Spiral Road (17 page)

‘I’m busy.’

‘Family commitments?’

‘Yes. Now, what can you tell me about my brother?’

‘Nothing that’s worth anything yet. And the government won’t call him in for questioning. He has influential friends. But so far he hasn’t done anything to embarrass them. He’s a cautious and clever man.’ Mills says this almost with grudging admiration.

‘So, you do suspect him of aiding terrorists?’

‘There’s no solid evidence,’ he admits reluctantly. ‘The trail we were following disappeared in Pakistan. A few months ago, the Americans were certain that boxes of medical supplies were loaded here on a plane for Karachi. But they simply disappeared at the airport there. The baggage handlers knew nothing about them. Neither did the airport manager or the customs officers.’

‘How do you know the supply wasn’t intended for refugees? For women and children in the border regions.’

‘It could’ve been,’ he concedes. ‘But we can’t rest complacently on assumptions.’

‘But it’s possible,’ I insist.

‘Terrorist bases on the moon are possible. Settlements under the sea. But we’re now fussy about the reliability of evidence. Sure you won’t change your mind about Sundarbans?’

‘No chance.’

‘Imagine what it might be like if a bomb went off at Flinders Street station at peak hour.’

‘People try not to imagine such things.’

‘Injuries. Death. Broken families. Emotionally brutalised people.’ He leans back in his chair. ‘Psychological wrecks. And who is more responsible for the hurt and destruction? The perpetrators? Or those who were involved in the planning? Or maybe the ones who knew what might happen and did nothing.’

I’m distracted. At a table behind Mills, a woman wipes ice-cream from a child’s face. A man is in earnest conversation with a shy-looking woman. At another table, two beared men wearing suits and Jinnah caps are feasting on savouries.

‘Well, what do you reckon?’

‘I can’t say,’ I toy with a coffee spoon. ‘But then, I wouldn’t know as much about it as you would.’

‘That might change.’

‘Unlikely.’

‘Think about it. Both you and I have a responsibility to civilisation.’

‘Which one?’

He looks perplexed.

This time our parting is more agreeable. Mills suggests meeting again before I fly out of Dhaka.

I offer to pay the bill.

‘Don’t worry about it! Courtesy of the Aussie taxpayer,’ he says, flicking a couple of crisp one hundred taka notes on the table. ‘Take care! Remember who you
are now and where you live. The West has been good to you.’

‘If I forget, I’m sure you’ll remind me.’

I watch him leave the hotel. Who am I now? Born in a Muslim family, a Bangali, a freedom fighter. A suspected terrorist sympathiser? An Australian, a librarian…a scarred person. An emotional nomad…Maybe I should have changed my name to John Something and converted to Christianity. Solid citizen. Right religion. Probably of a conservative mould. There are plenty of advantages when you’re one of the herd. For one thing, the ground beneath your feet remains stable.

Outside the hotel, there’s commotion. A group of frustrated street vendors have ganged up on a young hood, handing him a savage beating. The youth lies on the ground, bleeding heavily from cuts to his face. The crowd cheers. One of the vendors is yelling about the tyranny of extortion, how it works in the neighbourhood, and the ways in which people are resisting it.

I take a breath and push my way through to the fallen man. I bend down to look at him. I ward off a ripple of nausea and press a handkerchief to a cut on his cheek. Will the onlookers help me carry him into the hotel? There must be a doctor in residence.

‘Leave him!’ a harsh voice commands in Bangla. ‘The bastard deserves no help.’

There are threatening movements towards me.

The injured young man groans and stirs. He slides his right hand up to his face. I place the handkerchief in his
hand. Words of abuse ping me from all sides. Abruptly, I walk away. Pedestrians stop and stare.

It’s as though time has peeled off a scab. I’m panting heavily, eager to forget the injured man. Instead I suddenly remember when, almost a year ago, Amelia accidentally cut her index finger with a kitchen knife. It was a deep gash and we couldn’t stop the bleeding. I tried to drive her to the hospital but took the wrong turnings. It wasn’t a difficult route, but at the time it felt as if I’d never been on those streets before. Amelia became more concerned about my anxiety than her wounded finger. Then I managed to bump into the back of a car. Amelia had to resort to a taxi to take her to the hospital.

Later we pretended as if my bungle had never happened.

I stop to buy a drink at a roadside stall. The heat is debilitating, and I’m still out of breath as people stream past. The street is pulsating with slow-moving vehicles. Noise like a rusty wheel clatters in my head.

I’m there.

H
IS NAME WAS
Jalal Farat. A shy and gentle university student who loved singing Nazrul
geeti
and reading Tagore, he had effeminate mannerisms and a beguiling smile. We met at the training camp. Here was someone totally unsuitable for any kind of warfare, I thought. He wasn’t tough enough.

