Spiral Road

by Adib Khan

  I’ve let my sister down. The guilt nags at me. I should have been here when she needed help. Instead, I wrote long letters. Secretly I was relieved to avoid a tense and embarrassing situation, one that must have been further aggravated by Ma’s histrionics. The inevitable gossip and the blow to our honour would have devastated our mother.

  When we were children, Nasreen and I did things together, exchanged secrets and plotted moves to negate Zia’s privileges as the oldest of the siblings. I waded in on her quarrels with him and took her side, as we grew up to disagreements about fashion or entertainment. Zia didn’t approve of Nasreen’s independence then, and after her wedding he made no effort to be discreet in his criticism of Hanif.

  ‘There’s something not right about the man,’ Zia said to me one day on the beach at Lorne. ‘He can be full of fun one moment and then brooding and dark soon after.’

  Back then I had ignored the remark as just part of his ongoing feud with Nasreen.

  NASREEN IS TALKING to Alya now. In her late thirties, Alya is stirringly attractive. She has short black hair, high cheekbones, sensuously thick lips and penetrating eyes. She gives the instant impression of being astute, determined to succeed.

  Nasreen turns from her friend to tell me about Alya’s business, her chain of cottage-industry shops, in the newer suburbs of the city. ‘Alya’s bought land from Uncle Musa to set up a factory in Manikpur,’ Nasreen explains. ‘She employs a large number of women—’

  It’s the moment I’ve been dreading. Ma calls everyone to attention. I’ve barely exchanged greetings with anyone yet. But Ma’s older brother is on his feet with a welcome speech. My dislike for Uncle Rafiq seems to have withered away to mere indifference. He speaks in Bangla and what he has to say is exaggerated, sentimental and studded with clichés. His is a daunting, energetic presence—a big man with a flourishing white beard, thick eyebrows and piercing eyes. Yet he’s the same age as my father.

  A Koranic scholar and well read, Uncle Rafiq never forgave my parents for their children’s secular education. I remember hiding behind a papaya tree in our backyard, listening to a fierce quarrel between him and Abba about our secondary schooling. Abba had decided to enrol us at St Joseph’s, reputed for its academic standard—a Christian school where we’d be taught in English. Abba had been educated in Kolkata’s exclusive St Xavier’s College and he had few qualms about exposing us to the influence of Catholic priests.

  ‘They have to broaden their minds and accommodate ideas from other cultures. They must know about people from different races,’ Abba argued. ‘I want my children to be fluent in the language of the world. I want them to be at home wherever they are.’

  Uncle Rafiq was specially outraged by the fact that Nasreen was to be sent to Loreto and deprived of the benefits of a private tutor at home. ‘We’re Muslims first, Ibrahim!’ Uncle Rafiq thundered. ‘I hope you haven’t forgotten that!’

  ‘If I ever do, I’m sure you’ll remind us,’ Abba retorted. ‘But I’m not sending my boys to a madrassa! Neither will I limit Nasreen’s opportunities by employing someone to teach her how to be a model housewife. She will learn about domestic life from her mother.’

  They reached an uneasy compromise, adopting Ma’s suggestion that Uncle Rafiq be responsible for our Koranic learning. We didn’t know what awaited us.

  At first Zia and I were excited by the prospect of stories—Creation, Heaven and Hell, Angels and Devils, Allah’s designs for the human race, the Day of Judgement and the pleasures of Paradise. But the twice-weekly evening lessons passed agonisingly. We learned to read the Koran in Arabic without any understanding of the language. We sat stonily through lengthy monologues about the pious life, the unimaginable terrors of eternal punishment for becoming deviants, and the endless rewards for being true believers. And we were constantly told to contemplate both Allah’s grand design for mankind and our search for ways to earn places in Paradise.

  The Omnipotent’s blueprint for an eternity in Hell seemed far more comprehensive than any vision of a subliminal state in the company of angels and the elusive houris. And given the criteria that would qualify me for the joys of Behaesht, I felt doomed and destined for Iblis’s domain.

  What we experienced was the curse of eternal boredom.

  How could we ever forgive Uncle Rafiq for terrorising and manipulating our imaginations? We had nightmares about ghoulish creatures traversing burning wastelands in the hunt for young boys to be speared, dipped in cauldrons of blood and pus, and then eaten alive.

