Spiral Road (22 page)

Gradually Abba settled back into his professional and domestic life, with a grudging acceptance of his circumstances.

I will not cross Fate again. As I sit here at my desk, waiting to be called for dinner, I wonder if the years will take away some of the memories and the pain of loss. I cannot say how I feel about Sumita’s revenge. She was never in doubt of what I had to do. For my noncommitment, she has imposed the severest of sentences on me. In this state of imprisonment, I shall always be haunted by glimpses of Rani growing up without knowing her father. Will I ever be able to find an outlet for my guilt? There’s Rabeyah calling…Dinner with the family. Tonight and tomorrow…I will always imagine an empty place at the table. My other children will mature. The years will grind on. Will there ever be respite from the life I carry deep inside me?

I look out at the forest and wonder if Abba might have been as hurt and bewildered if he had left us and gone with Sumita.

My eyes feel tired. The faint sound of
prui
caresses the melancholy of approaching dusk. The Mrus are musical people, I’ve learned, and the bamboo flutes are usually played by young women. Their music sounds beyond entertainment. They could be practising an ancient form of self-therapy.

I D
ON’T KNOW
how long I’ve been dozing. The damson darkness is confronting. It looms as a patient adversary, waiting for me to take up its challenge.

Hands lift a flap of canvas. There’s a scraping noise. I step outside. Bal passes me an aluminium plate with stale
ruti
, thickened dhal and a couple of spoonfuls of potato curry. Above-average prison food.

There’s a light in the tent where I met Amin Haider. I eat and watch the shadows moving inside. Bal has disappeared, perhaps to his own dinner. I finish and step around my tent and hide behind the closest bamboo trees. I can hear Omar arguing with Amin Haider.

‘You have my word on it!’ Omar pleads. ‘He won’t say anything!’

‘I don’t trust him as you do.’ Amin Haider speaks matter-of-factly. ‘You’ve made the kind of mistake we cannot afford. What makes you think you’re right this time?’

‘I’ll extract a promise from him. He won’t do anything that might harm
me
. I’m family, remember? We have an unbreakable code of behaviour.’

‘I’ll have to think about it.’

‘He has to go back. As it is, the military police will be looking for Steven Mills. Shabir Jamal’s death has added to the complications…It wasn’t supposed to be like that! I thought he was only meant to be roughed up. Am I right?’ Omar demands aggressively.

‘I had no control over what happened. That was someone else’s decision.’ Amin Haider’s responses are calm.

‘Well, my father would add to the problems, if he alerted the police that my uncle was missing.’

‘I have to meet the Kashmiris now,’ Amin Haider says quietly. ‘I’ll talk to you again, after I’ve seen them.’

I slip back into my tent.

For the next few minutes there’s movement outside.

Then I give in to temptation. I grope towards the trees, and stop at the wooden sign. The thrill of locating this piece of wood nailed to the tree is immeasurable. Now, the track—

Suddenly hands grab me. The beam of a torch searches my face.

‘I was only out for a walk,’ I explain, as I’m roughly pushed towards my tent.

A jackal’s howl pierces the quietness of night.

A hand clamps down on my mouth. My shoulders are pinned to the mattress. I can feel the pressure of a leg across my stomach.

I struggle to break free.

‘Quiet,’ he whispers.

Panic subsides. Now I’m more worried that it must be dawn. The opportunity to escape has gone. But then I hear the jackals again. They’re nocturnal hunters.

Omar removes his hand and takes his weight off me. I struggle to sit up.

‘You have to leave now! With Nandit. He’ll escort you to Bandarban. From there, you’ll both be driven to Dhaka.’ He speaks with uncharacteristic haste. ‘I’ve put the
battery back in the mobile. Your things are in the backpack.’

‘Can Nandit be trusted?’ I’m breathing heavily.

‘As much as anyone. He’s loyal to me and knows his way through the forest. He’s already supposed to have left for Dhaka with messages.’

I fumble with my shoelaces. ‘Amin Haider?’

‘I’ve promised that you won’t say anything! He’s agreed to your leaving in the morning.’

I stand up. ‘What about you?’

‘Go quickly!’ Omar pushes me outside.

‘You could also leave.’

Omar peers in the darkness. ‘Nandit?’

The silhouette of a man appears from behind the tent. The end of a short rope is tied around my left wrist. Nandit firmly grips the other end.

‘I’ve filled your water bottles,’ Omar whispers. ‘You haven’t seen any of this. The factory’s fine and we had a good time in Chittagong…I’m depending on you.’ My nephew’s a proud man, unwilling to show any fear for his own safety. Yet I think I detect a faint tremor in his voice.

‘Will I see you before I fly out?’

Omar hugs me. ‘Goodbye, Uncle.’

I feel a tug on my wrist. Nandit is anxious to leave. I peer through the pale light of the peppermint moon. He makes jabbing movements with his hand.

We head towards the stream and then circle widely, deep into the forest. Nandit follows a straight line for some time and then swings to the right. We begin a steep
climb. This route must meet up somewhere with the path into the camp. I guess we’re cutting short a good distance of the track and probably avoiding a guard, as well.

