Spiral Road (24 page)

M
ORNING BRINGS A
heavy downpour. The clouds hang low like masses of grey cotton balls and float slowly across the sky towards the west. Within minutes the road is flooded. I come downstairs and watch the rain from the dining room window.

‘It will clear up soon,’ Mirza predicts confidently. ‘Your car’s here. I’ve prepared some lunch for you.’

By half-past seven, summer returns. The clouds disappear and the day already threatens to be scorchingly hot. As I grab the gift package and my backpack, Abba begins to call Ma. I leave the house and Mirza runs out to the car with a tiffin-carrier.

I pick up the sweetmeats before taking the road to Manikpur. Along the way, I’m overtaken by buses and vans which honk and swerve past, forcing me close to the edge of the road.

I see a truck loaded with armed soldiers ahead of me. I speed up to stay close behind the vehicle.

After three hours I arrive at the spot where Alya had parked her car. Almost magically Anis and a friend rise from the thicket of wild grass. I negotiate for the boys to carry the boxes of sweetmeats to Uncle Musa’s house.
Smilingly they extract from me three times the sum I’d thought generous. We then haggle about the amount I should pay in advance. I make the grave mistake of checking the time on my watch. Anis folds his arms across his chest and waits for me to give in. Either I pay them everything now or I can find help elsewhere. I cave in.

The two kids splash through the puddles and race each other towards Alamvilla, growling like beastly predators. I think of the stories that might circulate later today—variations on how two young villagers outsmarted a city sahib and made him agree to their demands. Ah well, at least a couple of families will be eating well tonight.

Nur must have been in the village and spotted us as we moved through. I hear him calling me from behind. He rushes up to my side and grabs my arm. ‘Choto Babu! Where are you going?’ His voice is panic-stricken.

‘I want to see Uncle Musa and congratulate him. I won’t be here for the wedding.’

‘You could’ve informed us beforehand! We might have been better prepared.’

‘What’s there to prepare?’

He walks alongside, clearly distressed by my unexpected appearance. Anis and his friend are waiting in the shadow of one of the tigers, which look even more bizarre than I can remember.

The boys refuse to go beyond the walls into the yard. Anis points to the big cats and backs away. Nur assures me that he can carry the boxes to the house. ‘Your uncle has a visitor,’ he informs me as I stride across the damp turf.

‘Why does that matter?’

‘Your uncle is talking to his future wife.’

‘I shall be very happy to meet her.’

‘You don’t understand, Choto Babu!’ Nur is exasperated and steps in front of me. ‘She doesn’t appear in front of strangers.’

‘Nur, I understand that village girls are shy and not accustomed to making appearances before male strangers. But she is to be my aunt.’

‘Even in front of your uncle she keeps her face covered!’

‘Please take the boxes inside. Make sure he gets the card as well,’ I instruct. ‘Are they in the backyard?’

‘Yes,’ he replies reluctantly. Nur has been trained to give priority to etiquette. Regardless of how long he’s been with us, we’re always master and servant. He can contradict and argue with the Alams, as long as he is subtle and not blunt and disrespectful. I can see that he’s upset now and contrite about a rare transgression in his behaviour.

‘I won’t stay long, Nur,’ I reassure him.

Unhappily, he trudges off to the front door.

I walk along the side of the house. I don’t want to burst in on them. But then I hear voices. Uncle Musa wants to extend the house. Mehrun-Nessa asks him about a holiday in the city. She’s never been to Dhaka before.

I peek around the wall. He’s sitting on a straw mat with his back towards me. A few long strands of white hair on the sides of his head, like the tentacles of a jellyfish, flutter
in the breeze. He has an arm around the shoulders of a slim sari-clad figure.

‘Allah willing, I have a few years left. I cannot give you children, but I will look after you while I’m here,’ he says to her. ‘You must try and forget what your first husband did to you.’

I’ve never heard Uncle Musa speak so gently.

Mehrun-Nessa’s silence expresses her misgivings about the future. I imagine her thinking cautiously about the years in front of her, living her life as a widow, ostracised by her family and shunned by the Alams. She’s probably astute enough to perceive the burden of loneliness.

