Spiral Road (9 page)

I waited half an hour in a street in Surrey Hills. When the girls finally emerged from the house and staggered to the car, it was clear that they were drunk. Even before we turned into Canterbury Road, Angela threw up in the back seat. By the time I’d gathered some rags from the boot of the car, it was Skye’s turn to retch and heave and puke on the nature strip. I turned off my mobile and drove them to Richmond, where we washed and cleaned up before heading home to Hawthorn.

Amelia was waiting at the front entrance with one of those ‘It had better be a damn good explanation’ looks.

‘Sorry!’ I said cheerfully. ‘Flat tyre along the way!’

‘You could’ve called me!’ Amelia said crossly. ‘Why was your mobile off?’

‘I forgot to charge the phone.’

The girls looked at me appreciatively and disappeared into the house.

Angela, Skye and I began a new relationship after that evening. Camaraderie developed among us. They gradually included me in conversations about their pleasures and problems. I rarely offer them advice. I’m more like a padded wall they can bounce off without being hurt.

These days I don’t make a hasty exit from the house whenever there’s a quarrel. I’ve learned to become a bystander in the bouts of glaring, screaming, swearing and door slamming. The problems are common enough and the acrimonies are inevitable. Staying out late, alcohol, academic performance, clothing and make-up, money, boyfriends, tidying up rooms—all part of the conundrum of growing up. I comfort Amelia and speak to the girls as though nothing has happened, maintaining a calm façade, though it does little to alleviate the tension. Eventually the verbal darts stop flying across the kitchen.

What makes it all bearable is that I can escape, to the frigid silence and the lonely sanity of my own home. I have the luxury of not being a parent. But somehow, there’s not much satisfaction in that.

S
OMEONE’S AT MY
door.

‘Yes?’ I’m taken aback by a stranger’s presence.

The man looks at me affectionately, extending his left hand. ‘Uncle! How are you?’

‘Omar? What a pleasure!’ The formal handshake gives way to a warm hug. I’m fascinated by this muscular, bearded figure, dressed in jeans and white T-shirt, with a skullcap perched on his head. ‘You look like a hip mullah! Only a little more radical than your father!’

Through these years I’ve continued to think of my nephew as a slow moving, bony youngster, a boy exceptionally mature for his age, critical of our extravagant ways and the family’s treatment of peasants.

‘Well, when you’re among the locals…You know how it goes.’ The nervous mannerisms have disappeared. His voice has deepened and there’s lupine alertness in his bearing as though he’s forever ready to be confronted by the unexpected. ‘You look well.’

‘Liar! You mean you detect advance signs of decay.’ We laugh and talk fondly about the time Omar spent with his parents and sister in Australia.

Omar stands straight and looks me in the eyes with the confidence of someone who has discovered a surety of purpose in his life. He’s curious to know how I plan to spend my time in Dhaka.

I tell him about my impending visit to the village to see Uncle Musa.

‘Oh him!’ he says contemptuously.

‘You’ve never approved of the old fellow,’ I observe. ‘Even as a child you wouldn’t want to visit him.’

‘He’s a selfish man, a symptom of what’s gone wrong with us. I’ll never forget the way he treated the younger servants in his house.’

‘In some ways I’ve admired the intensity with which he’s lived,’ I confess. We talk about how Uncle Musa’s life has always run at a tangent to the rest of the world, how he hasn’t allowed age to change his behaviour, as if he’s in a frenzied denial of mortality—one man in perpetual defiance of everything that society views as normal.

‘But you, now. Your father’s disappointed that you chose to come back. He tells me you had a good job in the States.’

‘I lost the desire to live there after September 11.’ Omar pauses, reflecting. ‘Before that no one bothered about religious differences. But things changed overnight. And I didn’t make any effort to hide the fact that I was a Muslim, even though I didn’t practise Islam. That wasn’t wise.’

‘Your father thinks you threw away a lucrative career.’

Omar talks about the textile factory, and the success it’s having. ‘I’m very pleased with the way it’s worked out,’ he says proudly. ‘The people I employ are incredibly hardworking. We have an agreement by which the women go home early to take care of their domestic chores. I’ve persuaded a few of them to attend school in the evening.’

