Spiral Road (8 page)

He’s impervious to my hostility. ‘Take a piece of advice from a fellow Aussie, mate. Don’t get involved in anything you might regret later. You’ve a clean record. Keep it that way.’

‘It’s none of your affair what I do here!’ I explode.

‘Perhaps we can have a talk some time?’ He washes his hands, gives me a card and leaves.

‘What do you mean a clean record?’ I shout indignantly as the door shuts behind him.

I’m still fuming when I stride back to the table. Mills and his companions are nowhere to be seen.

My friends are arguing about the spate of recent bomb attacks in the city. Acceptance of this violence seems a condition of living in a politically uncertain country: rather than the gruesomeness of the destruction, it’s the possible motives and connections of the bombers that’s causing friction.

Zia and Sami are convinced that local and politically affiliated groups are responsible for communal instability and the disorder in the country, a drift towards anarchy.

Nizam is dismissive of their opinion. ‘Rubbish!’ he scorns. ‘Religious fundamentalists, with links to Al Qaeda, are the culprits! And they’re growing in alarming numbers. Take that fellow Bangla Bhai, for instance. He has openly told the press that he wants to form a Taliban-modelled religious government.’ Nizam turns to me. ‘We have a fairly liberal Bangla newspaper,
Prothom Khobor
. Its editorial once suggested that some madrassas are the training grounds for militants. Well! You should have seen the reaction! Protests and harassment of journalists, copies of the newspaper burned, demands that it be shut down.’

Fazal has been watching me with quiet amusement. He leans over and whispers. ‘We don’t discuss the arts or the stock market or the price of property any more.’

‘What’s the real cause of the violence?’ I ask.

‘It’s best not to worry about the growing confusion that grips us,’ Sami concludes. ‘Being Bangalis no longer gives us the same satisfaction of identity that we fought for. As a friend of mine said, “There are also Bangalis
across the border in India. We owe a great deal of our culture to them. The main difference is that most of them are Hindus. We need something more distinctive and independent. Something to define the
sui generis
nature of our people.”’

The conversation peters out and we slouch in our chairs, bloated with beer and rich food, gulping mineral water. The silence contains more than irreconcilable differences. It seems that each of us has decided to erect barriers around those experiences that cannot be shared. But perhaps it’s my obsession with privacy that makes me think this way. Do my friends have unrealised dreams? Do they, too, have a past to hide? There’s something fake about our friendship now. A sense of hollow ritual.

A uniformed chauffeur appears and stands behind Fazal’s chair. He coughs politely.

‘Ah, Belal! Time to go home. My wife never forgets to send the car. What would I do without Rashida?’ Fazal clasps my shoulder. ‘You don’t know what you’re missing, old friend. You must marry! We’ll be in touch.’

Sami stands to go too, clicks his heels and salutes me.

‘Sometimes I wish we could go back to those exciting times!’ Nizam sighs, looking at me with glazed eyes, as though attempting to stoke my enthusiasm for experiences we once shared. Alcohol makes him maudlin. ‘We were responsible for changing our world. If nothing else, we had noble motives. Utopian dreams.’

He begins to sing the national anthem. Fazal and Sami help him lurch towards the door.

‘
My golden Bengal, I love you,
’ I murmur, more out of curiosity than patriotism. The words sound shallow and unfaithful, as if I’m a fickle lover.

Suddenly I remember Steven Mills. Tipsy, I tell Zia what he had said about Irfan and Sadiq.

‘An Australian! How interesting! “A clean record,”’ he muses. ‘Sounds like a stern headmaster. What did he say he was?’

‘A businessman.’

Zia throws back his head and laughs. ‘The world’s full of people disguised as businessmen.’

‘Well, I don’t think he’s one,’ I admit. ‘Who do you think he really is?’

His eyes widen in mock ignorance. ‘Someone whose business it is to be moral, to be on the side of a
just cause
.’

‘What about Irfan and Sadiq?’ I persist.

‘What they were previously doesn’t bother me. Ours is purely a small venture to help those in need,’ Zia insists.

‘Sending supplies that might reach terrorists?’

‘Don’t be paranoid! Stop looking at the world with Western lenses. Take them off! You might see and understand things differently. Try relating to the thinking that shapes what we are in this part of the world.’