Uncle Musa looks at her as though he’s able to read her mind. ‘I’ve told you, I’ll provide for you. You will have money and land.’

‘You’re a generous man,’ she says guardedly. ‘But your children won’t like what you plan to do.’

‘My decisions won’t be affected by their greed!’ he says fiercely. ‘You took away an old man’s loneliness and gave him company. At my age that’s the ultimate gift a man can have. I wake up in the morning and I don’t think of death. There’s now a purpose in my life.’

‘But how can you bear to look at me? Even an old turtle’s face looks better than mine.’

He draws her close to him. ‘What I see in you now is not what I would have seen as a young man. My eyesight is nearly gone. I have to see with my mind and heart. It’s a peculiar gift of old age.’

The ensuing silence is the perfect cue for me to enter. Yet the moment is fragile, so intimate and tender, as though the most intricate of feelings have been created in a mesh of harmony. I want to tell Uncle Musa that I admire his guts and that he has the right to live as he pleases. And to hell with
izzat
, propriety and what others may say about his marriage. Yet I feel like a bungling gatecrasher. I cannot disturb them. They’re entitled to sit there, dream and talk about their problems. I shall cherish the sight.

Nur has crept up on me. I turn to leave.

‘Why didn’t you tell me, Nur?’

‘Sometimes there are things that cannot be said.’

‘Can you do me a favour?’

Nur nods.

‘Don’t tell them I was here. Say that Mirza brought the things.’

I
LUNCH ON
the crumbling front stairs of the ruins of our old house. I think of old Walnuts and my father. Today the universe has opened up to me just that little bit more.

Later, I walk through Manikpur, stopping to talk to villagers. They are respectful in their conversation. Nothing is said about Uncle Musa’s marriage or Mehrun-Nessa.

I
T’S DUSK BY
the time I reach home.

Zia’s relieved to see me. ‘I was wondering what happened! What did the old fellow say?’

‘I didn’t get to see him.’

‘Huh? Where could he have gone?’

‘He didn’t go anywhere.’

Zia doesn’t know what to ask next.

‘I just decided that there are some things best left alone.’

I derive no satisfaction from my brother’s confusion. But I don’t intend to say anything else.

Tonight my brother is quiet and accepting. We talk about my travels, his new house. Then Zia tells me that he has arranged for me to be driven to the airport tomorrow evening. ‘I’ll go there straight from work,’ he says. He checks the departure time with me. ‘The weeks have gone quickly.’

I look around the room and think how familiar I am with the house. ‘It almost seems as if I’m leaving the country for the first time.’

Abba is disoriented after a long afternoon’s sleep. He slurps milk from a stainless-steel mug and slouches in his rocking chair.

Ma wipes his face and neck with a damp towel.

I’ve been sitting with him for more than half an hour in the hope of some miraculous happening. But his phrases still curl up and die before they can be fully articulated.

I gently rub his hand. It’s a gesture of many meanings for me. Above everything else, it’s an apology for not knowing how to say goodbye. I dread the finality of this parting. His inability to understand the poignancy of these moments compounds my sadness.

He turns towards me and a grin spreads across his face.

‘I’m leaving in a few minutes.’

Ma takes the empty mug from Abba’s hand and slips out of the room.

‘I’m leaving…’ he repeats slowly after me, forgetting the rest of the sentence.

‘Abba, I don’t live here. I live in another country.’

He frowns. ‘To room? Stay. You can…you can…’ He points to the bed.

‘Abba, there’s something I want you to know…’

The blank stare once again.

I lean forward until my lips almost brush his right ear. I don’t believe I’m a worse liar than the average person. And I’m utterly convinced of the justification of what I’m about to say.

‘Your daughter Rani…’

His body tenses. He turns his head towards me. ‘Rani?’

‘Yes, your daughter Rani.’ I cup his shoulders in the palms of my hands. ‘She’s alive and well.’

I scan his face, anxious for a sign of understanding. The vacant look doesn’t disappear. I consider repeating what I’ve just said, but with different words. Then he grips my hand and a tear trickles down his right cheek. I hold him close. Now there are no barriers between us.