‘You wouldn’t be too popular with the men.’

‘Strangely, most of them seem pleased with the arrangement. The regular money that the wives and daughters bring in helps to placate the men. Mind you, the women complain that their husbands take all the wages and spend it on gambling or buying livestock. Nothing like catering to greed, whether it’s in the States or in a developing country,’ Omar chuckles. ‘I’m trying to get a bank to open a branch in the nearest post-office…So, anyway, the factory serves an objective I believe in.’

I nod enthusiastically. ‘At least one of us is capable of giving up so much for a principle.’

‘Once you went to war for freedom,’ he reminds me. ‘What greater principle can there be?’

‘I’d like to visit the factory.’

Immediately his body language is different—he becomes tense. ‘It would be difficult to take you there.’

I’m uneasy about the way he looks at me, as though assessing me on an exhaustive checklist he has compiled, to judge my suitability for the trip.

‘I’m not expecting a luxury holiday,’ I say to overcome his reservations.

‘Even the nearest town is remote. There’s no easy access to the factory. Living conditions are primitive,’ he warns.

Omar’s reticence goads me to persist. ‘I’d still like to go.’

He smiles broadly. ‘Perhaps it might fire you up. Make you believe in something worthwhile once again. Yeah?’

We talk about local politics as we head downstairs. He seems remarkably well informed about the government. Then the conversation turns to Iraq, and Australia’s involvement in that country.

‘Do you mind if I ask you something very personal?’ The politeness of his question contrasts with his firmness of tone.

‘You may. But it’s my choice whether to answer.’

We’re interrupted by Ma at the bottom of the stairs. She’s delighted to see her grandson. Omar greets her affectionately and with the familiarity of a special intimacy. He’s vague and guarded about his own activities but humours Ma in everything she says. He seems able to talk at length about most things that interest her.

Ma is about to go to the hospital to visit an ailing friend. I’ve promised to look after Abba while she’s away.

‘Ever think of becoming a diplomat?’ I ask Omar when he returns after farewelling Ma at the door.

‘Dadi is old and feels neglected sometimes. You have to feed her illusions to keep her happy.’ Omar, I see, has acquired resilience, and a cunning intelligence.

We check on Abba. He’s sleeping soundly.

I tell Omar that I hadn’t expected him to have changed as much as he has. ‘I didn’t think your father would be so different either.’

‘He’s quietened down since my mother died. It affected him deeply. We don’t communicate too well.’ There’s regret in Omar’s voice. ‘He questions everything I do. He still hasn’t accepted my decision to leave the States.
He keeps at me about family loyalty. About sacrifices and looking after each other.’ Suddenly he turns to me. ‘I was going to ask you something before…’

‘Yes?’

‘Have you ever spoken to my father about what happened to you during the war?’

‘Not really. There wasn’t much that I wanted to say. Besides, he was in the States when the war ended. I returned to civilian life. A year and a half later I was headed for Australia.’

‘And yet he swears that something happened to change
you
.’

‘Isn’t change the one certainty we can’t escape? Anyway, war just accelerates it in those who go to battle…It’s a catalyst. What you expect and what you confront are entirely different.’

‘But what exactly happened? I mean to
you
. Besides the killing and the maiming.’

‘Isn’t that enough?’

‘I suppose,’ he says dubiously.

‘You can create illusions of nobility and great deeds, and hide behind them. But recollections and the guilt surface later. You feel stained and dirty.’ I regret mentioning guilt. It makes me susceptible to his probing.

‘I’ve met other freedom fighters who’ve spoken of those nine months in 1971 with great excitement, almost with reverence…They too must have experienced the brutality.’

I sense that I’m being cornered. ‘I’m sure in their quieter moments they also reflect on the darkness of those
months. It’s not something that combatants want to discuss. I certainly don’t.’

‘Sometimes wars are necessary mistakes, to serve a greater purpose, don’t you think?’

That stare again—gauging and probing.

I remain silent.

‘I must go now,’ Omar says abruptly. ‘But Dadi’s invited me to dinner tomorrow.’

I find Omar’s nervous energy overpowering. ‘Invited? Aren’t you staying here?’

