Spiral Road (14 page)

‘But there’s not much benefit in private floggings either. Unless you happen to be a masochist.’

‘Let’s just say that there was no glory in the experience. Nothing redemptive about it.’

‘But wars should be fought for monumental principles, not personal glory. Individuals make sacrifices for a better world.’ It’s as if he’s sounding me out, sizing me up. I resent being outmanoeuvred by a much younger man, yet curiosity strings me along.

‘Better for whom? Long-term suffering is what follows. Families are destroyed. The hurt and pain ripple across generations, and it’s often the innocent who bear the violence.’

‘But what if the cause is to end oppression and injustice? To rid the world of “civilised” exploitation?’

‘Nothing is worth the loss of lives!’ Our eyes clash.

‘Not even the end of recycled colonialism?’

I’ve angered Omar, but I’m not about to compromise my views on violence.

He sits up and clutches a pillow to his chest. ‘And yet, you chose to go to war for the freedom of this country. Was that a mistake?’

‘At the time I didn’t think so. I still don’t. But back then I knew nothing about the insidiousness of war, the way it can slowly wreck those who return, even as heroes.’

I gather my breath. Omar looks at me, then changes the subject.

‘Do you still want to come to see the factory, and the work I’m doing? It might get rid of some of the boredom.’

‘Well, yes! Seeing what Alya’s doing has inspired me,’ I say enthusiastically.

Omar looks serious. ‘You could even make some amazing discoveries.’

‘I’m at that age when I need adventure.’

‘If you have a few spare days, then it’s possible.’ He says cautiously, ‘Not an easy journey, mind you! No comforts. I’m driving back on Thursday, leaving in the evening when it’s a bit cooler and the traffic’s not heavy. We might go on a hike deep into the Hill Tracts.’

I’
M WATCHING
TV in my room.

The announcer, a young man who has evidently been educated in Britain, turns his attention to the next news item:‘
The body of the well-known journalist, Shabir Jamal, was found in a ditch near the airport. Police suspect foul play. Mr Jamal was known for his investigative…
’

I freeze, appalled. Then I rush downstairs.

‘There’s terrible news!’ I tell Zia. ‘Shabir Jamal’s been killed!’

A glass clinks on the table. Zia shakes his head. ‘He was an expert at making enemies.’

‘Is that all you can say?’

‘What do you expect me to say? I hardly knew the man. Shabir Jamal was a troublemaker. He spent time in America and Britain and thought that he was an investigative journalist. He indulged in far-fetched ideas.’

‘Did you read his piece on Bin Laden?’

‘Part of it,’ Zia replies indifferently. ‘He’d written that sort of thing before. Anyway, I’ll try to see Alya tomorrow.’ Zia heads towards the stairs as if he’s in a hurry. He climbs a few steps and then pauses. ‘Did I tell you I’ve to go to Bangkok for a few days? There’s a conference there.’

I hear the sound of Ma’s vigorous laughter from the TV room.

Shabir Jamal was tortured first before a single bullet was fired into the back of his head. There were bruises on his legs and arms. Burn marks on the back of the body and torso. He was involved in money laundering. Drugs are mentioned by excited TV announcers. He was the victim of an extortion racket. His death was a payback for exposing corruption in the government. Shabir Jamal had enemies among influential politicians. He was a man who knew too much and lacked discretion. The police carted away a laptop, DVDs, boxes of papers, audio and video tapes from his flat, which has been sealed off.

Without having known Shabir Jamal, I feel a tug of sadness for a life snuffed out with such brutality. I can’t help
wondering about the last few moments before he died. Did he beg to be spared? I think of the pain, fear and the irrepressible hope of that unique experience. Ultimately life owes every human a peaceful death. But sometimes it continues to play malicious games until the very last seconds.

‘Alya is a widow and Shabir was divorced,’ Nasreen tells me. ‘They couldn’t live together because that would have meant certain ostracism from their families. There can be no public expression of her mourning.’

Alya, says Nasreen, will grieve in silence, but it wouldn’t be surprising if she’s at work today in her shop in Tejgaon. Nasreen has spoken to her on the phone. She’s holding herself together.

‘What with?’ I ask. ‘A safety pin?’

