Spiral Road (10 page)

In a quiet moment I ask, ‘What happened to Farida?’

‘Her father forced her to marry a much older man from another village,’ Alya explains. ‘She ran away. But she was tracked down and her husband tried to kill her.
Fortunately, the knife he used was not sharp enough and she managed to ward him off and shout for help. But Farida’s family rejected her. Mullah Hakim gave her a place to stay…This was about the time when I was setting up the factory. Farida has amazing business cunning. Her experience hasn’t crushed her.’

A child falls on the floor and begins to cry.

‘And her husband?’ I ask, raising my voice.

‘He remained free and continued to threaten her, until recently—he fell out of a coconut tree and was killed. I can tell you that most of Manikpur’s women didn’t mourn for him.’

Farida has Monday afternoons off, Alya tells me, for private tutoring in English and arithmetic. She has to walk six kilometres to a neighbouring village where the tutor lives. He’s apparently the only person in the area with a college education. But he’s a farmer at heart, Alya says. He returned to his rural origin after being educated in the city. Now she’s negotiating to employ him to teach the women who work here.

‘You’re very sure of what you’re doing in life, aren’t you?’ I say enviously.

‘There’s no choice. Too many rural women have lives like Farida’s. And others, perhaps not quite as bad, are regularly beaten by their husbands. One of them had to be taken to hospital in Dhaka with a fractured skull. It was then that I decided to do something for them.’

I wonder about the prevalence of honour killings in Bangladesh.

‘It happens far too often,’ Alya says grimly. ‘Mostly in uneducated village communities. And they’re rarely reported by the city newspapers.’

Alya leads me out a back door. Rows of vegetables stretch across the rich dark soil to the edge of a large pond. Half a dozen women tend to the plants—watering, spreading manure and weeding. Others deftly pluck okra, pumpkins, aubergines and marrow. Young girls pull out potatoes and onions from the soft ground.

‘Quite an achievement!’ I say admiringly.

‘No one starves or begs for food here any more. Each worker is rostered to spend an hour a day outside.’

W
E WALK BACK
to the car. Anis is nowhere to be seen.

‘He’s probably in one of the fields with his friends, flying his kite,’ Alya says acceptingly. ‘It’s a short childhood in the rural areas. The adult world is thrust upon children early in these villages.’

I remember the thrill of kite-flying. It gave me the opportunity to run as fast as I could. And the chance of being lifted by a sudden gust of wind and carried away to a distant land, where children didn’t have to go to school and study algebra or be reprimanded by adults.

Alya takes a stack of files from the car. ‘I’m teaching a few of the women the basics of accounting. I’ll wait for you in the factory.’

We separate, and I walk past the mosque and head west along an old bitumen track. This is familiar territory. I feel
the suffusive warmth of belonging, even though I haven’t been here since I was a teenager. The grass on either side is almost knee-high, and the mango and jackfruit trees have not been pruned, it seems, for years. Remnants of brick walls and window frames poke through gnarled branches and leaves, parts of the palatial residence built by my great-grandfather. The house was last occupied by Uncle Musa who lived there until the roof collapsed in a cyclone and several walls toppled over. At the time of the storm, he was visiting the family tea gardens in Sylhet. It was a sign from Allah, he claimed, uncharacteristically. Uncle Musa made it known that he had consulted a
pir
, who advised against rebuilding the ancestral house. Malignant spirits had taken over the property, the holy man warned. There was at least one wandering ghost seeking revenge for a crime committed long ago. Musa Alam was destined to live in the city. The family encouraged the move. What we didn’t know was that this shift to Dhaka was because of his new gambling addiction. Uncle Musa had already established contacts with some unsavoury and dangerous
mastans
in Dhaka’s underworld.

I find a sturdy stick and prod the grass in front of me as I walk. Somewhere to my left is a family graveyard where my great-grandfather and a number of my ancestors are buried. I loiter among the ruins.

