Season of the Rainbirds

I'll rate the book 3.5/5

Though It was an adequate consumption my expectations required a little more. The story dating back to 1980's Monsoon spell of a small town near Lahore, unfolds from the tale of the death of a corrupt retired judge. The associated reason for death is suspected to be the 19 years old sack of letters lost in a train crash, having emerged mysteriously.

First, coming to the best parts that I liked the most about the book:

The prose is exquisite throughout, illustrating mundane but elegant everyday moments of a small town. Nadeem Aslam definitely has a poetic edge to his writing, sensitive to nuance and mood. Some of the passages and lines  are so relatable, it almost feels magical and one can not help but slide into the past recapitulating the childhood days, the customs and traditions which today's generation may never get to experience and enjoy the effects of, and only read about in such books. Quoting from the book,

Azhar: "Why are you journalists always chasing after weird stories? Why can't you write about ordinary things?

Saif Aziz (the journalist): "To write about ordinary things is the duty of a novelist: It's the task of a journalist to write about extraordinary things."

Nadeem Aslam has indeed come up to the level at par with the novelist through this book. He has indeed narrated the most ordinary things in the most extraordinary manner by the dint of his novel-ism. I think the best award and appreciation for a writer is that his readers can connect to the story and feel the essence and beauty of the hidden meanings in the passages. And this book possesses the said attribute. The passages and lines which I personally felt connected to and felt quite relate-able were for instance:

"The knife we are forbidden to sharpen pencils with."

This may seem a trivial and unimportant thing that can be passively read by this generation but contains the essence to the past generations like that of myself. It holds the childhood stories of fragile wood pencils being sharpened by the kitchen knives, when sharpeners were inaccessible or unavailable (in secret and absence of our mothers for the fear of being caught and told off). It takes me back to the days of the then creativity, which with the passage of time has lost it's breath and necessity has even no longer remained invention of the mother.

"There was a time when death in the area meant no one celebrates  Eid that year. Now i see that with the dead man's shroud not yet soiled in the grave you were entertaining yourselves."

This also reflects how today, we move on from such grave matters and incidents so conveniently. Even back in 90's the days of my childhood, deaths were mourned and meant complete boycott of any celebration or enjoyment for quite some time, people in the neighborhood would not turn on their TV sets for weeks or listen to songs. Weddings in such a year would go simple and without the girls singing songs or doing the mehndi or dholki celebrations. How far we have come from our roots and how inhumane and insensitive we have become for the sake of leading private and independent lives.

"Zebun has pulled out a small cardboard box and was placing her hair inside. Once full the box would be buried in the flower beds. I know they'll use my hair to cast a spell on me, do something evil to me, she says."

Reminds me of my nani and dadi's fallen hair (came off while combing), so well kept in the cardboard boxes. How I always witnessed my grandmothers performing this same ritual and upon inquiring, I would get the same answers; losing your hair in napak (unclean) places is against sunnah and also there are high chances of a spell being cast upon you for it's done on hair and bones. I also remember how I always tried to keep myself attached to their roots and follow their trends. How i gathered and kept my hair to bury them too, not in a cardboard box but small plastic bags, to find one day eventually that the bag has gone into the garbage because no one cares or believes in following such traditions anymore.

"I'll just piss on the cut and cover it with burnt cloth."

I would've ew-ed and read on expecting it to be the part of some fictional and made up the story, had I not been an ocular account of such a remedy for healing wounds, from the memories of my village life. When I was only seven years old,  my mother and Chachi were building a small mud house near my Dadi's big house. My mom's hand got severely cut, there was no medical treatment to be done, for even the small clinic was in the main bazaar which was at least 30 minutes hike on the mountains. So my Chachi suggested the same remedy and made his son (my cousin, who was my age mate) piss on my mother's wounded finger and then wrapped a burnt cloth around it. I couldn't stop telling my mom how disgusting it was and that she'll get some severe infection that will spread, and she will have to get her whole hand operated or cut. But surprisingly it did work wonderfully, and she got her wound recovered haha!

Although I still think it's downright repulsive. -.-

"The large drum into which chickens were thrown to die after their throats had been cut. The drum was set at ground level and reached upto touch its rim against the platform. It's lumen was coated with blood, feathers and blue faecal matter. The dying bird would thrash about inside the drum, hurling itself against the sides, as though electric shocks were being applied to it's little body. Sometimes a bird squawking with fear and pain, would rise upto the top of the drum oblinging Zafri (the butcher) to hurriedly improvise a lid."