As the conflict intensified and headed towards its inevitable climax in December 1971, the commander selected me to lead an attack on a border outpost. I argued against including Jalal in the group, said I couldn’t trust him to keep his cool if we encountered problems. But according to the commander, Jalal was ruthless, one of our best.

The attack itself brought mixed results. We blew up a small ammunition dump but lost two men in the ensuing battle. Then we caught a Punjabi soldier and dragged him across the border. He was arrogant and abusive, calling Bangali Muslims
half-breed bastards
. He spat his contempt and refused to talk during interrogation. Even a gun held to his temple didn’t intimidate him.

All this time, Jalal was standing quietly behind the captive. We’d reached a point of helpless silence. The prisoner hadn’t been broken and we’d run out of ideas. We tied his hands behind his back and blindfolded him, while we considered what to do next.

Suddenly Jalal whipped out a knife, grabbed a handful of the soldier’s hair with his left hand and slit his throat. Paralysed, the rest of us watched the slumped captive twitching and gurgling, as life drained out of him.

Jalal turned his back to us and walked away to stand near a creek. He gazed vacantly into the distance, wiping the knife on his sleeve.

We approached cautiously and called out to him. He turned towards us and smiled, as though he were privy to a world the rest of us couldn’t access.

‘It’s all right!’ I consoled him.

Calmly he drew a revolver from a side holster and shot himself in the head.

E
VER SINCE, THE
sight of blood has sickened me. Now, an elderly shopkeeper comes outside and asks if he can help me in any way. I shake my head and continue walking.

I’ve never been able to forget Jalal Farat, or the private hell that he managed to hide from us until it couldn’t be contained any longer. Sometimes he wafts past me in a dream, smiling. His outstretched right hand holds a pistol with its butt held towards me, but he never says a word.

A
BBA HAS REFUSED
to lie down for his afternoon sleep. Instead he sits, clutching a pillow and pointing to the white shark-skin suit. It smells of mothballs.

‘Take!’ he says, shaking his head vigorously, as soon as he sees me.

‘I don’t know what he wants!’ This is the first time I’ve seen Ma confused.

‘Don’t you want to wear the suit?’ I ask.

He pokes the jacket with an index finger. ‘Mark!’

‘What mark?’ Ma asks.

He runs his hand smoothly over the breast pocket.

‘Creases?’ I guess.

‘Yes! That’s what he means!’ Ma exclaims.

Latif irons the suit and brings it back to the bedroom. He’s done a reasonable job, but it doesn’t satisfy Abba.

‘Mark! Mark!’ he cries. He rages and beats himself on the chest with both hands.

We send the suit to the laundry. It comes back in the evening and passes Abba’s inspection. He indicates that he wants to change. He remains solemnly still as I dress him and then run a comb over his scalp, flattening what’s left of his hair. He sits quietly, flicking off invisible specks of dust and mumbling to himself until we’re ready to leave.

Meanwhile, Ma has failed in a final attempt to contact Alya. ‘I so wanted her to come tonight,’ she sighs.

‘Maybe we should have asked Taufiq Rasool,’ I say cheekily.

Nasreen giggles.

‘Why should he be asked?’ Ma wants to know, sounding innocent, as she checks her handbag.

In the car a quarrel breaks out between Zafar and Yasmin. When we arrive, Ma and Nasreen are still sorting it out, so I walk Abba into the restaurant. He nods graciously as the head waiter greets us.

Abba looks around in amazement at the walls and the downlights.

‘“Chung Wah”?’ he asks tentatively.

‘No. “Shalimar”,’ I say.

He gulps and reaches out for my hand. ‘“Trincas”?’

‘No.’ I know the restaurant in Kolkata he’s referring to. ‘“Shalimar”.’

‘Sumita?’

‘Not tonight.’ There may be a prickly evening ahead.

Ma breezes in, followed by Nasreen and two grumpy kids.

Ma fusses over where we’ll sit. She doesn’t like the window table reserved for us: Abba is likely to be distracted by the lights and the traffic on the road.

‘He gets excited when he sees moving lights. He wants to chase them,’ she explains.

The head waiter moves us to another table against a wall.

Eating out means more to Ma than I could have foreseen. It creates a credible illusion of happier days for her. She slips back into the role of matriarchal and domestic authority. It can’t be the same for her, living with Zia. Even though he accepts her extravagance and only occasionally interferes, I’ve sometimes noticed in Ma a deference to Zia.

Yasmin is clamouring for a drink and Zafar whinges that he is hungry.

Ma orders Coke for the children and lemonade and bottled water for the adults. She chooses from the menu, ignoring Nasreen’s suggestion that perhaps I ought to order the food. My sister looks apologetically at me, but relaxes when I whisper, ‘Let her.’