I follow Zia to the car, troubled by the possibility that Steven Mills might know more about my brother than I do.

‘An idle kitchen indicates a dysfunctional household,’ my ailing grandfather would say. In his final months, as he withered away, food became his only consolation. He would sit in a wheelchair with his shoulders hunched forward, as though in anticipation of what he could eat on that day. To the alarm of the rest of the family, he eventually abandoned all restraint and embarked on a sustained bout of gluttony. ‘I intend to continue enjoying the gift of food Allah has bestowed on life,’ he once told my mother when she tried to caution him against overeating. ‘It’s the surest way to Paradise. “Oh Thou Merciful and Compassionate Allah, your true servant has never rejected your bountiful blessings. My faith in your
generosity has never wavered.” Do you believe He will reject me after I say that to Him?’

This morning the pungent smell of freshly ground garlic, ginger, turmeric and cumin wafts through the dining room. I hear the grating noise of a heavy pestle crushing spices on a flat slab of stone mortar. Dada’s view about an active kitchen remains enshrined at the core of domesticity in our family.

Preparation for lunch and dinner has always begun as soon as the cook returns from shopping in the local bazaar. He then rattles off an account of how much has been spent on each item, with Ma checking the prices against a master list updated every week.

Today an argument flares after Mirza justifies the price hikes by reminding Ma of the devastating floods that crippled the country less than twelve months ago. Mirza squats on his haunches and produces the butt of a pencil from behind his right ear. This old custom too is still in place. To Ma’s annoyance, he wets the lead tip with his tongue. He consults a grease-stained notebook and ticks off each item of shopping.

‘Mirza, can you read and write?’ I ask.

‘Sometimes.’ He grins impishly.

‘When it suits him!’ Ma says impatiently. ‘Mirza, why are we paying so much for the bazaar every day?’

‘The shopkeepers want to make up their losses from last year,’ he explains phlegmatically, unruffled by Ma’s severe look and stern tone. He scrutinises the notebook again. ‘
Begum
Sahib, you owe me ten takas for the
gorom moshla
.’

‘You should go to several shops and compare the prices before buying!’

Mirza scratches his head as if in meek admonishment of Ma’s lack of logic. ‘But then I’ll be late with the bazaar and you will scold me.’

I wonder how much money Mirza has managed to scrape for himself today.

Mirza’s a survivor. He’s been here for four years, after Ma hired and fired eight cooks within a period of ten months. I understand why he hasn’t been dismissed. His protests are mild and he agrees obsequiously with most things that Ma says. It’s the sign of someone in surreptitious control. Mirza is tolerant of my mother, much in the same way as an adult might make allowance for a child’s petulant behaviour.

Ma ignores my request for plain toast. ‘I’m making your breakfast,’ she announces, heading into the kitchen.

I turn to Mirza. ‘How much money do you make on the bazaar every day?’

He looks offended. ‘Choto Babu, I’m an honest—’

‘Mirza!’

He scratches the back of his head and looks around furtively.

‘I won’t tell Ma.’

He grins apologetically, backs towards the door. ‘Choto Babu, just enough for my bidis, paan and afternoon tea at the stall where servants from other houses meet. It’s my only entertainment.’

My sister joins me at the table. Freshly made parathas and a spicy omelette with chopped green chillies and diced red onions appear within minutes. Nasreen has dry toast and pineapple juice.

I’m on my second cup of tea when the phone rings. I can hear Ma’s voice, cautious at first, then syrupy and compliant. She calls out to me.

It’s Alya, inviting me to go to the village factory on Monday. It’s a convenient arrangement, we agree. While she checks the accounts, talks to the workers and takes stock of supplies, I can visit Uncle Musa.

The conversation lasts no more than a couple of minutes. Yet it’s enough to send Ma into a swoon of encouraging words.

I look pleadingly at Nasreen. She continues to file her nails.

Over the years, I’ve been tempted to tell Ma about Mrs Bennett. I must find out if Jane Austen has been translated into Bangla. I would like to advise my mother that I don’t possess the large fortune necessary to qualify me for that famous universal truth.

