Season of the Rainbirds by Nadeem Aslam

administration of revenue, and on top of that – and I know because I read the paper every day from cover to cover – he is the district magistrate. No, no, Kasmi-sahib, he should be living somewhere much grander than this.’
    Suddenly the whistling from the cubicle stopped and the man inside swore loudly. ‘The water’s gone off.’
    The barber looked at Mr Kasmi apologetically and thumped the cubicle door with his fist. ‘Have some shame,’ he shouted, ‘we’re practically inside the mosque.’ Then shaking his head gravely he went to adjust the levers on the tank.
    Mr Kasmi folded the newspaper. ‘It’s only a few lines,’ he said, picking up his umbrella.
    ‘No one wants to know about us,’ the barber said. ‘It’s taken three days for the news to reach them, and even then they get some of the facts wrong.’ He raised his eyebrows behind his tortoiseshell spectacles.
    ‘Yes,’ Mr Kasmi said. ‘It says that they made off with fifteen thousand rupees’ worth of gold jewellery.’
    Maulana Hafeez appeared on the other side of the street. The optician had today set up his stall – complete with his transparent, jellyfish-like umbrella – on this side of town. Maulana Hafeez had finished talking with him and now stood facing the barber shop.
    Mr Kasmi stopped cold.
    Maulana Hafeez crossed the street diagonally and went into Zafri’s shop next door. Only then did the barber dare to look at Mr Kasmi. He was wiping sweat from his brow and in turn fixed the barber with his steely gaze. ‘You missed out one of the deputy commissioner’s functions,’ he said through a weak smile to conceal his nerves. ‘He also controls the police.’
    The barber remained at the window until Mr Kasmi, his usual somnambulist’s tread leaving momentary footprints in the rainwater, disappeared around the corner. Then he waited for the customer inside the cubicle to finish before going next door to Zafri’s shop.
    Sitting on a straw mat, his legs folded under him, Zafri was talking – protesting about something, it seemed – to Maulana Hafeez. He wore a look of incredulity. On a thread around his neck was a thick brass talisman. All about the mat were large sections of sheep carcass, wrapped in muslin. There were knives of various widths and lengths and a cleaver; and there was a dried palm leaf to wave at flies. Yellow spheres of offal bobbed like buoys in a bucket of water by his elbow.
    ‘I can barely keep up with the rent, Maulana-ji,’ he said, his arms open wide. ‘What makes you think I can afford luxuries like a television?’
    The barber raised his arms and rested his hands on the beam above the door; smiling, he looked in.
    ‘There’s an antenna on the roof of your house,’ Maulana Hafeez said in a low voice. He was sitting to Zafri’s left, in the only chair in the room.
    Zafri became exasperated. ‘That is a perch for my pigeons.’
    Maulana Hafeez remained motionless for a few moments, then he looked up. The barber dropped his arms and, entering the shop, handed Maulana Hafeez the rent for the barber shop.
    Maulana Hafeez stood up. ‘Pigeons are unclean, na-pak, creatures,’ he said looking down at the beads of the rosary. ‘Remember, earthly pleasures are easily achieved but are of scant worth to us. God is the ultimate truth.’
    Zafri cleaned under his nails with the tip of a thin knife. The barber, not wishing to appear too eager to take the seat just vacated by the cleric, remained standing in the corner.
    ‘Don’t forget to call on Judge Anwar’s widow,’ Maulana Hafeez said as he went towards the door. Then, looking at the barber he explained: ‘A goat each has to be sacrificed for the eight lives that were saved that night by the Almighty’s wish. And the meat distributed to the poor.’
    The barber took the chair when the maulana left. Zafri remained silent, faintly hostile, lips pursed tightly below his moustache. Finally he said, ‘Maulana-ji is the kind of man who would look for a