Spiral Road Read Online Free PDF

around me.
    Waving a bamboo stick, a policeman lumbers towards a white woman. She stands petrified among a group of clamouring beggars with their arms extended towards her. She cringes and clutches her handbag to her chest, a bewildered smile plastered on her face. Behind us, a youngster swears and spits at our feet. His companions roar with approval, and move on towards the hapless tourist with predatory zeal.
    Zia leads the way to his car—a new Honda Civic with tinted windows, alloy wheels, CD player, AC and leather seats. A man, squatting on the ground, jumps to his feet. Hastily he puts his right hand behind his back and drops the butt of a cigarette on the ground. He bows obsequiously as Zia pays him.
    ‘You’ve to be careful,’ Zia explains as if I’m new to the subcontinent. ‘Just for the hell of it, someone’s likely to damage the car.’ He brushes away a spot of dirt from the shiny bonnet.
    As we drive out of the airport precinct, he curses and honks repeatedly. ‘It’s the driver’s day off today,’ hemutters. ‘It’s impossible to get anyone to work for the entire week, regardless of how much you offer to pay them.’
    ‘The limitations of money,’ I chuckle.
    A stream of vehicles flows past. Zia waits irritably with the right indicator of the car blinking. I brace myself for a collision as he loses patience and cuts across the path of a bus, bulging on the sides with passengers, speeding towards us. A horn blares. Zia responds belatedly. The bus horn is much more robust. In this exchange of sounds lies the tension of inequality and simmering anger of most of the population.
    ‘You should get your horn adjusted to be more vigorous,’ I remark, jokingly.
    To my surprise, he nods. ‘They don’t make car horns especially for developing countries. They sound timid and don’t quite fit with the loud rhythm of life here.’
    I begin to ask after the family, but I’m careful to avoid any mention of Zeenat. My sister-in-law died of breast cancer six years ago. I’ve always regretted not attending her funeral. It was unavoidable. At the time, I was in hospital with pneumonia.
    Zia has had to cope with the demands of the extended family by himself. Soon after he became a widower, our parents moved in with him. Poor planning, rash investments, extravagant living, old age and illness made the change imperative. Besides, Ma held the view that it was the duty of sons to invite their parents to live with them.
    In our teens Zia and I had been obliged to listen to the story of her three brothers fighting over the privilege of who would accommodate their parents. Ma ensured that Abba was not present when we were subjected to this narration of filial devotion. She had once made the mistake of recounting the tale in front of him. Abba had smiled and said mildly, ‘I remember it differently. Are you sure that’s what happened?’
    It wasn’t long after Abba and Ma went to live with Zia that our sister, Nasreen, and her two children were also forced to move in with him. I’m curious to know from Zia in person how he has adapted to all this.
    ‘It can be tense and mad at times,’ he responds calmly. ‘Ma manages to complain about most things. As she’s aged it’s become a chronic problem. I’m too tight-fisted, she says, and don’t give her enough money for the household. The servants don’t listen to her. I should employ a better cook. The grandchildren don’t respect their elders. You’ve abandoned her. She’s unable to find a doctor who can be a sympathetic listener. No one’s qualified enough to cure her illnesses. I don’t spend enough time with her. What a hellish life she has…And on it goes.’
    ‘I suppose Abba isn’t aware of what’s happening around him?’
    ‘That’s a blessing in some ways. He’s fragile and lonely. His friends are too old to visit. Until about six months ago, I tried to talk to him each evening before dinner. But even then he was on a different level of