Abba would often tell us stories about the lavish feasts Ismael Alam had held here. Messengers would be sent out with richly decorated handwritten scrolls, invitations
delivered on silver trays to the
zamindars
and their families. Many of these honoured guests travelled great distances to enjoy my great-grandfather’s hospitality. They were housed in tents erected among fruit trees and lined with silk curtains. Inside, Persian and Kashmiri carpets were spread over the earthen floors, and mounds of velvet-covered bolsters and cushions lay on large mattresses overlaid with cotton sheets. Ismael Alam had the best cooks and their helpers brought from Dhaka, and prominent musicians commissioned to entertain the guests. Abba swore that these were
the
matchmaking opportunities for the families with children of marriageable ages. What he omitted from his narratives was bluntly told by Uncle Musa, who was convinced that every illegitimate child among the land owners (and there were many, according to him) was conceived somewhere on our property.

I feel the cold loneliness of estrangement, standing here in front of the weed-smothered steps that lead up to the ravaged front veranda. We came together last night as a family, and yet it only served to heighten my distance from everyone else. It was as though I was adopted—loved and valued without quite belonging to the innermost ring of family trust.

Yesterday, it would have been Zeenat’s birthday. I was unaware of this until Omar reminded me. The significance of the day probably accounts for the restrained exchanges between Zia and Omar. We talked about my sister-in-law, and it became apparent how much
of a binding and calming force she had been between her husband and children. Omar teased his father about the way Zeenat had managed to win every quarrel without raising her voice.

I remember Zeenat as a shy, gentle woman. She was the only daughter of a barrister and brought up to be an educated socialite. She was intelligent and humorous, and no one had anything unkind to say about her. Zeenat spent a significant proportion of her time fund-raising for orphans and endangered animals. Before she was diagnosed with breast cancer, Ma had given her a bunch of specially made silver keys to the house. This was the ultimate accolade paid to a younger woman in the family, the passing on of the baton of domestic control and the symbol of trust.

Ma was devastated when her daughter-in-law died.

A
PARTLY EATEN
unripe mango drops to the ground near my feet, as a
bulbul
cries shrilly and flies away. Years ago, the house here was fringed by mango trees whose fruits were marked for premature plucking. Baskets of unripe mangoes were piled on the veranda. Next to them were rows of glass jars, ready to be filled with marinated slices of the firm, green fruits. Making
achaar
was a communal affair for women and children. It was an occasion for
jarigans
, songs that dated back to Mughal times and offered fascinating glimpses of Manikpur’s history, and gossip about scandals and adulterous affairs. Fecund, rural
imaginations unleashed extravagant stories, too, about the nefarious activities of restless spirits that wandered the countryside on moonless nights. As a result of this, no child or village maiden dared to go outside after the foxes began to howl at sunset, and many a reckless man was found wandering in the forest the next morning, crying and talking gibberish.

We sat on straw mats in a wide circle, peeling and cutting the unripe, green fruits into thick wedges. Mustard oil was heated in a cauldron over an open fire and then removed and allowed to cool. A servant was entrusted with the task of grinding fennel, fenugreek, turmeric and red chillies into a coarse paste with a heavy pestle. Ma was fastidious about the measurements of the spices. The mango pieces were placed in large copper bowls and mixed with the
moshla
and oil. Nasreen was then allowed to transfer the fruit mixtures into the jars, which were sealed tight and wax-coated around the lids. They were then left in the sun for a fortnight.

Zia and I were responsible for turning the jars every couple of hours so that the sun’s heat was equitably distributed and the mangoes were evenly softened and cooked slowly in the marinade.

A
T THE END OF
a fortnight, a special lunch was prepared to celebrate the maturation of the
achaar
. A jar was ceremoniously opened by Ma, who dipped a fork in and impaled a piece of mango on the tines. She then tasted
it with a look of trepidation on her face. We watched expectantly as she bit into the soft flesh of the cooked fruit. To our relief, Ma never failed to smile.

I’m not sure what I was expecting of Uncle Musa’s house, but I couldn’t have anticipated the lurid yellow, bare-fanged tigers, stripes and all, mounted on the unplastered brick pillars flanking the iron gate. Both the big cats are in crouched positions, as though keyed to pounce on intruders, their mouths painted pomegranate red and the claws on their front paws a glossy onyx black.

The house is coloured pink. It’s a squat, rectangularshaped affair, like a box someone has pressed down with heavy weights. The yard is overgrown with weeds and wild grass, and a stunted lemon tree droops near the unswept front steps. I’m mesmerised by the deplorable taste that shaped this building. I stand outside the gate, wondering if this was one of Uncle Musa’s grotesque jokes to embarrass the family.

