Spiral Road

by Adib Khan

  THE COMMERCIAL DISTRICT of Agrabad is a huddle of buildings and shops. It’s too early for the road to be clotted with traffic. There are just a few rickshaws and handcarts clattering along the potholed road. Occasionally we pass men carrying caged chickens and baskets of fruits and vegetables balanced on their heads.

  Omar looks relaxed, as though he’s reached the safety of his territory.

  We swing into Tiger Pass Road and then take the CDA Avenue that leads to Cox’s Bazaar Road. Omar drives south and crosses the bridge over Sangu River, before slowing down and turning left at Satkania police station.

  ‘You couldn’t find two more friendly policemen than Rumi and Dawood.’ Omar grins. ‘They are cooperative beyond expectation.’

  ‘For a price, I guess.’

  He laughs. ‘Naturally!’

  ‘I’ve never come this way before.’ The landscape is unspoilt and densely foliaged. The greenery is so lush that it looks like a theatre set.

  ‘We’ll be in Bandarban soon. It’s a market town on the river. Most of the people here are Buddhists. They belong to the Marma tribe.’

  In spite of everything, I begin to enjoy the ride.

  Bandarban is a sleepy town, untouched by the twentyfirst century. There wouldn’t be too many people with stress-related illnesses or nervous breakdowns here. Nor is it the sort of place where I’d find a public telephone. Bamboo boats, laden with leafy vegetables and straw baskets, ply the river, and an overcrowded passenger boat ploughs swiftly along the middle of the waterway. From the river bank, excited children jump into the water. Elderly men repair fishing nets nearby, smoke bidis and swap stories.

  We pull up at the Tribal Cultural Institute and walk to a neighbouring tea stall.

  The owner emerges from a tin-roofed dwelling and greets Omar warmly. We’re soon surrounded by noisy kids who appear to be familiar with my nephew. Omar takes out fistfuls of sweets from a satchel and hands them around.

  Other men appear and occupy the rickety wooden chairs and tables in front of the shop. Without exception, they’re in their twenties—grim-faced and wary-eyed. They sit silently, looking thoroughly unfriendly.

  I can’t say how these young men might think. It’s like trying to figure out how my mind worked thirty-two years ago. Intensity of belief is diluted with age. But perhaps wisdom is in seeing our own failures, how we misdirected our energies? Nothing is entirely pure or sacred or certain as we grow older. Nowadays my dreams are rarely grand or fresh. They’re smudged and chipped. Mundane matters occupy my fanciful moments. And I’m afraid of planning anything beyond my tangible grasp or if it entails risk.

  Breakfast is boiled eggs and freshly made chappatis. We drink heavily sugared tea from small, terracotta bowls. With a kind of bovine indifference we sit, full-bellied, in the pleasant warmth of the morning sun.

  I wonder how this odyssey will end.

  Omar disappears inside the shop. When he emerges, a frown creases his face. Wordlessly he hands me back my mobile. The men head towards their vehicles. This is a well-drilled unit that doesn’t need instructions. There are eleven of them. The departure will be staggered.

  The road narrows as we drive east across a bridge. Omar swerves to the right and pulls up on a grassy strip of land. ‘If we walk about a kilometre along the river bank,’ he says, pointing towards a narrow dirt track, ‘there’ll be a spot where the water is clean. Would you like to wash? Perhaps have a swim?’

  My tongue feels furry and my body is clammy. I take my backpack and get out of the car. The path hugs the high bank and zigzags through dense shrubs and trees. Omar follows, carrying a towel and a bar of soap. Behind us I hear the clatter of the other four-wheel-drives and vans crossing the bridge.

  We walk briskly until we reach a sharp bend where the river cascades over boulders and flows smoothly across a sandy bed. The water looks clean, but I’m fussy. ‘A little further on,’ I suggest.

  Omar looks bemused. ‘Sorry, I don’t have any chlorine to dump into the river.’ We continue but he drops further behind. I wonder if this is deliberate, an indication that he trusts me. Or is Omar simply creating space for me to unwind and think? Or brood.

  Suddenly the river widens. ‘Here!’ I call, jogging down the gentle slope.

  Omar doesn’t wait. He strips off his clothes and wades in.