I could visit the main branch of her shop, Chaya. Deliver our condolences. But I mustn’t go to her house because that might signify the recognition of a relationship that wasn’t meant to be. Besides, if neighbours saw me what would they make of an unknown man visiting her at home?

‘But no details about the way he died,’ Nasreen advises.

Despite the heat, I’m determined to walk, at least a significant part of the distance, to her shop.

I D
ON’T HEAR
the car pulling up beside me.

‘Want a ride?’

A dreaded voice. But I’m sweaty and tired. Without demurral I slide in next to him, on the backseat, and close
my eyes. The air-conditioned coolness soothes away any vestiges of resistance I’ve stored up against Steven Mills. He looks straight ahead and speaks tersely to the driver. What’s he up to now?

‘Let me give you a piece of advice, mate.’ He casually turns his head towards me. ‘There are things that you probably don’t know and don’t want to know. It would be better that way.’ He stubs the butt of a cigarette in the ashtray. ‘You’re a librarian taking some hard-earned long service leave. Enjoy it. You’re a dutiful citizen that every country needs. You work hard, pay your taxes and keep out of trouble.’

‘An insignificant cog in the mechanism of a democratic nation.’

‘If you want to put it like that. You’ve seen your family, but it’s time to move on to wherever you’re headed.’

I look out the window and consider if what he’s just said is an indirect threat. We’re in a part of town I don’t recognise. It’s nowhere near Chaya, judging by the directions Nasreen gave me. But clearly we’re headed somewhere. I decide to wait and see how things shape up before talking any more to him.

Soon enough, the sound of the car horn unnerves me. We’re driving slowly in under the porch of an obscenely large house, freshly coated in beige. A uniformed man, wearing white gloves, opens the car door for me. We climb a marble staircase fringed with potted plants that have been recently watered. I follow Steven Mills through a deserted foyer, into an ornately
furnished lounge room that’s bigger than my entire house in Richmond.

‘Where are we?’ I ask.

‘Beer?’ Mills responds. He looks pale and grim.

I should say no. ‘Thanks,’ I say wearily.

He leaves the room and I wander over to one of the full-length windows. The manicured lawn is fringed with raised flowerbeds crowded with yellow, pink, white and red. A high boundary wall hides all but the spindly branches of
krishnachura
trees beyond.

Mills comes back with a couple of cans. He tosses one to me. Cold Australian beer. Behind him, there’s another man. I recognise him from Dhaka Club. He’s wearing an open neck shirt and grey trousers, and carries a bulging folder.

‘This is Peter Nichols,’ Mills introduces us. ‘Masud Alam.’ He pronounces my name perfectly.

‘Hi.’ The American accent is unmistakable.

‘I’ll come straight to the point,’ Mills says. ‘I represent our government and Peter likewise is—’

‘Good euphemism,’ I interrupt scornfully. ‘How about ASIO and CIA? Or does that sound too much like a cheap spy thriller?’

Peter laughs softly. ‘Essential appendages of our governments.’

‘Names mean little,’ Mills says indifferently. ‘We think there’s a serious situation building up in this country. You’ve seen what happened to Shabir Jamal? So now we must move quickly. We think
you
may be able to help…I’ll be frank with you—’

‘Honesty? Is that a new code of conduct for spy agencies?’

‘We’re here with the full knowledge of the Bangladesh government,’ Nichols informs me, ‘searching for terrorist cells and training facilities in the country. It’s a nasty business. There are disturbing stories, about Bangali fundamentalists being trained here with the aid of foreigners.’

‘Where?’

‘We don’t know yet. One report suggests Sundarbans jungles. Another, somewhere north of Dinajpur, close to the Indian border. Intelligence is sketchy, but the government is keen to cooperate with us. Can’t say the same about the bureaucrats and the police force. We’ve had misleading information. Part of it has been deliberate.’

‘I’ve been following you from—’ Mills stops. I must look disturbed. ‘Hey, I do as my job requires. Nothing personal, okay? But I was advised that your name and Melbourne address were on a list found on a confiscated computer.’

‘What list?’ And then it strikes me…The invitation to the
majlis
of like-minded brothers.

‘There was a meeting.’ Mills looks at his notes. He reads out the date and address. ‘But you didn’t go.’

‘So, I
am
a terrorist suspect.’ I’m fazed beyond the point of anger. ‘Any male with a Muslim name and you turn into a hound.’