The moon disappears behind a band of clouds.

Several times I look over my shoulder. Always then there’s a tug on my wrist. My steps quicken. The darkness of the forest feels like a viscous obstacle.

I
T’S A GLUM
morning. Billowy grey clouds hover overhead as I stagger up the incline towards the clearing behind the factory. My feet are swollen and the blisters are beginning to hurt. The urgency to get away has kept me going.

Nandit unties the rope and gestures with his hands. I stay hidden among the trees while he ventures cautiously to the front of the factory.

I don’t know how safe I am, but even from this distance the shadow of Amin Haider stretches across my life.
Our
lives. I’m not confident that Omar has the ability to extricate himself from this dreadful mess. I don’t know how safe I am, or what else I could have done for him. The question continues to pester me. Did I try hard enough to persuade him to leave?

I feel as though Amin Haider is watching me from behind a nearby tree. Nervously I look around and then creep closer to the edge of the forest.

What makes such a man dangerous is his assumption that those who come in contact with him will be won
over by his ideas, and will collaborate with him. He probably demands a fanatical loyalty from the men he leads. I recall the silky quality of Amin Haider’s ruthlessness. Yes, he’s capable of charming people into savagery, efficiently implemented, with minimal mess. A gesture or even a look and the job would be done.

I wonder who trained him.

My thoughts drift back to Omar and the reasons he’ll have to offer for my early departure. I shall gladly remain quiet to ensure his safety. But how will he survive Amin Haider’s scepticism, the measures the man might take to protect his organisation?

Competing voices echo inside me. Steven Mills had asked me about loyalty. If it could be equitably distributed, without causing harm, I would fragment my commitments without hesitation.

I picture Flinders Street station on a weekday morning. Busy commuters, their day already mapped out. Then, under a bench or in a garbage bin…in an obscure corner…

W
ITHIN MINUTES
I’
M
in front of the factory, where a four-wheel-drive awaits us. Jamil, the driver, speaks fluent English, but wastes no time with pleasantry. He has instructions to have me in Dhaka before sunset. Nandit leaps into the back seat of the car, impatient to get away.

Jamil’s nervous mannerisms make me think we could encounter problems. His hands twitch and his eyes dart in
every direction, even when he’s talking. Bandarban is deserted. In light morning traffic, Jamil speeds up along the road to Chittagong. I turn frequently to look through the rear window. There are no vehicles behind us.

We make a couple of roadside stops, but not a word is spoken for the next eight hours.

Approaching Dhaka, Nandit taps the back of the driver’s headrest. The car pulls up on the side of the road. The tribesman leans over, whispers to Jamil, then opens the door and jumps out.

We speed away.

Jamil takes a number of detours and finally stops in front of a one-storey house in Gulshan. He leads me through the gate and opens the front door. We enter an empty house and go out a back entrance, into a narrow lane.

‘That rickshaw will take you home.’

Then Jamil hurries back inside and slams the door shut.

I’m left standing in front of a toothless old man. He knows exactly where I live. He informs me of the dangers on the roads. People have been injured by the recent bomb blasts. He’s risking his life to take me home. I assure him of extra payment.

‘How much?’ He wants to know before we start.

I offer fifty takas.

He’s already been paid the fare, he tells me then, but I can give him a baksheesh. From the folds of his lungi, he produces a crumpled paper flag and holds it in front of my
face. Some of the stars have faded. The stripes are discoloured. ‘
Theen
!’ he says, shaking three fingers of his left hand.

The old fellow knows which currency will fetch a top price on the black market.

Armed soldiers roaming the streets are a comfort. Dhaka will be peaceful and safe until security is relaxed again. By that time I should be in Istanbul.

The
darwan
greets me with the news that Zia rang from the airport to say he’ll be home soon. I hear Ma haranguing Mirza about a sack of rice that’s gone missing. Nasreen isn’t back from work yet, but the TV is blaring in the children’s room. I tiptoe up the stairs, immensely relieved that I don’t have to stop and talk to anyone.

I lock the bedroom door and call Steven Mills. There’s no response. I’m still clutching to the faint hope that he hasn’t already left for Sundarbans.

I strip off my clothes and stand under a hot shower. It’s as much a gesture as it is the daily ritual of cleansing. I’m frantic to wash off the last two days, to see them gurgling down the drainpipe. But the thoughts cling, tenacious as parasites.

Surely I don’t know enough to be considered a threat to Amin Haider? I didn’t hear names or see where the militants trained. I’ve no idea about their methods, or their arsenal. I saw only a few faces. Omar has said nothing to endanger the camp. They gave away no details of their plans and infrastructure…But there’s little consolation in this reasoning. It’s Amin Haider who will
ultimately assess the risk I pose. And though Omar has guaranteed my silence, I’ve damaged his leader’s pride.