  I drop my backpack behind a bush and fumble to switch on the mobile—but there’s no power to it. The battery has been removed.

  ‘This is almost Paradise!’ Omar shouts.

  My nephew has outwitted me in so many ways. Yet, I’m not resentful. Even now I remember my grandfather: ‘Strong family ties,’ he would often say, ‘nourish affections and make people more charitable and forgiving towards their own.’

  I feel ridiculous—naked and carrying my loaded toothbrush. We splash around in the waist-deep currents. The water is odourless, but I’m careful not to swallow it.

  Omar paddles his way towards the other side. I remember how excited he was to see the coastline at Apollo Bay. He’d never seen such clean, white sand. It was a warm day and the sparkling turquoise sea looked irresistible. The anticipation on his face was something I’ll never forget. On the beach, I picked him up and carried him into the sea. He squirmed and giggled as I laid him gently in the water. The next second he sprang up with a howl. He ran towards his mother. ‘There’s ice in the water!’ he cried. ‘Uncle tricked me!’

  Zia thought his son was exaggerating. He rolled up the bottom of his trousers and felt the water with his toes. Hurriedly he pulled his foot out. ‘That’s freezing!’ he said in amazement and looked up at the clear sky, perplexed by the difference between the chill of the water and the warmth of the day.

  I aim to fling the toothbrush onto dry ground. It lands short of the bank. The swirling currents sweep it away.

  ‘You’ll have to go back to brushing with the twig of a neem tree!’ Omar advises. ‘It’s better than toothpaste, anyway.’

  I swim over to Omar. He laughs benignly at my laboured strokes. We talk about happier times. He tells me about his memories of his Australian holiday.

  ‘You had so much gusto for just about everything you saw there,’ I tell him. There was an endearing innocence about Omar and an infinite capacity to be delighted by the simplest of experiences. I recall for him how he’d loved the tram rides in Melbourne, Puffing Billy and the noisy experience of Victoria Market. And then…‘What happened over the next few years, Omar?’ Did he find a cause? Did the darkness of adulthood overwhelm him?

  Omar looks reflective and then suddenly dives underwater. I’m not surprised by his evasive silence.

  ‘How far are we driving?’ I ask when he emerges, gasping for air.

  He hands me the soap. ‘The factory’s not far.’

  ‘Is there a factory?’

  ‘Uncle! How can you doubt me?’ he mocks.

  We linger a while in the water, then dress quickly.

  This time Omar walks ahead, in control. I take a final look around.

  A warbling myna breaks the silence.

  Almost Paradise. No martyrs here.

  Then I think of Steven Mills. ‘I wouldn’t like to think that Mills will be harmed.’

  ‘He shouldn’t be here then,’ Omar says without turning around.

  ‘He has a family.’

  ‘As I said, I’ve nothing to do with your friend. Let me explain.’ He stops and waits for me to catch up. ‘There are different units all over the country. They don’t control or advise one another. Occasionally they exchange information. Contact is minimal…None knows what the others are planning. It’s a precautionary measure.’

  ‘Surely you have some influence!’ I persist.

  ‘Does your friend think he’s dealing with bumbling amateurs? Genetically inferior people destined to be guided and indirectly ruled? Well, that’s an arrogance that’ll work in our favour.’

  Us and them. For us or against us. A complicated game, without rules. The world polarised into a Man
ichean struggle. The way powerful rulers often see it. It could be that this simplicity of thinking makes their illusions seem more achievable. Those in command fool themselves first, then they can delude others. Except now it’s all spilled out into the open, weeping from the ulcers of the world.

  Where does someone like me fit in? Sandwiched in the middle and squeezed from both ends until I’m mashed to a pulp. I’ve been spoilt by life in the neutral zone. Bland and inconspicuous, but physically safe.

  I try again. ‘Innocent people will be terribly affected if anything should happen to Mills.’

  ‘Innocent Afghanis, Palestinians and Iraqis are being damaged every day. Or are their lives worth less than an Australian’s?’

  ‘A harmless journalist was killed!’

  ‘It’s news to me that harmless people work for the CIA.’

  ‘Why are you doing this?’