He pauses at the door. ‘No.’

‘Why?’

‘I too carry burdens I don’t wish to discuss.’ He grins.

Sometimes wars are necessary mistakes.
And there are mistakes within the mistakes. Darkness within darkness. Gross, horrible, soul-mangling errors that cripple you permanently. They suck out the marrow of life and leave you like the drought-stricken bed of a pond. A cracked and parched surface littered with the memories of what you once were.

T
HERE WERE A
dozen of us, handpicked by the Indian army because we had demonstrated initiative and daring during training. We slipped across the border to rendezvous with a group of guerrillas who were already operating inside East Pakistan. We travelled on dinghies, guiding flotillas of arms and ammunition on the Padma River. The rendezvous point was near a forested area,
about ten kilometres to the north-west of the town of Rajshahi. The supplies were essential for the nocturnal attacks on the Pakistani army, to increase pressure and create an impression of our gathering strength. It was psychological warfare as well as telling attacks on vital personnel and installations to weaken the enemy.

We had chosen a still and overcast night. According to informants, the Pakistanis were concentrating their troops along the Jessore border, where it was easier for civilians and guerrillas to cross. Our spies had said that, since river crossings were far more difficult than slipping across the land, the army had a mere scattering of troops in this region. The main concentration was in Rajshahi itself. Nevertheless, we stayed in the middle of the river, in case there was a random army patrol on duty.

Close to the meeting point, we cautiously steered the boats and the barges towards the shore. I was at the rear end of the flotilla, keeping a lookout for movement along the river bank. As we nosed towards the landing, I thought I glimpsed a line of shadows moving across the landscape. It didn’t make sense. Trained soldiers wouldn’t be foolish enough to make themselves so patently visible. But others in our group confirmed the sighting.

A chain of whispers about the emergency plan.

And in that instant of panic,
I
opened fire.

The response was devastating. The Pakistani army was prepared, judging by the shelling that came from higher ground. Over the deafening noise, I thought I heard the cry of women and children. A crate of ammunition took
a direct hit and blew up in a fiery umbrella of orange and red. Then came several successive explosions. The entire barge lit up and seemed to lift into the air.

A wave of scorching heat rippled through me as I hit the water.

Only three of us made it back across the border, exhausted, injured and in a state of shock. But there we found we were under suspicion. The interrogation by our commanders and members of the Indian Intelligence was relentless.

What exactly happened? Who could have tipped off the Pakistanis? Was anyone in our group captured alive? Why had the village been torched? What did we know about the villagers? Had any of us made contact with them? How did the three of us manage to escape?

We were treated almost as if we were prisoners of war. I was placed in solitary confinement in a windowless cubicle, and only brought out for questioning. Over and again, they kept pounding us. After several days, we were released and taken for debriefing and retraining. It was only then that I realised innocent civilians, trying to get across the border to West Bengal, had been caught in the crossfire and massacred.

The news was censored in the Indian media, but Radio Pakistan Dhaka continually broadcast the details and number of people killed. The army-controlled newspapers from Dhaka told a tale of innocent citizens being butchered by us, for cooperating with Pakistani soldiers. Headlines screamed of atrocities, treachery and
the callousness of miscreants and traitors. Us. There was no mention of an army patrol.

The gruesome photographs of children’s bodies scattered on the ground culminated the propaganda triumph for the Pakistani army. There was also a picture of nine bodies, clothed and armed, on the back of a truck. The faces of the dead men were indistinguishable, but we knew who they were. A report claimed that these were murderous insurgents who had been tracked down by the Pakistani soldiers and killed in a fierce battle.

Later, we were told by our commanders that a significant number of Pakistani soldiers had also been killed. Many were injured.

But we never found the person who betrayed us.

And what if I hadn’t panicked and fired so soon? Would more civilians have passed through safely?

Early morning rain has washed and glazed the countryside. Strands of sunlight touch the water droplets hanging from the leaves of banana trees, making them sparkle like diamond earrings. We drive past hectares of paddy fields interspersed with hyacinth-covered ponds, where men bathe and women wash clothes and kitchen utensils. Plots of land are furrowed by wooden ploughs yoked to water buffaloes.