‘That’s true in some cases,’ Nichols says unapologetically. ‘We can’t afford to be negligent, even if it
sometimes means questioning, even harassing, those who aren’t involved.’

I turn to Steven Mills. ‘What else have I done to be under surveillance?’

‘Nothing. It’s a precautionary measure. We’re unable to ignore anyone’s name we come across. Bangladesh is potentially a problem area.’

‘It’s also your background,’ Nichols butts in.

‘My background?’

‘People with any experience of war are being actively recruited by terrorist groups.’

‘Why should anyone recruit someone of my age?’

‘It’s not because they want you to participate in an operation, but for your knowledge of guerrilla warfare,’ Steven Mills explains.

‘Who killed Shabir Jamal?’

‘Wish we knew,’ Mills replies promptly.

‘Was he working for you?’ I look at Nichols.

‘We have many eyes,’ Nichols replies casually.

‘And voices,’ I add, moving towards the door.

‘Just because we think you’re in the clear doesn’t mean that the rest of your family is,’ Mills calls after me.

I turn to face them again. ‘
Meaning
?’

‘I take it you’re seeing your brother after some time?’ Nichols takes over.

‘Yes.’

‘More than ten years?’

I nod. I’m not entirely surprised by the implication of what’s being said—I’ve had my private suspicions, after
all—but coming from these others gives the idea a painful pointedness.

‘And do you know what he’s been doing in that time?’

‘Same job, as far as I know. Is he a suspect?’

‘It’s kinda complicated,’ Nichols explains. ‘As you know, the pharmaceutical company he works for also produces medical accessories. Bandages and all kinds of stuff. We have reasons to believe that he’s been helping the Taliban and Al Qaeda, with supplies that he receives as samples. It could be that he’s been
duped
into believing that he’s helping innocent civilians caught in the border clashes between the Pakistani and US troops and the terrorists.’

‘You remember that night at the club?’ Mills asks.

‘I recall that both of you were there, talking to Shabir Jamal.’

‘Your brother spoke to a couple of men during dinner.’

‘We talked about this already. They were Zia’s business associates.’

‘They are former members of Pakistan’s ISI, forced into early retirement by the government,’ Nichols informs me.

‘Should that prevent them from running a business?’

‘Not at all,’ Nichols says. ‘But we’ve kept tabs on their activities. Among their interests, they claim to run a charity organisation.’ He takes a piece of paper from the folder.

‘Irfan and Sadiq live in Islamabad and Karachi. They own gun shops in the Kissakhani bazaar in Peshawar.
They’ve been to Waziristan six times in the last month. On at least four occasions they’ve crossed the border into Afghanistan.’

‘Some of their contacts in Pakistan are under suspicion,’ Mills adds.

I make a move to leave.

‘Do you want a lift home?’ Mills inquires.

I don’t reply.

‘A quiet brotherly talk may not be a bad idea,’ Nichols calls out as I open the door. ‘We’re prepared to be extraordinarily generous and think Zia made a genuine mistake. That is, if all supplies stop and we get some information. He has a good job. It’d be a shame if the company fires him. Don’t you think?’

‘Take care! We’ll talk again,’ Steven Mills says loudly. ‘If I don’t hear from you, I’ll phone you!’

A
FOOD VENDOR
tells me that we’re in Gulshan. He gives me directions to the main road, where I catch an auto-rickshaw to take me to Alya’s shop. She needs to know.

It’s a bumpy ride. I want the days to slip by quickly. I imagine boarding an aircraft that will wing its way westwards, taking me high over Pakistan and Afghanistan. I want to soar above all troubles. Air-conditioned hotels and luxury coaches. Tour guides who know how to please tourists. The comfort of well-stocked bars at the end of each day.

My family’s problems sweep over me. I’m drained of all desire to know where my brother’s allegiances lie. But I’m flustered by his business dealings. Abba’s condition can only deteriorate, and I feel for the fragility of Nasreen’s situation. For the moment she’s cushioned in middle-class comfort, propped up by Zia’s generosity. But what if something should happen to him?

I curb a sudden urge to run. It’s a familiar feeling. I’ve been good at it for a significant portion of my life.

‘Miss Ahmed is busy working on the accounts.’ The smile belies the firmness in her voice. The name tag reads Neera. She’s in her early twenties, with dark eyes and waist-length hair, thick and glossy black.