  THE WELCOME SPEECH has been mercifully brief. It turns out, though, to have been a prologue. We move swiftly into the politics of religion and the malaise of the world. Uncle Rafiq drags us through a soporific account of colonialism and the causes of the attack on New York. My generation of Muslims has been enervated by materialism and we’ve sold our souls to Western interests. He talks passionately about Palestine and the despair in the refugee camps. We sit through diatribes on Afghanistan and Iraq. He catches my eyes and smiles condescendingly. ‘The purity of the Islamic way of life needs resistance to fleshly temptations. Muslims everywhere have lost the meaning of self-discipline…’

  He drones on.

  I stifle a yawn. Zia shifts uneasily, his eyes focussed on the tablecloth, mindlessly tracing a circular pattern with his index finger. Nasreen examines her fingernails.

  ‘Vermicelli?’ Abba interjects suddenly and loudly. ‘Eid!’ He’s thought of the traditional festive sweet.

  ‘Abba, it’s not Eid,’ Zia says softly.

  Abba glares at him. ‘Eid!’ He bangs his plate on the table. ‘Eid!’

  ‘Yes, of course. The cook is preparing it.’ Zia gives in, perhaps thinking that within minutes Abba will have forgotten.

  ‘Nana doesn’t know when it’s Eid!’ little Yasmin chimes, eyeing her grandfather.

  ‘Ssh!’ Ma admonishes.

  ‘That’s because Nana is crazy. He’s mad!’ Zafar, Nasreen’s son, says tactlessly.

  Nasreen whispers urgently to her son.

  The adults suffer an uncomfortable silence.

  Uncle Rafiq watches me intently, as if his words are personal, a challenge to what he understands to be my adopted values. He doesn’t allow the interruption to faze him. ‘And what does our family member from Australia think about what is happening in the world? As a Muslim how does he feel about the threat to Islam?’

  Nasreen nudges me under the table.

  ‘I’m not a practising Muslim any more,’ I reply neutrally. ‘But I do take your point about an independent state of Palestine.’ I pause. Ma looks petrified. ‘I’m more concerned by the threat to the global environment than any threat to Islam.’ Someone gasps. But this isn’t intended to be frivolous. I’ve recently switched allegiance to the Greens. A friend had commented disparagingly that this was a measure of my ideological desperation.

  The air is electric. Inadvertently I’ve given the old man another opening. He switches to an attack about the betrayal of Islam due to complacency by its own people. He quotes warnings from the Koran about infidels and their destiny. We’ve forgotten the need for simple living and guidance by the dictates of the Holy Book!

  I resist asking whether such guidance includes ways to quickly pay off a hefty mortgage, or retire early, or how not to be tempted into using credit cards.

  ‘Perhaps we can now have sweets,’ Nasreen suggests. ‘It’s fairly late.’

  There’s a clatter of dessert plates.

  Ma takes over. ‘Isn’t this like the times when we gathered for lunch every Friday?’ She beams, as though inviting us on a communal trip of nostalgia.

  ‘I would have enjoyed seeing Uncle Musa,’ I say sincerely.

  The glow disappears from Ma’s face. She turns to Zia. ‘Have you told him?’

  ‘Later, Ma,’ Zia replies. ‘I have to talk to Masud about a number of things.’

  There is taut silence. I may have underestimated the impact of Uncle Musa’s misdemeanour.

 
‘Shall we move back to the lounge for tea and paan?’ Nasreen invites timidly when the sweets are over. Latif begins to clear the table.

  In the lounge room we sip moshla cha. Ma, hardly subtle, suggests I talk to Alya, get to know her.

  ‘Why?’ I tease.

  ‘She’s highly educated! Very intelligent!’ Ma gushes. ‘So prosperous! She’s recently built a lovely house in addition to the apartment she already owns. They’re both in Banani.’ She lowers her voice. ‘Maybe you could take her out? These days, no one thinks anything of unmarried men and women dining out together.’

  ‘Such remarkable progress.’

  ‘I’m sure Zia will let you have one of his cars for an evening. He’s a very generous son.’

  ‘Ma, I’ve only just arrived.’

  I manage to slip aside. But not for long.