If there’s forgiveness to be sought, then his children too should be asking for it. Ours was the sin of turning him into a demi-god, someone we assumed was without flesh and desire, without instinct or temptation. We boxed and caged him, never doubting his compliance to our expectations.

Mirza sticks his head in through the door for the second time. ‘Choto Babu, Moin says the traffic is heavy. It may take more than an hour to reach the airport.’

Abba clasps my hand as I begin to withdraw it.

‘My son,’ he says wondrously. ‘My son.’

I cling to him.

I’m the one who needs consolation.

T
HE AIRPORT TERMINAL
is crowded.

A mullah travelling to Dubai is incensed by the luggage limit. He intimidates the girl at the check-in counter to the point of tears. The man has two suitcases full of copies of the Koran. How dare the airline ask him to pay excess baggage on the words of God? He’s travelling between two Muslim countries. He raises his voice and cries Allah’s greatness: ‘
Allah O Akbar
!’

A man in jeans and leather jacket groans. There’s no response to the rallying cry, only bored expressions and the clatter of luggage wheels.

A senior airline official appears, and the mullah has his way.

In just under an hour my flight leaves. But there’s no urgency to head towards immigration. I look among the faces in the crowd. It’s likely that Zia’s caught in a traffic jam.

A hand grabs my left arm.

I don’t recognise Omar immediately. He’s wearing a broad-brimmed straw hat pulled low over his face. He
carries a large shoulder bag. ‘Do you have your boarding pass? Ticket and passport?’ He stands in front of me, his head turning from side to side like a scanner on a pivotal pedestal.

‘I didn’t expect to see you here!’

He drags me by the arm towards the entrance to immigration. ‘I want you to go in. Now!’

‘I must wait for your father!’ I want to tell Zia I’ve left him a note.

‘Uncle, please!’ Omar turns his back to me, without releasing my arm. ‘Stay behind me!’

‘What’s wrong now?’ I’m annoyed by his rough behaviour. ‘There he is!’ I wave to catch Zia’s attention.

Zia smiles and pushes his way towards us.

Suddenly Omar backs into me.

Then I see another face emerging from behind a pillar. He’s only a few metres away. The man takes something out of the side pocket of his loosely fitting jacket.

A gaunt face. That scar—

Omar rams a shoulder into my chest. It feels as if I’ve been hit by a car. For an instant I’m weightless, as though in flight. I glimpse the Kalashnikov in Omar’s hands.

Flat, uninterrupted noises. Dreadfully familiar. The back of my head hits the floor. There’s a crushing weight on top of me.

Screaming. There are people running. A child cries.

‘That could be my brother! Let me through!’ Zia’s voice. ‘Get that man off him!’

Omar…He’s lying on top of me. ‘Omar, get…’

His head lolls over my right shoulder. I wriggle my right hand free and grab the front of his shirt. It feels sticky.

‘Omar!’ I try to shake him. ‘Omar!’

He lifts his head and looks at me. Then he slumps again and his forehead slides past my shoulder to rest on the floor.

I close my eyes. I’m levitating. Then, the daggers of ghastly awareness. The burden of what has to be.

I must write to Amelia.

I’m unable to run any more.

Fourth Estate

An imprint of HarperCollins
Publishers

First published in Australia in 2007
This edition published in 2010
by HarperCollinsPublishers Australia Pty Limited
ABN 36 009 913 517
www.harpercollins.com.au

Copyright © Adib Khan 2007

The right of Adib Khan to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him under the
Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000
.

This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the
Copyright Act 1968
, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

HarperCollinsPublishers

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10 East 53rd Street, New York NY 10022, USA

National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication data:

Khan, Adib.

Spiral road.

ISBN 13: 978 0 7322 8417 6. (pbk.)

ISBN 10: 0 7322 8417 1. (pbk.)

ISBN: 978 0 7304 4400 8 (epub)

I. Title.

A823.3

The writing of this project has been assisted by the Commonwealth through the Australia Council, its arts funding and advisory body.