  ‘Why did you do the things you did when you were young? When you felt that the world needed change? At the time did you think you were misguided?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘We don’t want a repetition of the last five hundred years. An Anglicised version of the Treaty of Tordesillas won’t do.’

  Omar breaks into a run.

  I keep walking, reflecting on the inadequacy of what I know about history.

  WE TRAVEL IN silence to Rowangchhari and then head south. Omar slows down near a road block. He honks twice. Two workers drop their shovels and remove the barricade. We pass through and within minutes Omar turns into a vacant yard. A large, single-storeyed brick building stands in the middle of a clearing. Omar turns to me.

  ‘See, everything is as I told you!’

  Parked at an angle to the building are the other fourwheelers. ‘Those vans…’

  ‘The same as you saw at the warehouse, picking up raw material and spare parts for machinery. What else could you possibly think were being loaded into them?’ He smirks.

  Inside the factory are rows of weaving and sewing machines and more than fifty workers. Bales of textile are piled up against the wall. The employees, Omar tells me, are mostly tribal folks, among them Chakmas, Marmas, Khumis and Moghs. It’s his deliberate policy, he says, to have ethnic diversity, in fairness to the regional population.

  ‘They’re superb workers.’ Omar is proud. ‘Besides receiving a basic wage, each one has a share in the profit. It gives them a sense of ownership.’

  I think of Alya and the different way she runs her business.

  The factory foreman is a legless man on crutches. ‘He stepped on a mine laid by Myanmar’s army, near the border with Rakhine,’ Omar explains.

  Najeeb is in his early forties and welcomes me with a toothless grin. He hobbles around the factory, and he talks with the older men and women as we pass.

  ‘Looks like a happy workplace,’ I remark.

  Najeeb looks at Omar, who is checking a pile of recently sewn T-shirts. ‘Mr Alam is a rare boss. Very kind and just. He takes little money for himself from the business.’

  We go out through a back door. On the edge of the forest, there’s a small, tin-roofed shack made of clay and bamboo. Next to the buckled side wall, the pump of a tube-well is set in the middle of a concrete slab. Not one of Omar’s entourage is to be seen. It would seem that the forest has swallowed them.

  ‘That’s where Mr Alam sleeps,’ Najeeb points out. ‘You can rest there now.’

  We reach the shack. The plywood door is without a lock. It’s ajar and squeaks open with a slight push. Light floods in through a roughly hewn window, highlighting the sparse conditions of the room. The packed earth floor has been recently sprinkled with water. A mosquito net is draped over a camp bed. The only other furniture in the room is a small table and a chair. Under the window there’s a tin trunk. A fresh towel is draped over the back of the chair.

  ‘My nephew doesn’t need much,’ I say enviously.

  ‘He lives simply, like we do. He eats with us and treats us as though we’re his family.’

  ‘My nephew also lives in the interior of the Hill Tracts.’ I look at Najeeb for a reaction.

  He pretends not to have heard me. ‘Please, it’s nearly time for cha.’

  A bell sounds to signal the morning break. The workers stream outside, to where aluminium kettles are bubbling over portable gas stoves. People squat on their haunches and drink from dented mugs. Men chew dark tobacco and smoke bidis. Others stuff their mouths with paan leaves coated with lime and wrapped around betel nuts.

  The tea is strong and heavily flavoured with cinnamon and cardamom. It’s delicious. Omar walks among the workers, stopping to talk to them in different dialects. I’m astonished by his fluency. There’s nothing formal or dutiful about the attention he pays them. He jokes and laughs, mixing with the men and women as though he has known them all his life. He accepts a paan from an elderly woman and lights a bidi. When the bell sounds again, the employees file back inside, chatting among themselves.

  Under the shade of a tree I enjoy a second mug of tea. Omar comes over to sit with me. ‘Well, what do you think?’

  ‘I’m impressed by what you do for the tribal people,’ I say with genuine admiration. ‘Have you been to Alya’s workshop?’

  ‘I’ve heard about it.’ Is there a note of contempt in his voice?

  ‘Have you considered talking with Alya about the way you both run your businesses?’

  ‘Why?’ he asks. ‘Her ultimate motive is to make as much money as she can. Be a successful business person.’

  ‘And your motive?’

