Season of the Rainbirds (7 page)

Azhar turned his back to the open window. ‘I have heard a journalist is coming from the capital in a day or two to write up the story of those letters.’

Mujeeb Ali and the overseer were walking away from him. The overseer said over his shoulder to Azhar, ‘A woman whose son ran away from home twenty years ago says she dreamt last night that one of the letters is going to be from him.’

Azhar lit a cigarette and turned back to the window. He glanced across the vast backyard paved with chessboard tiles. The town was at the confluence of two of the province’s five rivers and Mujeeb Ali’s house stood in sight of the eastern branch. The interfluvial plain was considered the richest agricultural land in the country. And here most of it – orchards, vineyards, cornfields, rice-paddies – belonged to the Alis. On three sides, Mujeeb Ali had reminded a gathering during the run-up to the last elections, you are surrounded by water and on the fourth side is my family’s land; so if you won’t support us I will drive you into the water.

Azhar flicked the cigarette on to the baking tiles and walked over to the other side of the room. The overseer and the clerk had taken their leave. Mujeeb Ali turned the key in the armoured cupboard embedded in the wall; a portrait of the Founder of the state hung above it.

‘I’ll start looking into the files when the courts open on Sunday,’ Azhar said. ‘I’ll be away till Saturday.’

Mujeeb Ali accompanied him to the door. Azhar went towards the street where Dr Sharif lived to deliver a message from the judge’s widow: the physician was to call at the house and collect any of the dead man’s medicines he thought he could use. Mujeeb Ali watched him cross the street – as he stepped into shade the glare of his spotless white shirt was extinguished. Mujeeb Ali bolted the door. In the absence of any noise the room appeared more spacious and, since the sunlight too had been excluded, it felt cooler. The only reminder of the manic activity of the past few hours was a faint smell of human sweat clinging to the walls. Mujeeb Ali went into the house through the rear door.

The courtyard, a square expanse of ochre terrazzo, was enclosed on three sides by shallow verandas and bound on the fourth side by alternating male and female pawpaws, jasmine bushes and domestic palms whose tips had been clipped to give them the appearance of Japanese fans. Mujeeb Ali crossed the courtyard, picking his way around the fruit and vegetables that had been spread out by the servant women on sheets of white cloth to dry in the sun. There were sections of mango, salted green chilli and lady’s finger with slits along the length for the pickles; carrots, apples and cubes of pumpkin for the preserves; plums and pods of tamarind for the chutneys. The season’s beans and pulses had been ground, moistened with milk and worked into coin-sized tablets for the winter months.

‘I wish it would rain,’ Mujeeb Ali said, entering the bedroom. ‘After all, it is supposed to be the rainy season.’

Nabila Ali did not acknowledge him. Reclining against the pillows, she continued to read from the velvet-bound copy of
Bahishti Zévar
which, according to custom, she had received in her dowry. The fabric had long since lost its shine and the edges were torn. Nabila’s hair, still hot as metal from the street – she had just returned from Judge Anwar’s house – was loose on her shoulders. Mujeeb Ali cleared his throat and sat down on the edge of the bed. He made the noise again.

Nabila lowered the book. It was a full minute before she spoke. ‘You, ji, may not have any fear of God left in you, but I still do,’ she said in a determined tone.

Mujeeb Ali made as if to speak but changed his mind. Nabila sat up and placed the book on the night-table beside the bed. ‘It’s a sin even to offer food to a fornicator.’ She had stood up. ‘Even a mother is supposed to refuse food to her son if she suspects him of …’ She left the sentence unfinished, completing it with a wave of her hand.

Mujeeb Ali followed her with his eyes as she crossed to the wardrobe. ‘What do you want me to do about it?’ he asked quietly, undoing his shirt.

Nabila had opened one side of the wardrobe and was taking out a change of clothes for her husband. White muslin shirts and linen trousers were arranged neatly on the shelves. Each garment bore the small indelible insignia that the laundryman had assigned to the household. ‘You, ji, seem to have forgotten that we have daughters in the house.’ Every time she spoke passionately the vein on the left side of Nabila’s neck swelled up. After a brief pause she added: ‘And that we are also responsible for the safety and honour of the servant girls.’