I need not worry about Abba’s behaviour. He reminds me of a child under instruction to be on his best behaviour for fear of punishment. He makes no demands and says nothing. When the food is laid out, he picks up his knife and fork and examines them. Ma serves him first.
He scrutinises at his plate and then scoops up a few grains of rice with the side of his knife and tries to shove them in his mouth. Ma shows him what has to be done. Otherwise, his table manners are impeccable. Uncharacteristically, he does everything Ma asks of him.

The conversation is without strain and Abba is a polite listener.

A
FTER DINNER
, I hold Abba around the shoulders and walk him back to the car. We lag behind everyone else. In the darkness, his failing eyesight makes it difficult for him to keep his balance on the uneven pavers.

‘Did you like your dinner?’ I ask. He’d eaten with a rare appetite.

‘See Sumita?’

‘Yes, soon.’

‘Soon…soon,’ he mumbles, shrugging me away. ‘See Sumita soon.’ His steps quicken. Before I can lay a steadying hand on him again, he stumbles and stubs his foot on a loose paver.

There’s a muffled boom, somewhere far away. I listen intently.

Darkness.

Sights and sounds from memory. The camouflage of a jasmine-scented night. I crawl along the ground on my belly. My hands work swiftly. A crouched run to nearby trees. The noise, as though the sky has split open—confetti of sparks, orange and yellow swirls, red plumes. Slithering wires like slender, restless snakes, hiss and writhe as they hit the earth. Then the towers topple over in slow motion.

I don’t care to remember the number of transmitters I blew up.

Nasreen hasn’t heard the noise. She treats the mishap as normal. Even Ma remains calm as she instructs Latif to light the kerosene lanterns.

‘It’s a nuisance,’ Nasreen says wearily, tearing open a packet of candles. ‘But load-shedding has become a regular part of our lives.’

We hear Abba’s panic-stricken wail from his bedroom. He’s easily frightened by darkness. Ma rushes to his side.

‘How long will it last?’ I ask, mindful of the time. Omar is due to pick me up soon.

‘An hour. Maybe two. We have our own generator, but there’s a part that needs replacing,’ my sister explains. ‘I’ll have to remind Zia when he comes back.’

We take a lantern and a torch to the children’s room. Nasreen instructs them to finish their homework. She’s a skilful negotiator. After animated protests, punctuated with silent sulking, the times for watching television and playing computer games are rescheduled.

I say how patient she is.

‘I have to be,’ she responds, and embraces me. ‘Thanks for taking us out yesterday.’

I
PACE THE
foyer. It’s about a couple of minutes to seven. I open the front door. There’s no sign of Omar. Just the sounds of insects and frogs. Then the dim light of a rickshaw bobbles past the front gate. I hear the strains of a love song. He can only give the woman whatever the night has to offer. As much love as the darkness can hold.

Suddenly it strikes me that I haven’t packed any reading material. Holding a candle high, I make my way up to the bedroom. I take the last of Abba’s diaries downstairs and push it into the bag. The bulge is even more pronounced and the bag won’t zip up.

Minutes later, the sound of a car horn.

Omar meets me at the door. He snatches the bag from my hand. ‘Quickly!’

We rush to the car. He’s kept the engine running. The front door on the passenger’s side doesn’t shut properly, and my bottom feels the sharp ends of coiled springs straining to burst out of the vinyl covering of the seat. A screech as Omar shifts into first gear.

‘Will we get to Chittagong in this?’ I ask as the car lurches forward.

‘Trust me.’

‘Shouldn’t you turn on the headlights?’ I can hear myself nagging. But I’m unnerved by this reckless driving.

Omar grunts and takes a sharp turn to the left.

‘Aren’t you going via the main road?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

He doesn’t reply.

We take several more turns. I twist around and look at the back seat. It’s empty. ‘I thought you said the car would be full.’

‘Uh-huh.’

We enter a narrow lane. Omar pulls up behind another vehicle. ‘Into that car. Hurry!’

I squint to see the car. It’s a four-wheel-drive. A man gets out of the driver’s seat just as I get in. This is more like it. Soft seats and safety belts. The engine idles smoothly. The air-conditioner is working.

The back of the car is crammed with boxes. Omar takes the man aside. They gesticulate. I roll down the window. Their voices are occasionally raised. I catch the words, ‘shipment’ and ‘diversion’. After a few minutes a car door slams. The vehicle that Omar used to pick me up makes a U-turn and speeds away.

Omar climbs in next to me.

‘Better?’ he asks.

‘Infinitely!’

He points to a small cardboard box near our feet. ‘Food and water. It’ll be a long ride. Sleep when you want to.’

As we move off through the black streets, I say, ‘The electricity should be restored shortly.’

‘Not tonight,’ he chuckles.

