by Nadeem Aslam
‘Islam does not condone polygamy just for the sake of it,’ Maulana Hafeez said defiantly. ‘There are strict requirements which have to be met if a man is to marry more than once. There are guidelines to be followed.’
Suraya smiled. ‘He promises to provide for me. But I won’t do it. That’s why I went to see Yusuf Rao, the lawyer, yesterday. He says he doesn’t know much about Canadian laws but he’s sure that in those countries a woman cannot be made to do such things. He’s going to find out more about it.’
Maulana Hafeez was visibly shaken. ‘There are conditions which have to be met before—’
Suraya interrupted him with a frown. ‘But no one pays attention to those, do they, Maulana-sahib?’
Maulana Hafeez examined her face. Her skin was pale from the cold climate of the far-away country. She was much paler than anyone in this town where everyone had just spent several months under burning skies. And the skin on her hands seemed translucent, like the outer layer of puri-bread. She bit the thread between her teeth and examined her work. Maulana Hafeez quietly stroked the insides of his shoes with his toes.
On the raised platform outside the post office the postman was playing a game of draughts with a friend. He had a ball-point pen behind his ear. They squatted on either side of the grid drawn on the cement in charcoal and pulled greedily on their cigarettes. They were using tops of two different brands of soda bottles as counters. Despite the smoke from the cigarettes there was a cloud of winged insects above their heads; and from time to time one of them would clap his hands violently above his head, momentarily resembling a Hindu idol. When they saw Maulana Hafeez appear round the corner both men quickly stubbed their cigarettes across the grid, scattering the bottle tops; and straightening up, pretended to be chatting innocently. The cleric was walking towards the post office.
Across the street men were beginning to gather for the evening outside the laundryman’s shop. They lounged on a broken-down rope cot and pulled on a freshly kindled hookah. The owner of the shop was arguing with someone; no doubt, Maulana Hafeez reflected, the argument was over a lost shirt.
Maulana Hafeez entered the post office. The postmaster and his wife sat behind the desk in the centre of the room, making envelopes. The postmaster folded each oblong piece of paper along identical lines and passed it to his wife who ran a deft finger dipped in flour paste over the edges. The woman was pregnant and breathed with difficulty.
She greeted the cleric, then shamefacedly covering her protruding belly went to the door at the back of the office; it gave on to the room where the couple lived.
Maulana Hafeez seated himself in the vacant chair. All around the office were calico bags and parcels and packets. Diagonal rays of the westering sun entered through the window. Set by the hatch through which customers were served was a small balance and several coin-sized weights. The floor was strewn with paper, like the fake rubbish created for a railway station on a film set. The telephone, one of the five sets in town and the only one in public use, was on the shelf by the window; the shelf also held the telegraphing equipment.
Maulana Hafeez looked around him uncomfortably and made a few noises at the back of his throat, as though unsure how to proceed. Then he said, ‘I’m sure you’ve heard about Gul-kalam by now.’
The postmaster looked at him in surprise. But he seemed to recover, and said, ‘Yes, Maulana-ji, I have heard.’
Maulana Hafeez, head bowed, became aware of the younger man looking at him carefully and some of his earlier awkwardness returned. Eventually however he said, ‘I was talking to Mujeeb Ali and—’
‘Forgive me, Maulana-ji,’ the postmaster interrupted politely, ‘but I think I know why you’re here. Maulana Dawood too was around earlier. I’m afraid my answer is no.’
And for a while he stared at the table, lips tight; Maulana Hafeez’s head remained bowed; neither spoke. Then Maulana Hafeez said, ‘It will benefit the whole town if those letters were examined before being sent out. We must do whatever we can to prevent another tragedy.’
The postmaster smiled. ‘It’s not the whole town, Maulana-ji. It’s just the rich people that seem worried. If Mujeeb Ali has sent you here, then does that mean he’s confessing at least to the crimes he committed nineteen years ago?’
Maulana Hafeez touched his arm. ‘You’re being unreasonable and refusing to see reason simply because of your personal feelings towards Mujeeb Ali. And, from the little I know about these matters, those feelings are in any case ill-founded. Mujeeb had nothing to do with what happened to you during those elections. Everything was done on the orders of the old deputy commissioner.’ And, after a pause, he added: ‘You must understand that the Alis suffered just as much under the last government. Land was taken away from them and their mills were nationalised.’