Mujeeb Ali nodded. ‘She’s a Christian, isn’t she?’

Nabila’s glance yielded at last. She looked at her husband and said quietly: ‘Elizabeth Massih.’

Mujeeb Ali unbuckled the belt that held the holster under his left arm and, with the revolver resting by his side on the bed, he took off his vest. ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Stop inviting him into the house. Deputy commissioner or no deputy commissioner, I don’t want any sinners in my house.’

‘How do you know her name?’

Nabila closed the wardrobe after making sure that nothing inside would catch in the door. ‘All the women were talking about it.’ There were sharp creases in the fabric of her tunic running across the stomach, caused by her having spent the last few hours sitting cross-legged, praying for the repose of the dead man’s soul.

‘How is Asgri today?’

Nabila heaved a sigh and lowered herself onto the edge of the bed. ‘Everyone knows that crying never brought anyone back but what else can she do?’ She was twisting her hair into a bun.

‘They’ll be caught,’ Mujeeb Ali said matter-of-factly and sat down two places away from his wife. He picked up the shirt he had taken off and began to clean his shoes with it.

Nabila was securing her hair into place; she held the hairpins between her teeth. She took out the last one and said, ‘Parveen Shafiq says that she was washing herself for the dawn prayers when she heard someone running past her bathroom window.’

Mujeeb Ali gave a nod. ‘We’ll see what can be done.’ He felt for the keys in the old shirt.

‘Remember, ji,’ said Nabila, ‘I don’t want him in this house any more.’

Mujeeb Ali looked back from the door. ‘I’ll be back about this time tomorrow,’ and he left the house without acknowledging the greetings of the servant women who were returning for the evening, having spent the afternoon with their families.

The ticking of the clock was a clear, precise sound in Nabila’s head. She was thinking about Asgri. Shortly after daybreak the previous Monday – before the servants began arriving and the children were awoken – Nabila had answered the door to find a distraught Asgri standing at the doorstep. Her fingers seemed to tremble. ‘I want you to take me to the Clinic,’ she had said in a voice that betrayed a night without sleep. Nabila had taken her into the kitchen. ‘I pleaded with him to leave me alone just for tonight, but he wouldn’t listen, Nabila,’ she said through tears. ‘I don’t want another one at my age. And anyway, it will probably be a girl again. I don’t have to explain anything to you – you have five girls of your own. Only Allah Himself knows why He has decided to punish us both this way. Take me to the Clinic.’ As a pretext for calling at her friend’s house at such an early hour – a pretext thoroughly unconvincing – she had brought an empty flour bowl.

Maulana Hafeez transferred the folded newspaper to his other armpit and knocked on the door. Above him bird-droppings had caused a tomato plant to germinate between two loose bricks. The walls of the small house were streaked with broad vertical bands of lichen. During the summer months the sun would scorch this lichen, turning its lush green to a dull grey, but the monsoon always restored these stripes to the poor people’s houses. Maulana Hafeez knocked again.

Mansoor’s wife, her face painted pink with cosmetics, came to the door. To numb a headache she had tied her stole tightly around her head. ‘Maulana-ji!’ she said, reaching behind her ears to untie the knot in the stole. Then, on noticing the newspaper, she said, ‘You shouldn’t have troubled yourself, Maulana-ji. Mansoor would have collected it himself.’

She dutifully covered her head and chest with the stole and backed on to the narrow courtyard to allow Maulana Hafeez into the house.

Mansoor sat on the edge of the bed, eating. He raised each mouthful – a well-worked ball of rice and lentils – on the fingers of his right hand and guided it into his mouth with the thumb. At the other end of the small room the television set gave off a bluish-white glow. Ranged around the set, their heads tilted backwards, were about a dozen of the neighbourhood’s children. Most of them were half-naked – taut stomachs swelling up beneath xylophone ribcages. They were watching a violently energetic cartoon.