I introduce myself. ‘Miss Ahmed knows me. Could you at least give her my name?’

Compliantly, Neera retreats.

The air-conditioned shop is thick with the fragrance of attar and crowded with tourists. Sari-clad shop assistants glide between rows of bamboo and jute artefacts. There are piles of carpets and rugs, ornate cushion covers and cotton garments. Tablecloths, napkins, placemats, bed sheets and pillow cases. Glassed showcases
display jewellery of silver and semi-precious stones. Open shelves are stacked with papier-mâché and carved wooden boxes like miniature treasure chests, some with their lids open and brimming with earrings, bracelets, rings and necklaces. They are sinuously draped with silk scarfs that create illusions of loosely covered female bodies. I admire the workmanship of gleaming leather wallets, handbags and coin purses. It’s all like the fabled opulence of Ali Baba’s cave.

Neera sidles up to me and whispers, ‘Follow me, please.’

Through a door behind one of the counters is a small room, radiant with sunlight pouring through a double window. Alya sits at a table, working with a calculator. There’s a pile of cheques and bills in front of her. She looks up without smiling.

I say how sorry I am about Shabir. ‘He had the reputation of being a very fine journalist.’ It sounds hollow, but I can’t think what else to say.

‘He was honest and passionate about what he wrote. His journalism didn’t make him popular.’ Alya takes the phone off the hook. She motions towards a sofa in the corner of the room.

‘I admired his article in the newspaper the other day.’

‘On Al Qaeda? He paid dearly for writing it.’

I’m unsettled. ‘Does it have such a big presence here?’

‘How can anyone tell? Al Qaeda has affiliate groups. You can’t even begin to estimate their numbers. Or where they are. That’s their strength. They come from every
where and then form into small groups which then divide again.’

‘Did Shabir tell you that? No, don’t answer!’

‘I won’t.’

I wonder if I should tell her about Mills and Nichols, after all.

‘What will you do now?’

‘Do? What’s there to be done except continue the way I am. Pretend that my life is unchanged. Live as a successful businesswoman.’ She looks and sounds composed. Unwaveringly she meets my eyes.

I hesitate. ‘I don’t mean to sound patronising, but even successful people need to express their grief.’

‘How do you know what happens when I’m alone? I’m not as calm then as I perhaps look when I’m with people,’ she says. ‘Supposedly he was an acquaintance. Perhaps even a friend. But any more than that? It would be unacceptable.’

‘Can you live with that pretence now?’ Immediately I regret asking. It’s impertinent and too personal: she is my sister’s friend before mine. Besides, Alya’s in an invidious position. A widow, expected to lead a life of sexual abstinence and emotional detachment. Someone who is a role model for aspiring women in a developing nation. No personal failings. An image, an ideal that mustn’t be tarnished by having feelings or needs.

Alya’s an icon to be admired, but she must never stoop to the levels of ordinary human behaviour. And indeed, she doesn’t seem offended.

‘Dishonesty is a valuable tool of survival anywhere. I must go on pretending that my life hasn’t been affected…The dead don’t ever come back to advise those they leave behind, and, in my frustrated moments, I could almost believe that Shabir betrayed me with his intemperance…I lack the courage to declare the truth of my relationship with him. Besides, what good would it do? I’ll even have to wait a few days before I can visit his grave.’

‘Did he have family here?’

‘His parents.’ She hesitates. ‘Two sisters and a brother.’

‘Did you know them?’

‘I met them once. It wasn’t particularly pleasant.’ She looks at me as if expecting the sequential questions.

I remain silent.

‘Shabir’s family had a younger woman in mind for him to marry.’ Alya scowls as though recoiling from the memory of the family meeting. ‘To be seen with a widow wasn’t reputable for the family. He didn’t have children from his first marriage. His mother didn’t think I’d be capable of adding to her brood of grandchildren.’

How difficult it is to participate in someone else’s sorrow. I admire Alya’s acceptance, and imagine this mask of fortitude will slip into place whenever she goes into the outside world. Silence is the most sincere form of consolation I can offer.

She accompanies me outside. I tell her I’m going away for a few days.

‘Where?’

‘Chittagong and beyond. Into the wilderness of the Hill Tracts.’