‘I’m not a child, Maulana-ji. I know who prevented me from filing my nomination paper. But I also know what Mujeeb Ali’s henchmen did to the candidates of my party in other towns. I was lucky in a way that the deputy commissioner prevented me from submitting my application, otherwise your Mujeeb Ali would have had the same things done to me. I know how people were prevented from casting their votes here and how the polling agents were made to sign the rigged results at gunpoint.’
‘All that was a long time ago,’ Maulana Hafeez said quietly. ‘The ideal memory is one which only retains others’ good deeds while forgetting those of our own.’
The postmaster said, ‘This martial law has been an answer to Mujeeb Ali’s prayers. The expropriated lands were returned, and the mills. His brother has become a minister, and they even have a deputy commissioner of their choice.’ He sank deep into the chair.
For several minutes no one spoke. Then Maulana Hafeez said, ‘So, the answer is no? You are turning me away?’
The postmaster continued to look at Maulana Hafeez. The conversation had called up the memory of old disappointments. He became quiet and reflective. ‘To be honest with you, Maulana-ji,’ he said with a sigh, ‘I think that had the Mazdoor-Kisan party come to power it would have been a great failure. It assumed that people are good, that they would want to share their money and possessions, that greed doesn’t exist.’
Maulana Hafeez began to say something but the postmaster continued: ‘In a way, Maulana-ji, what I believe in and what you preach are not that different from each other. Though you wouldn’t agree with me here, of course. We both want to believe that people are basically good while the fact of the matter is that people are born selfish. It’s being kind and generous that we have to learn.’
Maulana Hafeez shook his head. ‘No. It’s the other way round,’ he said. ‘You mustn’t let such dark thoughts enter your head. Come to the mosque one of these days.’
Outside the streetlights were coming on one by one; and in the deep-blue patch of evening sky visible through the window birds were returning to their nests. Three blocks away Maulana Dawood began the call for evening prayers. Maulana Hafeez stood up. ‘It’ll be Magrib in twenty minutes. I must go.’
The postmaster switched on the light. And almost immediately there were moths in the room, manically circling the naked bulb.
Maulana Hafeez turned around at the door. ‘Wouldn’t you at least think about it? We’ve already had one death.’ He seemed to be pleading. ‘You’re committing the sin of rebellion.’
The postmaster gave a small laugh, wheezing in almost silence.
Maulana Hafeez turned to leave. The postmaster watched him as he descended the three steps to street level. He came to the door and said, ‘And, Maulana-ji, tell Mujeeb Ali that I don’t have the letters yet. So there’s no need to break into the post office tonight. The delivery isn’t till Wednesday. They’ll arrive either tomorrow or the day after.’
In Maulana Hafeez’s absence two servant girls, their charges on their hips, had gone into the mosque. They had been to see the tree split by lightning the night before. One of the girls held both infants against her burgeoning breasts while her friend went to the t
oilet. Maulana Hafeez returned to find the girl standing in the centre of the courtyard.
Fear clouded her eyes when she saw the cleric. ‘The baby has …’ her voice trailed away. She nodded at her feet: there was a small puddle of urine.
‘A child’s,’ Maulana Hafeez smiled.
The other girl emerged on to the courtyard, swinging her braids.
‘Your baby has done something on the mosque floor,’ her friend told her.
The second girl immediately rolled up her sleeves. ‘We’ll wash the floor, Maulana-ji,’ she sang out.
Maulana Hafeez dropped his eyelids. ‘You shouldn’t be out at this time, kurio.’ He pointed the crook of his index finger up at the darkening sky. A few of the nearer stars were becoming visible.
He sent the girls away and got ready to bathe the mosque floor.
The bricks released as steam the heat they had absorbed during the day. Maulana Hafeez held the earthenware ablution pot against his hip and with a twig broom in his other hand, swept the na-pak water towards the drains.