I cannot see a single electricity or telephone pole. The four-wheel-drive is an anachronism here. I’m uneasy about the noise of the car and its emission of fumes. I mention to Alya that I feel as if we’re encroaching on an innocent way of life.

She doesn’t agree. ‘You mean primitive? Keep them as they are so they can continue to be objects of curiosity? Subjects of doctorate theses for anthropologists and sociologists?’

‘That’s not what I meant!’

‘People who settle overseas so often come back and criticise changes they see.’ She sounds as though I’m being entirely unreasonable. ‘Is it because their remembrance of the past is threatened? Or do you lean on memory to keep away the guilt of leaving your native land?’

I assume these are rhetorical questions and remain silent. Perhaps it’s because of her reformatory zeal that Alya can’t acknowledge any damaging effect of progress.

My impatience to reach Manikpur makes me fidget. Clocks and highways and fast cars have certainly impacted on my personality. Here, no one’s in a hurry. The positioning of the sun is the determinant of the day’s routine.

We stop to allow a herdsman to cross our path with his gathering of emaciated cows and goats. Behind him is a young boy shepherding several rows of waddling ducks. He stops to look at us.

‘Hello, mister!’ he shouts in English. His eyes are fixed on Alya.

The old man turns and snaps at the lad, telling him not to loiter.

Alya switches off the ignition. She sticks her head out of the window and calls the boy over to the car to give him a bar of chocolate.

I look at my watch.

‘Try to relax!’ Alya advises. ‘Even in a four-wheel-drive, this isn’t an easy trip. There will be delays.’

When we move off again, I admire the dexterity with which she handles the vehicle on the dirt track. ‘How do you drive here during the monsoon rains?’

‘I don’t. I wait until the weather clears and the tracks aren’t flooded. Once I was bogged down in the mud. The men working in the fields came and just stood around the car. Had I been a male driver, they would’ve assisted me immediately. They didn’t know how to react to a woman.’ We slow down as Alya negotiates a sharp turn. A group of children waves to us from the side of the track. She honks and the kids cheer.

Within minutes I spot the dome of Manikpur’s mosque and a sprinkling of bamboo huts among the trees in the distance. It has taken us over two hours to cover the forty kilometres to the village.

Alya pulls up under a jackfruit tree. A young boy, wearing a tattered singlet and a moth-eaten pair of dirty shorts, springs up from the lush, wild grass and sprints towards us. He grins, delighted to see Alya.

‘Anis! Look what I brought for you!’ Alya pulls a large paper bag from the back seat and hands him two kites, a yoyo and a packet of sweets. She also gives him a twenty taka note. ‘He’s the caretaker of the car,’ she explains.

We walk towards the huts. It’s another muggy day and I’m sweating profusely. ‘Why did you park so far away?’

‘To avoid appearing like an imperial figure driving into the heart of the village, honking and raising dust. If I were a white sahib, the village men would grudgingly acknowledge my superior status. But a Bangali and a woman!’ She shakes her head ruefully. ‘It’s a sure way to lose their cooperation. I can’t afford that.’

The mosque is the only building in the village made entirely of bricks and mortar. Its freshly whitewashed dome gleams under the sun. The spire is topped with a bronze crescent, high above the trees and the huts, leaving no doubt about the stature of the house of worship in the community.

‘Who’s the village head?’ I ask.

‘An old man, not entirely against changes. He approves of what I’m doing, but it would be preferable if I was a man. He has some education. But he cannot make a single decision without the approval of the local mullah.’ Alya grimaces.

‘Nothing’s changed then.’ That’s not quite true. The flimsy shacks I remember have been replaced by other shelters, of equally dubious durability. The dirt path through the centre of Manikpur is wider and the village is no longer screened by a dense growth of shrubs and trees.

We stop at the only shop in the village and exchange greetings with the owner, Salim. He sits on a wooden platform with jars of biscuits and sweets on a shelf behind him. The shopfront is neatly arranged with hessian sacks brimming with rice, lentils, onions, garlic bulbs, ginger roots, turmeric, coriander and cumin seeds.

‘We would like to pay our respect to Mullah Hakim,’ Alya requests of Salim, slipping money into his hand.

