Spiral Road Read online

  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.

  MA 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.

  OUTSIDE, 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.

  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.

  SOMEONE’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.’

&nb
sp; ‘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?’