As he straightened from placing the pot and the broom by the row of ablution taps, Maulana Hafeez saw Mujeeb Ali standing in the doorway, removing his shoes to enter the mosque. He was accompanied by four men Maulana Hafeez did not recognise, two of whom were also removing their sandals. The other two were motionless, one on either side of the door, standing in the strip of unconsecrated floor. Over their shoulders the four strangers wore shotguns, barrels downward. Mujeeb Ali directed the two barefooted strangers to the hall and walked towards Maulana Hafeez.
Maulana Hafeez fumbled in his pocket for his glasses and watched the two men disappear into the hall. There were muffled sounds of a struggle from inside.
Mujeeb Ali shook Maulana Hafeez’s hand and said something which the cleric did not catch – his gaze was fixed beyond Mujeeb Ali’s shoulder on the entrance to the hall: one of the men had come to the door, carrying the traveller’s suitcase tied shut with a rope and, with a nimble swing of the arm, he tossed it across the courtyard. It followed a shallow arc – its apex just short of the street door – and landed unopened out in the street.
‘For God’s love!’ Maulana Hafeez extracted his hand from Mujeeb Ali’s grip.
The traveller was being led out of the hall by the second man – one hand wrapped around his neck, the other gripping a forearm – and there was a violent jerk every time he resisted.
‘Mujeeb,’ Maulana Hafeez said, ‘stop them.’
The man leading the traveller came to a halt, and glanced at Mujeeb Ali. A nod and he resumed walking, pushing the other towards the door.
‘He’s a guest in God’s home. We have no right to treat him this way,’ Maulana Hafeez protested.
‘Forgive me, Maulana-ji,’ Mujeeb Ali began at last, ‘but do you know who that man is? Do you know what kind of questions he’s been going around asking?’
‘I thought he’d come to see that goat,’ Maulana Hafeez said uncertainly. ‘And even though I disapprove of such things I couldn’t turn away a traveller. I was intending to talk to him about it soon.’
Once in the street the traveller was released. His shirt was torn at the neck and there were scratches on his throat.
Mujeeb Ali shook his head with a little smile at the cleric’s reply, and explained the reason for the traveller’s presence in the town. ‘This is a decent town, Maulana-ji,’ he concluded, ‘for decent people. We don’t want people like him roaming around amongst our daughters and sisters.’
Maulana Hafeez spent a few moments calming his breath. ‘Anger is sin, Mujeeb,’ he said and added, ‘Get those guns out of the mosque.’
Mujeeb Ali waved the men out of the mosque and began to put on his shoes. Maulana Hafeez followed. When Mujeeb Ali stood up the cleric said: ‘I went to see the postmaster earlier. He said that—’
‘I know.’ Mujeeb Ali raised his hand. ‘Maulana Dawood went to see him this morning, Maulana-ji. I was on my way to the post office just now when I remembered about the wandering hero.’ He smiled.
Maulana Hafeez glanced sharply at the four men standing outside the mosque. He grabbed Mujeeb Ali’s arm. ‘Mujeeb!’
‘Don’t worry, Maulana-ji.’ Mujeeb Ali patted the cleric on the shoulder. ‘Everything will be fine.’ He pointed at the clock on the veranda and said, ‘Shouldn’t you be making the call for Magrib, Maulana-ji?’
Once a day I have to walk to Bano’s house for fire. Swinging the terracotta bowl of the hookah, I cross the street and enter the field. The air is hot and dry but the grass around my feet is damp. A band of gypsies sifts the rubbish dump, searching for bones to sell to the fertiliser factory. A grimy finger burrows deep into the filth and fishes out a three-angled bone resembling a shoemaker’s last. A ghostly bérry tree, studded with yellow berries, reaches out from the courtyard of Bano’s house and keeps almost half the street in shadow. Waxy ants drop on to the passers-by. Occasionally, a stone, thrown by a boy to dislodge the berries, lands in the courtyard. Bano sighs and says, ‘If you have a fruit tree in your courtyard you should expect stones.’ I cross the shadow-speckled hush of noon and knock on the door.