He smiles obligingly and scurries towards the mosque.

‘
Salaam Apa
!’ A man calls from a distance and runs towards us.

‘That’s Rizwan, the local quack. He can cure any ailment with herbal medicine and incantations. Only Allah can defeat him, he boasts. That does happen regularly.’

Rizwan is a cheerful man in his early thirties. As soon as he learns that I am Musa Alam’s nephew, his demeanour changes from polite deference to sycophantic flattery. He bows and shakes my hand enthusiastically. ‘I’m honoured to meet the nephew of the great man!’ he declares.

Alya looks sceptical, as though unwilling to envisage Uncle Musa in the glow of such praise. To my relief, she declines Rizwan’s offer of tea. ‘Some other time,’ she says politely. ‘We have much to do in a few hours.’

‘Lunch?’ Rizwan says hopefully. ‘Our pond’s full of fish. My wife makes a hot mustard curry! Very nourishing!’

‘Not today, Rizwan. But thank you for asking.’ Alya gazes at the mosque.

He looks disappointed. ‘I shall personally inform Musa Sahib of his nephew’s arrival.’ Rizwan bows obsequiously and then retreats among the custard apple and papaya trees.

Salim returns. ‘Mullah Hakim will see you now.’

Alya pulls out a cotton scarf from her handbag and covers her head.

‘Must we see him?’ I ask.

‘If we don’t, he’ll take this visit as a personal snub. And that would mean trouble for me.’

‘How?’

‘A mysterious illness could overcome half my workers and keep them at home. That would cripple production.’

I take off my shoes and enter the mosque. It’s unpretentious inside—whitewashed walls and high ceiling. The cement floor is cool and spotlessly clean. Straw prayer mats are piled high on one side against a wall. ‘When was the mosque renovated?’ I ask, without turning around. ‘I haven’t been here for almost thirty-five years.’ Then it strikes me that women are prohibited from entering mosques in this part of the world.

Outside, Salim has arranged three chairs in a row. We sit on the paved area on the shady side of the mosque and wait for the mullah.

‘It’s best not to talk religion,’ Alya advises. ‘Especially these days.’

‘Why?’

‘He takes a one-sided view of things.’

‘I’m not unfamiliar with that.’

‘In this case it’s political bias influenced by religious fundamentalism.’

‘A lethal combination.’

Mullah Hakim appears like an apparition, soundless and almost gliding towards us, dressed in white
kurta
and
black lungi. He’s a frail old man with a wispy white beard. I’m impressed by the intensity of his eyes. He could be a clone of Mullah Sarwar, the fiery theocrat who fought with the Alams for the control of Manikpur in my younger days.

Alya greets him by bending down to touch his feet.

I stay upright and say, ‘
Aas salaam alai kum
.’

Mullah Hakim looks at me stonily, evidently displeased that I haven’t emulated Alya’s salutation. He talks to her, but I sense that I’m being assessed as a potential foe. This is a shrewd man who isn’t accustomed to his authority being challenged—he’d see any hint of non-conformity as a personal insult. I wonder about his relationship with Uncle Musa. There must be a monumental struggle of aged egos here.

I watch the way Alya seeks Mullah Hakim’s approval for her decisions about the women she employs. She explains the principle of paid sick leave. ‘This is a scheme I would like to introduce within the year. I hope you approve.’

It’s as if he hasn’t heard her. ‘I worry that you want to change how our women think,’ the mullah tells Alya. ‘The family life of the village is being affected. In most cases the women earn more than their husbands. It makes them independent.’

‘Is that bad?’ Alya asks.

He looks accusingly at her. ‘When you started your handicraft business, we agreed that only the abused and the abandoned women would be employed. Now it seems that every woman in the village works for you.’

‘By earning money, they bring more opportunities for their families,’ Alya argues, but in a deferential tone of voice. She’s careful to avoid looking at him. ‘It can only bring more prosperity to the village. People will contribute freely to the mosque. You can ask for more zakat.’

The mullah grunts. ‘Rizwan heard from one of the women that you’re going to open a new school here. Why have I not been asked about it?’