This specific passage may not seem to be of any importance to many people but i could connect to it as a butcher can. It's not that I belong from a family of butchers or i own a chicken shop, But it takes me back to my childhood days when I being the youngest sister in the family was supposed to bring the daily grocery from the nearby market, standing in a Que to buy naans from tandoor, to shop fruits and vegetables, and get the chicken from the nearby butcher. So the whole market was familiar with 'the only little girl ' always roaming around in the market getting house chores done. I remember being a witness to all those blood drenched drums with feathers attached and slaughtered chickens breathing their last fluttering and making weird noises inside. It was always painful for me to stand there and see this performance, and even after years of exposure i still never got used to it, send shivers down my spine.

And as Aslam puts it, "Death maybe an important part of nature but there's nothing more unnatural than a dying animal."

I couldn't agree more.

Wife: "Some people say you can make soup from chicken claws too."

Benjamin Massih: "Yes, I have tasted it. Very tasty with a day old tandoori naan."

Now feeling lucky again, being from a household where even the chicken claws soup had been made haha. And not only made dare i say, i have been an active participant in cleaning and skinning the claws in hot water with my bare hands. Though many households who love chicken-claws soup prepare and consume it secretly without letting this secret out to their neighbors and relatives. It's considered cheap, disgusting and shameful, people think (even though it's not haram food). And here I am writing and disclosing the dormant of my family without any shame. I used to find it as tasty with the tandoori naan as Benjamin Massih in the book did, but i do no more enjoy, skin or consume it.

And oh just so you can know this trend also started in the family like the above mentioned (pissing on the cut) and another home remedy mentioned in the book which goes as "On learning that the imported insulins he injected into his veins daily was extracted from the pancreas of pigs, he stopped the injections, turning instead to a local remedy - drinking boiled loquat leaves." from someone having told my mother how this soup was good for joints and bones and since my mother was suffering from the sort of malady, she thought it's even better if the whole family would consume it so the next generations can be saved from the joint problems too! :D

And lastly (although there are so many other passages too but these should suffice i think).

"There was a flash of lightning . The window smiled acquiescently at the child who had just come into the room and said: "God's taking a picture."

I always had this theory about lightening when i was a kid, unlike the other kids the thunder and lightening never scared me off in fact i used to be happy about me being captured in God's camera and someday would love to see those developed photo's. It also reminded me of my favorite childhood joke which I used to tell to everybody during the stormy nights with the relevancy of lightening haha:

"Banda barish main ja raha hota hai or gatar main gir jata hai tau uski pant utar jati hai,

tez hawa chalti hai tau uski shirt bhi ur jati hai ab wo shadeed sardi main nikkar pehnay ja ra hota hai tau bijli chamakti hai.. wo cheekh k upar murta hai or kehta hai "kiya Allah miyyan" ek tau mere kapray utaar diye ab tasweerain b khench rahay ho?"

It may sound as lame as it is but it was my favorite (it secretly still is tho).

Coming to the side which didn't appeal to my prudence, The reason i bought this book was its book cover and the summary on the back saying "A sack of letters lost in a train crash nineteen years earlier has mysteriously reappeared.." But most disappointing and horrifying is the fact that the book had nothing to do with the letters at all. In fact they hardly make any mention and that too not made out to be of any significance. Also, the author inserts chapters in italics that I assumed were flashbacks but It was a constant trouble keeping track of who they referred to and their purpose in the book.

The novel also feels, and perhaps must feel, unfinished.

As in the starting of the book Aslam quotes John Berger, Once in Europa:

"If I'd been told as a child what the life of an adult is like, I wouldn't have believed it. I'd never believed it could be so unfinished."

Not even a single story line has been brought to the end or conclusion. We are parachuted in and extracted again eleven days later, with the feeling of helplessness as to have been exposed to more unsolved puzzles than the ones solved. But perhaps we’re a little wiser for having felt the rhythms of a life not our own, for seeing and beginning to understand the motivations of people like Maulana Hafeez. And for the beautiful narrative alone, this book is worth the read.