  Uncle Rafiq corners me. He thinks nothing of asking questions about my personal life. He absorbs my monosyllabic replies with growing impatience and begins to breathe heavily. He lays a hand on my shoulder.

  ‘Baba, it’s not good for a man to remain single and stay away from his native land for so many years. You should have a wife, a family. Strong sons.’

  I can only guess how he’d react if I tell him about my relationship with Amelia, or her background.

  The old man is eager. He still wants to know how I feel about Australia’s part in the war on Islam. I contradict him as mildly as I can, point out that the war is against terrorism, but that anyway I’m not convinced about Australia’s role in Iraq.

  ‘Do your fellow Australians know the reasons for such extremism in the Middle East?’ he demands.

  Wearily, I think of my encounter with the customs officer, Hamid, at the airport. ‘Some Australians are now aware that the Palestinian issue has to be resolved.’

  ‘And would that awareness have dawned on them by the Palestinians sending more delegates for negotiation? By reasoning? By pleading? By trips to the UN? Of course not! They’re seen as primitive people who throw stones at tanks and armoured vehicles. The only way to get the attention of the developed nations is by making them feel that the rich are not invincible, that they too can be hurt. The barrier of arrogance is very hard to penetrate. But it’s been done.’

  ‘So are you suggesting that what Mohammad Atta and the other hijackers did was right?’

  Uncle Rafiq shakes his head as though I’m missing the point. ‘Necessary. Not right, but desperately necessary. Was dropping the bomb on Hiroshima right? Of course not! But there are those who argue that it shortened the war. Flying the two planes into the towers was a symbol, a gesture of rage, frustration, attention seeking, whatever you may want to call it. A statement to say that if you continue to humiliate us, we will find devastating ways to retaliate.’

  ‘But lives were lost,’ I argue. ‘Innocent people killed. That’s not symbolism. It’s murder!’

  ‘Aren’t innocent lives lost in Palestine? Isn’t that murder? Don’t tanks and jet fighters kill civilians and destroy buildings? Well, such damage can be done to the West as well.’ He looks at me defiantly. ‘A moral stand is not the sole right of white nations. We constantly hear about a just cause. What cause is that? The freedom to exploit underdeveloped countries? Strip African nations of their precious minerals and stones? Keep Palestinians poor and on their knees? Support corrupt regimes in the Middle East? Export the Coca-Cola culture everywhere?’

  Evidently with great success. I point out that most of us were drinking Coke at lunch.

  He looks displeased and mutters, ‘That’s what brainwashing does to people.’

  ‘Including you?’ I immediately regret uttering the words. Ma will hear about her rude and upstart son who demonstrates no respect for his elders.

  Uncle Rafiq walks away.

  IN THE END I find it easy to talk to Alya. In conversation, she looks directly at people’s faces, as though trying to figure out the discrepancies between what they think and say. I doubt if Alya can be easily intimidated. She gives me fascinating insights into the changes here, especially the freedom that women are beginning to enjoy.

  ‘But only in Dhaka and Chittagong?’

  ‘Yes, but at least it’s something. Women hold important government posts now, and the private sector employs them more readily. There are professionals and businesswomen.’

  ‘Different story in the villages?’

  She nods ruefully. ‘Too much ignorance and gender bias. Rural life is strongly influenced by fundamentalist mullahs—’ Alya stops and laughs at my dismay.

  Still, she intends to set up more factories and shops in some of the smaller towns and villages. ‘I’ve a ten-year plan. Give country women the capacity to earn and they become confident. They find collective strength and a voice against the feudal system that’s still in place. Gradually the mullahs will be challenged.’

  ‘That may not be wise.’

  ‘Without risks, there won’t be changes.’

  I feel Alya’s infectious enthusiasm, a genuine belief in what she proposes to achieve. We talk about the factory she’s built in Manikpur.

  ‘Your uncle was reluctant to sell the land,’ she recalls. ‘He probably felt that his revered image as the super-rich God-figure in the village was at risk.’

  ‘No one’s super-rich in our family any more,’ I snort. ‘But my uncle has always fancied himself as an imperial figure of rural authority.’

  ‘He’s built a…well, shall I say, a large and unusual house.’

  The guests begin to drift away.

  Alya gives me her card. ‘Perhaps you might like to browse in one of my shops. If you have time, you could also visit the village factory.’