In the partial darkness of the veranda Bano sits sieving wholemeal flour through a muslin hammock. She is so engrossed in the chore that flies drinking fluid from the corners of her eyes go unnoticed. Below the hammock is a large brass dish which catches the shower of plain flour, to be used for making pastry. She raises an eyebrow for emphasis and asks me whose daughter I am. The corners of her mouth are white with froth. She claps her hands – imitating the fluttering of a butterfly’s wings – and sends a puff of flour into the air. She takes the hookah bowl and goes over to the clay stove where the cow-dung fuel burns. Some hookah smokers, like Father, seem to prefer the cow-dung fire to ordinary coals.
Bano cuts off the whiskers of her marmalade cat; she says the plague germs are carried on a cat’s whiskers. The cat and the goslings live in harmony. The goslings’ tiny melodious whistles turn to trumpet-like honks with age. They peck at the balls of wool as Bano loops the strands around her left hand and elbow. The cat sniffs the core of an apple. It shivers.
The top two squares of each window have jade underwater mirrors instead of glass. Some of the panes are cracked and throw feathery rainbows across the veranda at certain times of the afternoon. Izmayal, Bano’s husband, with a skin as deeply pored as orange peel, is in the small room off the veranda. He lies on his side with one bent knee raised in the air – a three-angled shoemaker’s last. He cocks a finger at me. He exists outside the domain of mundane happenings. His time is not commensurate with the rest of the world. Ripe with wisdom, cunning and self-knowledge; manly, abstemious and brave, he is alternately execrated and idolised by me. He fought in the Bangladeshi war, and now has no feet. We lost that war and when he came back everyone spat at him. An old woman struck him on the face. He knows the names for the winds at every point of the compass. He taught me the rhyme that helps me to remember the correct spelling of Mississippi. He says that four fledgling hummingbirds can fit into the bowl of a teaspoon, and that an adult hummingbird, once stripped of beak and feathers, is no larger than a bumble-bee. With effortless regality he feeds shiny pieces of knowledge to me. What is manifest to him is news to me. And yet I am afraid of approaching him; I listen to his stories from the door. I scratch behind my right ear with the first finger of my left hand.
Once I found Bano struggling with the cork of a large bottle. She started, stammered and, recovering, said it was a king-size Coca-Cola bottle, found nowhere else but Lahore. Had I never seen one before? Hadn’t I ever been to Lahore? No? I should get my mother to take me.
Once every three months Izmayal drags a rope cot out into the courtyard and pores over the columns of premium-bond-winning numbers. The crispy brittle bonds look like toy money. Izmayal arranges them like a hand of cards before him. Bano circles the cot, praying. Izmayal crouches on all fours – a bee on a flower – and tries to match the numbers. The cot creaks its protes
t. A shout escapes Izmayal when the first few numbers of a winning sequence raise his hopes and guide him along, only to mock him with the last digit of the sequence. An infinite variety of options reveal themselves to him during these first few seconds. His frustration is evident from the throbbing of his temples and the tightness of his jawline. He gathers the bonds and puts them away to ferment for another three months. How could one’s happiness be reduced to the status of a number in a sequence, he seems to be asking himself. Crestfallen, he pulls himself across the courtyard and the veranda and goes back to his room.
One of Bano’s cows has a pink udder. It is here that a bat once planted its fangs. The bats wander all over the body, their heat-sensors searching for the tissue richest in blood. Bano calls me over and directs the pink appendage at me. I open my mouth and a thin thread of milk enters my mouth, clear of my lips. She lets me feel the calf’s head for the stumps of the emerging horns.
I stand in the door and Izmayal explains to me what a shooting star is. Halfway through the explanation I lift an exultant finger in the air: I know what he’s talking about. The cleric’s wife says that they are arrows of fire hurled by Allah against the evil djinn when they try to attain to the lower heavens to overhear the conversation of angels. Izmayal laughs, slightly short of breath and with echoes that seem to unfurl for ever. His lips ride up his yellow teeth. ‘There’s no Allah, girl.’
Monday
Maulana Hafeez’s wife picked up the large green envelope from the shelf. Earlier in the morning, while Maulana Hafeez was still in the mosque, she had found the envelope lying inside the front door. It was addressed to her and had been dropped through the door sometime during the night. On the back, beneath the circular shellac seal was the name and address of the sender: the letter was written by Maulana Hafeez nineteen years ago, from Raiwind – the site of an annual conference of missionaries from all over the Islamic world.