Mansoor stood up when his wife entered the room followed by Maulana Hafeez. With his shins he pushed away the small table on which his meal was set. His exuberant adam’s apple and long neck made him look like an estuary bird. ‘You shouldn’t have troubled yourself, Maulana-ji.’

Since his right hand was greasy from the food Mansoor offered Maulana Hafeez his right forearm. His wife meanwhile had switched off the television and voltage stabiliser, and was quietly asking the children to leave. They left in silence but from the street their excited voices reached the room.

The cleric insisted Mansoor continue with his meal. Mansoor repeated his half-hearted greeting and sat down.

Staring into his lap where the tips of his fingers were engaged with the beads of the rosary that Mujeeb Ali had brought back for him from Mecca, without further preamble Maulana Hafeez revealed the real reason for the visit.

‘On the outskirts of every town in this province there is a cinema which shows immoral, indecent and sinful pictures.’ Between each adjective Maulana Hafeez paused for a few seconds. ‘However, it is our good fortune that the God-fearing citizens of this town, in collaboration with the diligent people who have influence over such matters, have made sure that no such establishment be permitted to take root here.’

For over a fortnight Mansoor had been expecting a visit from Maulana Hafeez. He chewed quietly on a sliver of raw onion.

‘It would seem that all their good work was pointless,’ Maulana Hafeez said. ‘Because we can now, if we so wish, turn our
homes
into little cinemas.’

Mansoor’s wife came in, stirring sugar into a glass of lemon water, and with an anxious glance at her husband presented the drink to the cleric. He accepted gratefully and drank – keeping to the Strictures – in a succession of three short sips.

Mansoor said, ‘Forgive me, Maulana-ji, but a television programme is not the same as a cinema film.’

‘That is irrelevant.’ Maulana Hafeez closed his eyes. ‘If something is forbidden, it is forbidden. You only need a
pinch
of poison.’

Mansoor explained how the transmission began and ended each day with a recitation from the Qur’an, and how since the new religious measures by the regime the programmes broke off at prayer time. These intermissions were long enough to allow men to make their way to the nearest mosque, discouraging them from praying at home like women.

But the maulana was shaking his head. ‘In my opinion,’ he said to his lap, ‘this will lead to other, more serious, neglect of the rules laid down by Hazrat Muhammad
sallula-hé-valla-hé-vasalum
.’

On hearing the Prophet’s name, the woman kissed the tips of her fingers and lightly touched them to her eyes. ‘I don’t understand what you mean, Maulana-ji,’ she said irritably: the stole which she had been using before Maulana Hafeez’s arrival to numb her headache was now back in place, covering her head and the upper part of her body, and the headache had resurfaced.

Maulana Hafeez looked up. The woman was standing by a shelf at the other side of the room. He reached into his pocket – the movement released the smell of attar from the folds of his shirt – and pulled out his glasses. On the shelf there were many framed samplers with verses from the Qur’an, and in a soda bottle filled with water a shoot of vine had thrown long hairy roots which looked like rats’ tails. The shelf was draped in white cloth embroidered with colourful bouquets and fragments from the poems of Wamaq Saleem. There was a photograph of a very young man, not much more than a boy, standing against the backdrop of clear blue sky.

‘Your guard has already been lowered,’ Maulana Hafeez said. ‘There was a time when a death in the area meant no one celebrated Eid that year. Now I see that with the dead man’s shroud not yet soiled in the grave you were entertaining yourselves.’ And bowed like a crescent on the edge of the bed, he repeated quietly: ‘Your guard has already been lowered, my dhi.’

‘But we were doing it privately, Maulana-ji,’ the woman said, ignoring the angry glances from her husband. Her face was pink with powder but the skin on her neck showed dark brown.

‘That is precisely where the danger lies,’ Maulana Hafeez said, visibly disappointed, ‘in this talk of privacy. It causes people to become selfish, and will lead to the founding of a morally base society.’