| Publication |
2014.
|
| Summary/Abstract |
On an aggravatingly warm evening in Bannu, Aziz Jan is slowly melting into a puddle of sweat. He fans himself with his hands; he tugs at his clothes. Every few minutes, to prevent his palms from slipping, he throws talcum powder from a small box on his tablas - when he pounds on them, little puffs of powder rise into the air and burst before his face.
Across the room, a man flinches. "Play a little softly," he calls out. "It's Ramzan."
|