I knock loudly on the varnished teak door. The house appears to be deserted. But a slightly built, sprightly old man soon appears from the side of the house. His thin face and smooth skin, oiled black hair and matching goatee make it impossible to guess his age. I know he is old because in my early childhood memories he is an adult. I get the impression that Nur has worn the same conical, perforated straw hat for all the years he has been with us.

He recognises me straight away. ‘Ah, Choto Babu!
Salaam
!’ he grins. ‘Rizwan said you were in the village.’

Nur leads me to the back of the house, where Uncle Musa is sitting bare-bodied under the sun. The skin on his torso hangs loose from his frame like sheets of dry leather. His massive head looks like a dried, overgrown coconut. The face is heavily wrinkled, but his eyes have not lost their burning vitality, that sign of his passion for living. He makes a slurping noise as he sucks the flesh of a ripe jackfruit. Juice streams down the fingers of both his hands. A young boy rubs his shoulders and the back of his neck with mustard oil.

Uncle Musa doesn’t believe in the formalities of greeting. ‘Have you brought me something to smoke?’ he demands, shooing the boy away.

Dutifully, I touch his feet. ‘How are you, uncle?’

‘Why do you ask? What have you heard?’ He growls.

‘Nothing. You look in good health.’

‘Do I?’ His voice softens.

I ask about his surviving children, Ruma, Nasser, Zahid, Arshad and Aziza, who are scattered around the globe.

‘They must be all well,’ he says indifferently. ‘They rarely come to see me. I get the odd letter and some photographs of my grandchildren and their children.’

I give him the box of Cuban
Partagas pantela
I bought in Singapore.

He perks up and tears the wrapping, impatiently clawing open the neatly packed box. Then, triumphantly, he holds up a cigar as though it’s a treasure of immense value. He peels off the plastic cover and runs the cigar lengthwise under his nose, savouring its aroma.

‘That is the smell of Paradise,’ he murmurs.

Nur steps forward. ‘Boro Sahib, the doctor has asked that—’

‘What do doctors know? My brother was a doctor. Look what’s happened to him!’ Uncle Musa snaps.

One of Nur’s great attributes is his ability to anticipate Uncle Musa’s everyday needs. Wordlessly he takes out a lighter from the side pocket of his shirt and holds the flame in front of the older man’s face.

Uncle Musa closes his eyes and inhales deeply. The lighted tip of the cigar glows vigorously. ‘You’re a good boy!’ he says. ‘Unlike that scoundrel of a brother of yours! Zia wants to run my life!’

‘I’m sure he means well.’

‘He always means well. For himself!’ He thrusts the plate of jackfruits in front of my face.

‘I’m not hungry,’ I say, recoiling from the pungent smell of the fruit.

‘I am. I have a strong appetite,’ he informs me, leaning forward in a defiant manner. ‘And it’s not for food alone. What do you say to that?’

‘You’re…ah…very lucky,’ I manage to stammer, moving back a couple of paces.

‘I have needs,’ he sighs, as though the world has conspired to deprive him of the essentials of living. ‘I need someone young and energetic to look after me. Am I unreasonable in my expectation?’

A crow caws on top of the roof and flies off—splattering its dropping on his shoulder!

Uncle Musa is momentarily silenced. Secretly I’m grateful to the bird for such a timely response.

‘Bastard!’ Uncle Musa yells then. ‘Even birds conspire against me!’

Nur wipes his back with a damp cloth.

I manage to regain my composure and take a deep breath. ‘Yes, I’ve been told you plan to marry again.’

He grins, exposing two yellowed canines that stick from his upper gum like mighty stalactites in a dank cave. ‘She finds me attractive,’ he says coyly.

‘We’re a little worried about the age difference. I believe she’s very young.’

‘Seventeen! My grandmother was married at a younger age. A person is alive as long as he can love. Why does age matter?’

I’m unprepared for the question. ‘We think…Well, there could be problems in the future.’

‘Like what?’ He leans forward and blows rings of smoke in my face.

‘Like…like inheritance, for instance,’ I say, keen to keep my argument relevant. I dare not mention the remote possibility of his fathering more children. ‘No one knows the assets you control. Shouldn’t they be passed on to the next generation?’