  ‘Alya and I have different agendas in life,’ he says slowly. ‘It’s not that she’s not a generous employer. She has looked after the women of Manikpur. But she’s also taken care of her own interests. Her workers will need some safeguards, in the future.’ He springs to his feet. ‘I’ve got to see people in a nearby village. I’ll be back this afternoon. Then we have a long walk ahead of us. Or would you prefer to ride on a mule?’

  ‘Of course not!’

  I know better than to ask where the walk will take us.

  ‘Have a rest,’ Omar advises.

  I head towards the shack. At the tube-well I push the handle of the pump up and down. A gush of water streams out of the nozzle. I soak a towel and squeeze the moisture, wetting my head and face.

  DESPITE THE STIFLING heat, sleep comes instantly. I slide along a tunnel of fog and stumble into a dimly lit house. I recognise it as our family home. There are people gathered in a room. Years have been shaved off my father. Ma sits in a chair, weeping. He’s gentle with her as he explains why he must leave. He has to be honest with everyone, Abba explains. He’s in love with another woman. I shout out her name from a corner where I’m huddled with Zia and Nasreen. And from behind a screen, Sumita appears. She’s younger and prettier than Ma. She takes my father by the hand and leads him away. Abba turns to look at us. He begins to speak and then changes his mind. We gather around Ma in a state of confusion and anger.

  ‘Traitor!’ I shout. ‘You’ve betrayed us!’

  It takes me a few moments to realise where I am. It’s as if I’ve made a soft landing on the bed. I’m covered in sweat.

  Outside, the sun is still glowing fiercely. I feel lethargic, without any desire to get up. All I want to do is find a seat on a plane, heading towards a scorching desert sun, with all these experiences bundled into a deep recess of my memory.

  It’s nearly three o’clock. Omar appears with two plates heaped with unrefined rice, dhal, and pieces of cooked spinach. Did I manage to rest in the heat? Do I feel refreshed? Is there anything I need? I’m wary of his solicitude.

  He sits on the chair and observes me as if I’m some kind of an experiment whose result cannot be predicted. I resent feeling that I cannot match his cunning.

  ‘What happens now?’ I ask, more for the sake of saying something than expecting a straightforward reply.

  ‘We’ll leave before sunset. We can stop when you feel tired.’ From the trunk he takes out a pair
of cotton tracksuit pants and a full-sleeved T-shirt. ‘Shorts won’t do in the forest.’

  In the yard, men are already gathering with emaciated mules loaded with supplies. As the afternoon lengthens, Omar takes my backpack and wedges it firmly between two wooden crates. More men—with sacks of rice, wheat, potatoes, onions, tins of cooking oil and ghee, balanced on their heads—arrive at regular intervals over the next hour.

  Omar talks to the guide who will lead the pack animals. Disagreement flares between them. Omar shakes his head vehemently. The other man doesn’t look pleased, but he puts away what looks like a cotton scarf.

  Eventually the line of mules begins to move slowly towards the trees behind the shack. We follow, though I can see no path there. But the animals disappear as though there’s a cleft in the forest.

  I turn to look behind me. Only teak trees are visible. The light suddenly changes to a shade of light purple. Several hours seem to have disappeared, as though dusk has lost its patience and asserted a sudden presence. The only sound is of leaves and twigs crackling under our feet.

  Soon we’re on a steep decline. The peaks of hills loom like sentinels ahead of us. Omar points to a thick plume of smoke rising lazily from the trees to our left. ‘That’s jhum cultivation of the land. The slash-and-burn method has been used for centuries by tribes here,’ he informs me.

  Near the bottom of a ravine we stop briefly. There’s panic ahead of us. Omar rushes to the front. His voice is taut and cracks like a whip. Although his anger is controlled, it’s like being jabbed by the pointed ends of icicles. One of the crates hasn’t been properly tied and has nearly slid off the back of a mule.

  It’s a cue for everyone to take a break.

  No one lights a smoke. Raw tobacco and bottles of water are passed around. Omar comes back to sit beside me on the damp ground. He’s breathing heavily. This is the only time I’ve seen a crack in his composure.

  I’m left wondering what’s in the crates.

  My legs have stiffened. Stubbornly I still refuse to ride on a mule.

  ‘It’ll be another couple of hours,’ Omar warns.