I can guess the way Ma’s mind is working. A whirlwind courtship is to be followed by a brief period of engagement and a grand wedding. It wouldn’t surprise me if she has already started preparing a guest list. I ignore her praise of Alya’s personal virtues and escape to the lounge to read the newspapers. But this only excites Ma’s attention.

‘There’s no need to be embarrassed,’ she coos,
following me to the lounge. ‘Alya’s a fine person. Very caring and generous. She’s still capable of having children.’

‘Ma, I’m going with her to see her cottage-industry factory! It’ll also give me the chance to see Uncle Musa. That’s all I’m interested in.’

Distracted, Ma presses the palms of her hands against her cheeks. ‘May Allah forgive Musa Bhai for his sins.’

‘Allah allows him four marriages. As Uncle Musa says, he can marry once more before committing a sin.’

‘But that stupid girl is young enough to be his great-granddaughter!’ she protests. ‘What will people say?’

‘They’ll probably be envious of his virility.’

She presses her lips together and does not speak.

I’m quite looking forward to seeing old Walnuts.

I return to the city’s leading English newspaper. There have been bomb blasts in Baghdad and Kabul. I’m attracted to the bold print that summarises today’s feature article on pages seven and eight. ‘WHERE IS HE?’ Under the headline there’s a photograph of Bin Laden.

‘When are you going to Manikpur?’ Ma asks.

‘Monday.’

Bin Laden has a look-alike and never stays in the same place for more than a few days, the writer, Shabir Jamal, contends. Sometimes he moves twice or thrice on the same night. A chain of guards and messengers is constantly on watch for army patrols. Communication is only by word of mouth. Fit young men are trained to run stealthily and whisper information and instructions beyond the reach of satellite intelligence. According to
Jamal, cell phones are only used for conversations that are intended to mislead and confuse: often there is veiled talk about attacks on Western nations when no such plans exist. The purpose is to maintain a state of panic and financially bleed the rich countries.

I’m curious. How does Shabir Jamal know? Or is this speculative journalism?

‘Shall I get Mirza to prepare some food to take with you to Manikpur?’ Ma hovers near me.

‘They’ll probably be back before lunch,’ Nasreen interrupts, then grabs her bag and rushes off to work.

Ma ignores Nasreen’s comment. ‘You could stop somewhere for a picnic lunch with Alya.’

I raise the open pages of the newspaper in front of my face.

There’s intriguing information about fractious divisions within the Pakistani army. I’m not familiar with the names of the conservative generals who are supposedly biding their time before they move against the government. For the moment, it seems, they find it easier to work surreptitiously behind a façade of cooperation with Pakistan’s Western allies. Jamal concludes the article by raising a number of questions that haven’t occurred to me. So far I’ve assumed that Bangladesh, despite its overwhelming Muslim population, has been beyond any serious threat from Al Qaeda. The country’s not entirely stable, but that’s because it’s mired in its own political and social problems. The demonstration I saw the previous day was no more than a mark of disaffection with the West.
But Jamal’s story worries me. He suggests that if Al Qaeda has established its presence in Indonesia and, to a lesser extent, in Malaysia, then it’s logical to conclude that it will seek a base in Bangladesh. One more link in the chain of terrorism. Another front for America.

Judged by any standards of combat, David should be no match for the giant Goliath. But the expected single killer blow never lands. What happens if David manages to slip under Goliath’s defence every so often and inflict minor wounds on those massive legs? If there are a hundred bleeding wounds, won’t Goliath be weakened? How long would he be able to stand up? Al Qaeda does not have the resources or the power to suddenly knock out the West. Its leaders know that. Theirs is a long-term plan. Twenty or thirty or even fifty years would be of no consequence to them. They plan to establish themselves all around the world, especially in those countries in the region of southeast Asia where their presence is limited—Singapore, Australia and New Zealand. The ideology is gathering momentum. It will continue attracting discontented young Muslims and opening more cells. Their method will be to use hit-and-run tactics. Be a nuisance and inflict injuries and damages whenever and wherever possible.

The analogy isn’t outrageous. He’s a curious fellow, this Jamal.

M
A IS DELIGHTED
when I offer to bathe Abba that afternoon. It’s an everyday routine that’s carried out with a great deal of fuss. Abba refuses to have a shower because he’s scared of the jets of water streaming down on him. He can be coaxed into the bathtub, but only if it’s no more than a third full. Otherwise he won’t step in.