‘Why?’ She frowns. ‘Who with?’

‘My nephew, Omar. He runs a textile factory somewhere near Chittagong. You’ve met him?’

‘Once, in your brother’s house. Be careful.’

‘It should be fun,’ I say enthusiastically. ‘I’m looking forward to exploring the undeveloped areas of the Hill Tracts. Passing through remote villages and hiking. Breathing unpolluted air.’

‘Don’t get too curious and go wandering off into the wilderness on your own,’ Alya warns. ‘
Khuda Hafiz
!’

I turn to look at her. She hurries back inside.

I think that if Mills and Nichols do come here, to question her about Shabir’s investigation, about what she knows, Alya will manage them tactfully and without being agitated. And if she thinks my visit today is odd—well, it need not matter. I’ve done what I thought was proper.

N
ASREEN HAS LEFT
a cardboard box and an explanatory note. There must be at least twenty keys of different sizes and shapes. Most of them are rusty and grouped together on souvenir key rings. A miniature Eiffel Tower. An emblematic Empire State Building. An African woman with a pot on her head. The Taj Mahal. Others are tied in bunches with dirt-crusted strings.

I leave the box in my room till this afternoon.
Downstairs, Ma is trying to feed Abba. Today he’s decided not to have his lunch.

‘Why won’t you eat?’ I ask.

‘Eat?’ He looks blankly at me.

‘Food,’ Ma says, picking up a spoonful of rice and fish and holding it near his mouth. ‘Will you have some of this? It’s nice!’

He presses his lips together and turns his head away. ‘No!’

‘Why?’ I ask.

‘I…slim and…and…handsome,’ he says impatiently, as though the motive for his lack of cooperation should be obvious to us.

‘I’ll try again later,’ Ma sighs. She takes the tray back to the kitchen.

Ma and I sit down to lunch. She tells me how on most days she eats alone. ‘I only have these chairs for company. There was a time when the dining table was always crowded,’ she reminisces. ‘An hour or two of food and talk and laughter. It brought us all together. We cared for each other then. There was never any hurry.’

‘It’s not that people don’t care.’ Strangely, I too feel the emptiness. ‘It’s the lack of time which makes things the way they are. We all try to do too much, to achieve as much as we can.’ Finite lives and infinite possibilities.

She’s astounded when I tell her about the park bench where I usually have my sandwich or salad roll. Read the newspapers. Watch the pedestrians and the traffic. This is a precious hour, to escape from human contact, to shed
work problems. It’s a sliver of the day away from a world that grinds on relentlessly, pursuing efficiency and success.

‘Don’t you get lonely?’

‘No. I want to be on my own.’

‘I don’t understand that.’ She looks away at the vacant chairs. ‘This is an early lunch for me. Today I didn’t bathe your father. He resists so much! It tires me.’ She is crestfallen. ‘By the time I’ve changed and fed him, it’s past two o’clock. Then I shower and say my prayers before eating. By then it’s nearly time for afternoon tea. Today’s an exception. I shall pray after lunch.’

I ask about Ma’s friends, and the marriages of distant cousins. I’m now officially a
nana
, she informs me. The daughters of two of my cousins, living in the tea gardens of Sylhet, have recently had babies.

Ma calls Latif to clear the table. I say I’ll be in the loft of the garage, looking for my university cricket blazer. ‘I’m certain it’s in one of the trunks. I’d like to take it back with me.’

‘I don’t know what’s in the loft. One day, when I have time, I’ll open the trunks and have a look.’

She shuffles off for the pre-prayer ablution.

It’s a hot afternoon. Mirza has disappeared for a smoke and a chat at the local tea shop.

With a torch and the box of keys, I make my way to the garage. The loft is solidly built and the ladder is sturdy timber. I turn on the light switches and climb up, tearing through the cobwebs that hang in space like films of mist.

A dust storm seems to have swept across the loft. It looks like no one’s been up here since the boxes and trunks were stored. I count nineteen trunks scattered across the floor, some stacked on top of others. Cardboard boxes and tea chests lean precariously against the walls, piled to the ceiling.

I don’t know where to begin.

The single light is dim, so I focus the torch on each trunk. There are three that look much older than the others. They are rusty, and buckled on the sides and fastened with padlocks. I begin with these. Randomly I take a bunch of keys and try them in the largest of the trunks. Two of the keys fit, but I’m unable to turn them.