I want to get out and walk back to the house.

A little over a week of living here in ignorance and I can be on a plane headed towards the glories of antiquity. I can allow history to remind me of the insignificance of my own troubled world. Let Istanbul, Damascus, Amman and Petra drench me with the silent wisdom of their past and give me the resilience to accept my condition in life…I could find so much energy and renewed hope in travel.

But no. There are things I have to ask my nephew. Assurances I need. I must sound like his father now and
alert him to the people who are his responsibilities. He must not trample on their expectations and assumptions about him. Omar is not an isolated entity, free to do as he pleases! He, too, must bear the myth of our collective honour.

As for me, I want to rediscover my nephew, as the mature version of the sensitive teenager I knew.

Omar drives cautiously until we’re out of the city. We’re quiet as the darkness becomes more spacious. He looks into the rear-view mirror. Is someone following us? Suddenly, Omar presses on the accelerator.

‘What’s happening in Sundarbans?’

He looks annoyingly unsurprised. ‘That’s where your friend’s going.’

‘Which friend?’

‘The Australian you met for coffee. The other one’s headed back to America, loaded with information. Steven Mills has asked the government to find him a guide. Needless to say, he got one.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Uncle!’ His tone is mildly admonitory.

‘What’s in Sundarbans, Omar?’

‘Royal Bengal Tigers,’ he replies. ‘The genuine beasts. Beehives and honey gatherers. Waterways and Sundari trees.’

‘What else?’ I persist impatiently.

‘Otters, spotted deer, wild boars, monkeys—’

‘What is Steven Mills looking for?’

‘He may be after the shadows he wishes to believe in.

Forests have a way of playing on one’s mind.’

‘What will he find?’

‘Hope.’

I wait for him to explain. He turns to look at me. ‘You’re learning well! As you know, there’s very little dry land there, but your countryman will find signs of human activities, enough to keep him interested. He’ll want to go further inland, where there’s little daylight among the trees. And then…’ He concentrates on swerving past an overloaded truck. ‘He may slip and fall. The mangrove swamps are treacherous. They hide their secrets well.’

‘But he’ll be with a trained guide!’ It’s the ease with which Omar unravels the possible fate of Steven Mills that alarms me.

‘And an armed security guard. The government will insist on that. And who can tell where their true allegiance lies? But I’m only guessing. Your Australian friend is someone else’s problem.’

I should fling the door open and make a daring exit. Tumble and roll onto the side of the road. Like I might have once attempted. But we’re well outside the city limits now, and the rural night is forbidding.

There’s a sharp click. The doors are locked. It’s almost as if Omar’s read my mind.

My mobile’s in the backpack. Silently I recall Steven Mills’ number.

What Omar’s just said makes me realise at last how coordinated, how insidious his network might be. Instantly my curiosity, my vanity at this secret adventure disappear.
For the first time I’m struck by a cold fear of him and what he may represent. How could a shy, almost effeminate boy change so dramatically? But nearly fourteen years…

I wipe the back of my neck.

What has he experienced personally to turn him away from rational thinking and behaviour? Doesn’t secular education have the powers I credit it with?

A couple of hours later we stop for a break. As unobtrusively as possible, I reach over the back, into my bag.

‘Your mobile’s not there,’ Omar says casually, getting out of the car.

The darkness mocks me with the outrageousness of this. There isn’t a light to be seen anywhere. I look up. The blank night is like an inscrutable face.

Two other vehicles pull up behind us. I understand then that these are Omar’s companions. Are they as young as he is? Are they hellbent on destroying, changing and rebuilding? There’s a splattering sound of urine hitting the dirt. Omar stays close to me. Dutifully I join the row of silent men. One nudges me deliberately with something solid he’s carrying.

The air cools suddenly and a gust of wind blows dust into my face. It begins to rain. Omar grunts and we hop back into the car.

I risk a guess. ‘How long will it take to get to your camp?’

He ignores the question. The rain intensifies and drums rhythmically on the body of the car, an
accompaniment to the discoveries I’m making. The wipers squeak in rapid, synchronised arcs across the windscreen.

‘You’re a shrewd man, Uncle. We need someone like you.’ It’s almost a plea.

I look stonily ahead. My silence is a minor triumph. It’s his turn to be uncertain.

Later, we turn off the road and crawl along a muddy track. I can see feeble, wavering lights ahead. We bump and wind our way to a village. Omar brakes, but stays in the car and keeps the engine running. The rain has ceased. There’s movement outside.

‘A pick-up point?’ I ask.

‘A village stop.’

Doors slam. Within minutes, we’re on our way again.

‘Water?’ Omar holds out a water bottle. ‘It’s purified.’

I drink greedily.

I refuse a naan roll.

The headrest feels soft. I begin to hear myself snoring.