Ma pours two capfuls of liquid soap and bath oil in the tub before running the taps and checking that the water is at the right temperature. Abba wants to climb in with all his clothes on. Ma cajoles him to strip, telling him how soft and clean he’ll be after the bath. Abba laughs as though the flattery is a private joke that only he understands. We have to straighten his legs once he’s in the tub and gradually run more water in until it covers his shoulders.

‘Your father likes to be sponged,’ Ma instructs me. She hands me a yellow towel dotted with purple flowers, and a bright pink sponge. ‘He’s like a child,’ she explains. ‘He likes bright colours.’

Suddenly there’s a despairing cry from Abba. He wants Ma to stay and bathe him. I sit on the edge of the tub and watch him kicking his legs. He reaches out and grabs my hand, pulling me towards him.

‘No, Pyareh!’ Ma admonishes him gently, stroking his head. ‘Masud cannot get into the tub with you.’

Abba looks bewildered. Then howls, ‘I want to…to…’, frustrated with his inability to complete the sentence.

‘Play?’

‘Play!’ He grins.

‘Later, Pyareh. He can play with you later.’

Pyareh.
Beloved. Ma’s private nickname for him. It’s been years since I heard her call him that.

I rub Abba’s back and he squeals with pleasure and splatters me with foamy water. Getting him out of the tub is also difficult. He tucks his knees to his chest and crosses his arms to clutch his shoulders. Ma allows him to sit in that posture of defiance for a few minutes before she bribes him with foil-wrapped chocolates. Tamely, he complies.

I’m exhausted by the time we dry Abba and get him dressed. I now understand the enormity of what Ma has to do for him. I return to the lounge as she bounds away to the kitchen, to tackle Mirza again.

I reflect on Ma’s generosity and interminable energy, which appear to spring from her conviction of togetherness and the well-being of the family. Her activities are directed outwards, towards those who matter to her. If manifestations of her love are overwhelming and sometimes seem imprudent, it’s because the intensity of such caring doesn’t exist in other areas of life. Ma does not love from behind a protective shield. I’m incapable of opening up to people in the way she does. Ma isn’t afraid of being vulnerable and doesn’t measure relationships in terms of what she can gain. If her feelings are hurt, she doesn’t hide the pain or seek revenge. She stumbles over the setback as though it’s one of life’s quirky tests of fortitude and moves on without storing any resentment.

By comparison, I’m timid and wary. It’s not an uplifting realisation.

The rest of the morning passes in an unfamiliar cocoon of inactivity and boredom. There’s a generous span of time for thinking and brooding, creating confusion and regrets. If only…I complete the sentence in a number of ways, for both the present and the future. It’s a teasing mind game, one which I don’t win.

O
UTSIDE, THE FIERCE
heat must be debilitating. An afternoon nap is mandatory.

Between waking and sleeping I’m mired in distant reality. The years that have passed in my Richmond house. The mechanical grind of habit. Amelia and her initiatives to pull me out of the weekly rut. Like the times she suddenly turns up in the middle of the week and convinces me to go out for a bowl of noodles and then to the movies. Or to a lecture on art. Sometimes we go to a recital.

Where are she and I headed? I can’t envisage living in the same house with two teenaged girls. That’s not to say that I don’t like Angela and Skye. They’re friendly and lively kids with their own agendas in life. They take great delight in my resistance to owning the latest sound system and my ignorance about pop culture.

I can almost hear the stereo in full blast, pounding out noise and shouting in a language I don’t understand. One of their aims is to teach me to dance hip-hop. I imagine
the physiotherapy that will follow, then the hefty bill. I’m determined not to give in. They often advise me to loosen up and go with the flow. If only my generation could learn to be cool!

Life on an ice block. Melt away with it.

And I often remind them that I’m from the tropics and that chilly experiences would not suit me! Our banters are always good-natured and superficial, but that’s because I never stray into the territorial centre of their personal lives, where things can become serious and occasionally ugly.

It hasn’t always been this way.

When I first met the girls, they responded to me with sullen anger. Their father had been killed in a car accident several years earlier, and they retained strong memories of him. I made allowance and pretended not to hear the snide remarks. Then one evening Amelia asked me to pick the girls up from a party.