One after another, the trunks refuse the keys. It’s muggy and airless. I sweat profusely and my irritability grows. I’m almost ready to leave Sumita and Rani wrapped in the mystery of my father’s past, buried in Abba’s flaws and youthful invincibility.

Exasperated, I think of throwing the keys back in the box. But maybe I should try and break the locks? Force my way into my father’s secrets, into neglected documents, photographs, revealing letters perhaps. But I’m nagged by the doubt that the trunks will yield anything significant.

Then I spot three keys strung together on a rusty chain.

The hinges of the first trunk creak as I open it. There’s a pile of old newspapers—limp and yellowed editions of
The Statesman
rejoicing in India’s independence. There are
bundles of receipts. Letters between my grandfather and Abba. I skim read half a dozen of these, and find the stillfamiliar themes.

One gives an account of a hunting expedition where Uncle Musa strayed into a neighbouring
zamindar
’s property and randomly shot wild pigeons and fowls. When a caretaker protested, he angrily fired a bullet over the man’s head. ‘
His obsession with
shikar
does not take into account the cost that it incurs. He insists on taking a brood of friends with him and paying for their expenses. There’s no moderation in my oldest son’s life
,’ my grandfather complains.

The other trunks are filled with official correspondence from various hospitals. Medical journals and reports, editions of the
Lancet
, more newspapers and inconsequential documents detailing the transactions in properties, stocks and shares.

At the bottom of the last trunk I find several photograph albums and three frayed, leather-bound diaries. Eagerly I turn the pages of the first album. The pictures are faded. Some are torn. Abba is easily recognisable. In one striking image, he’s dressed in hunting gear—a pith helmet, khaki shirt and trousers—with a double-barrelled shotgun under his left arm, an imitation of the stereotypical image of the white sahib. His left foot rests on top of a tiger’s head. Even in death, the big cat looks formidable. But it’s Abba’s posture that shows a side to him I didn’t know. He’s gazing into the camera, a smug look on his face. It exudes arrogance and
smugness. And…secrecy. I can’t help thinking that this is the conceit of a seasoned, colonial conqueror.

I don’t recognise the landscape. The hunting parties are notable for the absence of close family members. At the bottom of one of the pages, there’s a date: April 24th, 1950. The year I was born.

The second album opens with the photo of a passenger ship. The caption reads, ‘
Celicia
. Karachi. Just before embarkation.’ Then there’s an enlarged photograph of Abba sitting on deck. He’s in a white suit and his charcoal hair is slicked back. He looks boldly at the camera, as though daring the world to know him better than it does. There are pictures of the life of hedonism on board. Party hats, streamers and dances.

And pressed between two middle pages are folded receipts, the butts of two chequebooks and a slim notebook.

I hesitate momentarily.

In the notebook is a meticulous record of sums of money, with dates and the name
Sumita
scrawled next to each entry. I recognise Abba’s handwriting. The receipts are for clothing, perfume and jewellery.

I pause. Sumita. I’d forgotten that it’s a Hindu name.

There’s a letterhead slipped into the notebook, with only two handwritten words on it:
Dearest Sumita.
Why didn’t he complete the letter? Did someone interrupt him? Did guilt stop a love letter?

Why did he keep the almost blank sheet of paper?

I return to the album. Abba is photographed with a striking-looking woman, with long black hair and fearless
dark eyes. She’s wearing a light-coloured sari spotted with paisleys.

Sumita?

I study the photograph and draw unfavourable conclusions about the woman. I contemplate tearing it up. Then I see my anger; it’s masochism.

Other pictures. Abba has his arm around her shoulders. She holds an ice-cream cone in her right hand. Her left arm is coiled around his neck. They’re laughing as they stand in front of Pisa’s most recognisable landmark. On the steps of the British Museum…Somewhere in the Alps…In front of the Parthenon. Their gazes are clear, almost as if they’re aware that their shared time is limited.

The diaries may say more about Sumita. And then? How would I react if someone probed my past and made discoveries that I did not wish to be revealed? What right have I to judge someone’s private life, even my father’s? I know nothing about the circumstances that led to these pictures with Sumita. Was he dissatisfied with his family life, or a victim of that inexplicable restlessness of midlife?