  ‘Yes, I’ll be visiting my uncle.’

  She offers to drive me to Manikpur, if I choose to go on a day when she makes one of her regular visits to the factory.

  MY BEDROOM IS soulless. It offers me all the sanitised necessities and luxuries of modern living. Telephone and fax machine. A computer and printer. Satellite TV. A stereo and a stack of CDs. The furniture is expensive and has recently been polished. A desk and a swivel chair. Aerogramme and items of stationery. A new pair of leather sandals and a starched cotton dressing-gown. The en suite is stocked as if it were in a five-star hotel.

  I sit and think of Alya’s commitment, but I know my admiration is tainted with jealousy. She has a sense of direction, a purpose which energises her. She’s the kind of person who guides her own destiny. This makes me reflect on the narrowness of my perspectives. I’m drifting through life, directing its forces towards my mundane needs. It’s a selfish attitude. I wasn’t always like this. Once I, too, believed in a cause. When I was twenty-one.

  I get up lethargically, shower and change. I part the bedroom curtains and look down at the street below. Three men, sitting on a straw mat, smoke bidis under the afternoon shade of a krishnachura tree outside the gate. One of them is our uniformed darwan.

  The tiredness creeps in my limbs, but I’m not sleepy. I hear Ma’s voice, instructing Latif about afternoon tea. A door bangs shut and a child squeals. Yasmin.

  Then Zafar yells something about sword practice. I hear Zorro’s name. From the top of the staircase I watch my nephew jabbing an old doll with a knitting needle. With each thrust, Yasmin’s cry of anguish becomes shriller, as though she herself is being attacked.

  Ma and Nasreen intervene. Mirza appears and adds his bit, to calm Zafar.

  Raised voices and angry words. Zafar is sent to his room. Ma placates Yasmin and cuddles her.

  I slip back into my room.

  It feels strange to be in a house occupied by others, especially children. One is obliged always to make constant adjustments and compromises. I think of my own place. It’s dark when I get off the tram in Bridge Road at the end of a working day. Sometimes I stop at the supermarket for milk and bread before walking past the oval and cutting across to Kent Street. Then there’s the undeniable loneliness of entering a cold and unlit house.

  The
re isn’t much traffic on my street at that hour. Only the odd pedestrian headed home, or a passing car. The rest of the world seems remote and indifferent. But that’s what I prefer. I open the mail and have a drink. News and current affairs on TV. No fixed time for the evening meal. Usually I’m in bed by midnight, after meditating for half an hour. Sometimes, when Amelia comes over, she stays the night.

  There’s a knock on the door.

  ‘I was just about to come and see you,’ I greet my sister. ‘Come in.’ I’m pleased to see her.

  Nasreen looks at me with those dark and penetrative eyes that have always been able to see beyond the obvious. Years ago, after the creation of the new nation, she had been the only one in the family who was concerned for me, worried that something had changed me in the nine months that I had been away from home.

  ‘You look well,’ she observes. ‘Much calmer, as if you’re at ease with yourself.’

  ‘To an extent, maybe. But not with the world as I know it at the moment.’

  Nasreen sits on the edge of my bed. I touch a strand of white hair on her head.

  She doesn’t draw away. ‘Ageing shouldn’t feed on a pile of hurtful experiences.’

  ‘Or on ones we don’t understand,’ I add.

  Nasreen tells me about the changes in her life, about the resentment and anger in everything for nearly a year after she left Hanif. ‘Oceans of self-pity,’ she says. ‘But then my attention had to be on Yasmin and Zafar. On being both parents at the same time. Hanif now lives in Manchester. He doesn’t keep in touch or support the children. It’s Zia who’s looked after us.’

  She laughs at my expression of wonderment. ‘Yes, he did surprise me from the moment he opened the front door. Not a word about how he knew the marriage wouldn’t work. He hasn’t ever been patronising. He just quietly took care of everything. The children’s education, my employment…I’ve never felt as if I’m a visitor in this house. Zeenat’s death has changed him. You know, for a while it seemed to take away his centre. And there’s an air of permanent sadness about him—as if he has a much greater understanding of life’s fragility. It has made him more accepting of other people’s failings. It’s like he’s been made to join the mainstream of humanity. But even now, there’s something in him that I can’t reach…a kind of aloofness that’s hard to understand.’