I recall the note, so long ago, inviting me to the
majlis
. Terrorist cells work independently, I reassure myself. How likely is it, then, that a message, with a name and an address, will get through to faceless strangers, somewhere in Melbourne? But then, if information can travel in the opposite direction, from Melbourne to Steven Mills…

If I say what I know, I betray Omar. But to shelter a—I find it difficult to use the word on a family member. The time for euphemisms, however, has passed—to shelter a terrorist…The Alams have consistently demonstrated too much frailty to give ourselves a glowing moral report. But we’ve never seen someone like Omar in our midst. I wish he was a concept. An ideal that could be abandoned. But he’s flesh and breath. Heart and love. He’s family.

Which then is more reprehensible? Silence or betrayal?

Lying to Zia will be the trickiest of all. I cannot believe he doesn’t have suspicions. So he must be taking some consolation in ignorance of Omar’s life. And I feel obliged to keep the truth from him.

M
Y BROTHER LOOKS
unusually cheerful as he sits at his table, working on the laptop. ‘That was a quick trip! What happened?’

‘In Bandarban there’s only the Tribal Cultural Institute
.
And there wasn’t any point in stopping in
Chittagong. The place hasn’t changed much. It’s more crowded than I remember.’

‘And Omar’s factory?’

‘Well organised and productive. He is a considerate boss.’ At least I don’t have to lie about that.

Zia grunts with parental satisfaction.

I ask him about Bangkok.

‘Highly profitable!’ he beams, pointing to a chair. ‘My contract’s been renewed for another three years. I was expecting only a year!’

‘Congratulations.’

‘It means I’ll be able to retire without undue worries.’ He pats his stomach contentedly. ‘The tiles and the bathroom fittings have arrived. The new house should be ready for renting out in a couple of…You look troubled. Is there a problem?’

I’m selective about what I say. ‘I was with Omar most of the time in Bandarban. He’s lonely. You should encourage him to spend more time here.’

Zia looks downcast. Is this his greatest torment? ‘I’ve tried. But he’s determined to keep a distance from us, especially me. Whenever I suggest that we should get together, he says he has no time. I’ve offered to visit him. Pay for the two of us to have a holiday overseas. Visit Afreen. Go to Mauritius, or wherever he wants.’

‘Maybe you could make him feel important in the family.’

‘How?’

‘Give him responsibilities. Let him decide about the land that’s left to us. Ask him what should be done with the two houses in old Dhaka.’ I’m not the least bit confident that this will stop Omar from being a zealot. But it might give my brother a bit of encouragement; it could bring him closer to observing Omar.

Ponderously, Zia fingers his beard. ‘Is he mature enough to make such decisions?’

‘That’s precisely the sort of attitude that’s plagued generations of our family!’ I answer tersely. ‘What is it with us? As the Alam men grow older, we want more control! More power!’

Once, Zia would have responded irascibly to the merest suggestion that he could be a control freak. But now he only swivels to his right and whirls the globe on its axis.

I wait for the pause to wear itself out.

‘There are times when I feel as if everything is spinning out of control in my life,’ he says dejectedly, turning around to face me again. ‘I try to hold everything together, even as I flounder…Masud, I fear Omar is beyond my reach. I should’ve done more to make him feel wanted—but I didn’t know how! We relied on Zeenat to connect us. After she died, well, we stopped communicating. We went into our private shells, to hide the hurt. I should’ve reached out to him, but somehow it didn’t seem like a manly thing to do.’

‘Call and invite him to stay with you…Just give him some of your time.’

‘What’s he involved in?’

The question is so abrupt that I’ve no time to manoeuvre towards an ambiguous reply. Zia watches me like a hunter who can wait, knowing that his prey cannot escape. Suddenly I resent being bogged down, being forced to scheme and lie because Zia can’t communicate with his son. But my indignation is short-lived.

Blood ties. I have to be involved.

And meanwhile my brother has extracted an answer from the silence. ‘He’s in trouble, isn’t he?’

Zia, I suspect, wants me to contradict him. ‘Omar doesn’t seem to think so.’

‘I’ve lost him,’ he says then, bitterly.

‘I wouldn’t say that.’

‘How long will he survive? Six months? A year?’

I must abandon my clumsy strategy. ‘What do you know of terrorists here?’

‘Just the rumours I’ve heard.’

‘Some of what you’ve heard is not rumour.’

‘My God! I kept hoping he wouldn’t be mixed up in something dangerous.
Why
?’ Zia looks haggard and defeated.

I tell him what I know. ‘He was bitter and his pride was badly bruised. It was the worst time for him to travel in parts of the Middle East. He related to what he saw there. He met angry young men, saw their despair and commitment.’

‘Why did he tell you and not me?’

‘Well I guess because he knew I was in the liberation
war. Then he saw how keen I was to know about him and what he was doing.’

I’ll never mention Omar’s attempt to recruit me.

Suddenly Zia grabs my arm. ‘I want your promise that you won’t say anything to anyone. Understand?’

‘Yes,’ I say faintly, conscious of Saladin’s gaze, and my own emptiness.