedroom door to take her leave. She was taking home the day’s left-over food. She shrugged but answered all the same, ‘He’s gone to have his bandages changed.’ Nabila Ali nodded: ‘Has Kasmi-sahib’s tea been sent in?’ The cook nodded and left.

By nine o’clock the drizzle was coalescing into heavy rain. Elizabeth was on her way to the bedroom when she heard the knock. ‘Who is it?’ she said and went towards the door. She was answered by another knock much louder than the first. Elizabeth stopped in the centre of the courtyard and raised a hand to her chest. She was without her veil. She had heard Maulana Hafeez’s sermon today and had decided that from now on she would always cover her head before answering the door. As she turned, the knock came again, but so sharply that a little scream escaped her lips. ‘He’s not in,’ she shouted. Then she took several paces away from the door, which was being pushed from the street, violently. She could make out shouts above the sound of the raindrops. ‘He’s not here,’ she said, or thought, as the door swung through a complete half-circle and hit the wall.

Thunder rolled across the sky. Maulana Hafeez read the appropriate verse. He switched off the mosque lights one by one, fastened the street door and went into the house. He coughed as he crossed the veranda and had to stand still for a moment to get his breath back. ‘I didn’t see the newspaper today,’ he said as he entered the kitchen. His wife removed the milk from the fire but it continued to boil, absorbing heat from the sides of the pan. She blew into the froth. ‘They say the streets of all the big cities are crawling with army vehicles. The newspaper photographer phoned his office today, that’s how everyone knows.’ Maulana Hafeez shook his head. ‘God is merciful.’ The woman had got up and was standing at the window to the street. ‘Something’s happening outside, Maulana-ji,’ she said; her small, frail body was alert. Maulana Hafeez stood up. ‘Listen, Maulana-ji. I can hear shouting.’

At last, Maulana Hafeez rose. He yawned indulgently like a child, his jaw askew, read the appropriate verse, and cupped his profile in the soft palms of his hands — a solemn gesture of gratitude towards the Creator for granting him one more day. He had awakened not long after falling asleep and had spent a restless few hours lying on his back, listening to the rain.

He took down the hurricane lamp hanging from the doorframe and carried it to the other end of the room. There he raised the glass globe by pressing the lever and lighted the wick. Then Maulana Hafeez took out the clothes hanging in the wardrobe and began to dress.

Running his tongue over his gums he collected the stale saliva, thick with the vapours from his stomach, and went to the window. He opened the casements and spat the putrid matter out into the darkness. Despite the eaves above the window a violent rush of wind drenched his face with rain. The town resounded beneath the downpour. From a tree in a distant courtyard a papiha’s reedy cry reached the bedroom. Monsoon, Maulana Hafeez thought, and closed the window.

Without noticing the hour he wound the clock with its rusty moth-like key. The alarm went off in his hands. It was five minutes to four o’clock. Maulana Hafeez remembered that on the night of Judge Anwar’s murder, he had got up to say the pre-dawn prayers twenty-five minutes earlier. Winter was drawing close. For a brief moment he thought he heard Gul-kalam blow his whistle, as he had done on many other nights over the years.

Guided by the light of the lamp — the electricity had failed around midnight — the cleric crossed the veranda to the toilet. Ten minutes later he emerged exhausted, and glanced at his wife’s bedroom. The door was open.

In the kitchen the fire had settled into languid flames with blunt tips. Maulana Hafeez’s wife poured him a cup of tea. ‘What is going to happen when Azhar comes back?’ she asked quietly.

Maulana Hafeez was precise. ‘The girl will have to change her religion and they’ll get married. I’ll make them see sense.’ He meant to say more but, seized by a coughing attack, could not continue. He had a chill on his chest and his legs and back were stiff from lying motionless like a corpse for so many hours.

The woman set her hand on his wrist and felt for fever. ‘Don’t go to the mosque this morning, Maulana-ji,’ she said. ‘Rafiq Asan can lead the prayers today. You need to rest.’

Maulana Hafeez shook his head. ‘I have to go. Especially today.’

He finished his tea in silence. Swallowing the last sweet gulp, he leaned towards the fire to look for the chip of cinnamon at the bottom of the cup. The release of the oily resin in his mouth comforted him.

In the bathroom, after he had performed his ablutions and was about to unbolt the door, Maulana Hafeez began to weep. Blind with tears he leaned against the door and remained there for many minutes. Then, even though tears did not annul an ablution, he performed the consoling ritual once more.

The woman heard him gargle as she looked for his white cap. Last night she had stretched the wet cap over the base of an upturned bowl. She carried the bowl surmounted by the cap to the kitchen door.

She murmured something but Maulana Hafeez raised a hand. He took the dry cap and arranged it on his head. He felt in his pocket for the keys to the mosque.

Mr Kasmi pushed the tip of the scissors into the cocoon and cut around the silky sphere. The hollow case, acting as sounding-board, amplified the noise of the blades. Mr Kasmi pulled the two halves apart — the brittle curved body of the silkworm dropped on to the table. He ran a forefinger inside each half of the cocoon, blew, and placed them in the pan with the other ingredients. Next, he picked up a large dried berry and examined the skin for holes ants might have made to lay their eggs in. He peeled the berry and threw both the skin and the stone into the pan. He completed the recipe of the infusion by adding a few dried petals of the kuchnar blossom. The original pink had deepened to lilac. Each spring Alice would look greedily at the tree laden with buds. ‘We should pluck them all and cook them before they become flowers; they’re really delicious,’ she never tired of saying. Zébun would retort: ‘I had the tree planted for its flowers; we can get the buds for cooking from the vegetable man.’ And the servant girl, pulling a face in deep irritation: ‘It seems such a waste; and it isn’t too high for me to climb either; Kasmi-sahib could hold the ladder steady.’