‘It’s only in its planning stages. I’ve recently approached the government for assistance.’ She turns to me for confirmation. ‘We may be able to buy Mr Alam’s house and use the rooms for teaching.’

‘Is he leaving the village?’ Mullah Hakim is unable to hide his glee.

‘That’s a possibility,’ I reply.

‘Only a possibility? Another school is not necessary here. We already have a madrassa where the children are taught the Koran and about our Prophet and the Islamic ways of life.’

‘We need more than religious education,’ Alya explains patiently. ‘The children need to study science and mathematics. English and history. Otherwise we will remain as a backward nation.’

‘A nation with pure souls can never be backward.’ Mullah Hakim suddenly turns to me. ‘Judging by your dress, you seem to have become a foreigner.’

Until now, I haven’t felt self-conscious about wearing jeans and T-shirt.

‘Where do you live now?’

‘In Australia.’

‘Australia,’ he mumbles, as if trying to remember what he knows about the country. ‘Australia. One of the enemies.’

‘Why is Australia an enemy?’

‘I have heard that your country is a friend of the great enemy.’ Slowly he gets up from his chair.

I feel a light touch on my elbow.

Mullah Hakim gives me a long, piercing look as though he expects me to challenge his claim. ‘Your true home is to be found in Islam. The house of God is always open for Muslims.’ He smiles superciliously and walks away. His hut is behind the mosque, among tamarind trees.

‘Can you now see what I’m facing?’ Alya asks. ‘But he’s a compassionate man. He provides money and shelter for abused wives and children.’

‘And the school?’

‘It’s too early to say anything meaningful. There are progressive people in the Ministry of Education, but they’re sensitive to rural opinions—after all, votes and jobs count. So the bureaucracy will take at least a couple of years with the paperwork. Here, you always allow five years to implement any social program. That is, if the government lasts that long.’

‘You might really buy my uncle’s house then?’

‘I’m already prepared to negotiate a price, if he wants to sell it.’ Alya sounds dubious. ‘He hasn’t forgiven me for buying so much of his prime land for the factory.’

‘It was entirely his decision to sell.’

‘He now believes that I should’ve paid much more for it.’

T
HE FACTORY IS
a few hundred metres from the village centre. It’s a sprawling brick shed with a tin roof, clattering with the noise of a generator, the sound of sewing machines and the shrieks of playful children. Inside, on a packed-dirt floor, there are at least forty women working at roughly hewn wooden tables. Toddlers mill around them. Older boys and girls run in and out of the shed. The women use straw and jute fibres, treated leather and dyed cotton. In a corner of the room women work with thin sheets of base metal and silver.

One woman in her early twenties approaches us.

‘That’s Farida.’ Alya whispers. ‘She’s one of the very few survivors of an honour killing attack.’

My eyes are transfixed on Farida. A scar runs from the bottom of her right jaw across her bare throat. She looks coldly at me, her eyes narrowing as though I’m not to be trusted.

Farida greets Alya warmly, though, and the two women discuss business.

I stand against a wall, pretending to be unaware of the furtive looks and the giggles. A number of women cover their faces.

After a while Farida rings a hand bell to gather the workers.

Alya’s an eloquent speaker. She slips easily into a form of Manikpuri colloquialism which I haven’t heard for years. She emphasises the need for sustained production and profitability. The women listen attentively. Then Alya announces a modest mid-year bonus for every worker; but, she says, there will be no increment in their wages for the next two years. Instead, their working time will be reduced by half an hour, and fifteen minutes will be added to their lunch break. Depending on the availability of a more powerful generator, Alya may be able to install electric fans in the factory. Finally, she offers a week’s paid sick leave per year. The women show only a placid acceptance of whatever Alya proposes.

‘What are their working hours?’ I ask Alya afterwards.

‘They’re not too bad,’ she replies vaguely.

‘Do they have to work on Fridays?’

‘They take turns.’

‘Are they paid extra for that?’

‘We’re a developing country,’ she reminds me, as if Bangladesh’s economic status justifies questionable working hours for employees.

Alya walks away and mixes easily among the workers—asking about their families and hearing village gossip. Two young women talk make-up and hairstyles with her. They’re thrilled with the lipsticks Alya brought.