Free Spiral Road by Adib Khan

saying that foreigners no longer rule us. Zia, I don’t think I can cope with this sort of behaviour any longer. It’s not good for my blood pressure. I think your father should have afternoon tea in his bedroom.’
    ‘Friday afternoon is one of the few times when all of us manage to have some contact with him.’ Zia argues, turning towards me. ‘Usually Abba has his other meals in his room.’
    ‘He eats quietly when only I’m there,’ Ma boasts. ‘Otherwise, he makes a fuss.’
    ‘It’s important that he doesn’t feel neglected,’ Zia insists.
    Suddenly I feel Abba’s grip on my arm. Something on the mango tree has caught his attention. ‘Najma?’
    ‘Who?’ I’m uncertain whether the question is directed at me.
    ‘One of the maids when we were children,’ Zia reminds me.
    ‘The one with the coarse laugh?’
    ‘Yes,’ Zia replies. ‘Uncle Musa fancied her.’
    ‘We don’t have to discuss her!’ Ma snaps.
    ‘You didn’t like her, Ma,’ Nasreen says playfully.
    Vaguely I recall a good-looking girl with dancing eyes and bouncy hips. She flounced around the house, seeking attention and flirting, and ignoring Ma. Najma lasted a short time with us. She was loud-mouthed and incompetent. ButI never understood the haste with which she departed. Without any announcement, one morning she was gone.
    ‘Big breasts,’ Abba continues energetically, enunciating the words loudly.
    The mali stops weeding. There’s a flurry of movement all around me as though a stone has been thrown among a flock of birds.
    Nasreen tells the stunned children that it’s nearly time for the cartoons on TV. They dash towards their room.
    Ma makes a funny noise, as if she’s choked on her food. She begins to cough and rushes off towards the bathroom. Nasreen heads for the kitchen. I hear her complaining that the cook hasn’t quite learned to fry the samosas properly. They’re too greasy.
    ‘Next time, make sure the oil’s hot before you fry them,’ she instructs Mirza. ‘Pat them with a clean cloth after they’re fried.’
    Zia hurries down the steps to talk to the mali .
    All this happens at once, and I only manage to shrink in my chair, curious and yet dreading what Abba may have to say next. Before this, I’ve never known him to speak crudely.
    ‘Like juicy langra mangoes.’ Abba goes on as if nothing’s happened. There’s a dreamy look in his eyes and he reminisces into the distance. ‘Ripe.’ Abba turns to look at me slyly. ‘Mu…Moo…’
    ‘Musa Bhai!’ I remind him.
    ‘Musa Bhai touched them. He gave her rupees,’ he whispers.
    ‘Would you like to go back to your room?’ I’m helpless and exasperated, struggling in a trap and abandoned by those who should have rescued me.
    ‘Najma?’
    ‘No…Najma’s gone.’ My ineptitude in gauging the erratic workings of his mind irritates me. I march down the steps of the veranda towards Zia. I can see that he’s thoroughly amused.
    ‘The look on your face!’ he chortles.
    ‘Great family support!’
    ‘Some responsibilities have to be shouldered alone.’ But we go back up to the veranda together.
    We find Abba snoring. His chin rests on his chest and his arms dangle limply at the sides of the chair. I’m surprised how light he is. I carry him to his room. Zia props up a couple of pillows against the bed head. As I lay him down, he wakes up and strains his body towards the rocking chair in front of the window.
    ‘It’s his favourite spot,’ Zia says. ‘Whatever he sees out there can occupy him for hours. Sometimes I think his entire past is spread across the horizon.’
    Even though he’s in a drowsy state, I can detect a glow on Abba’s face.
    ‘It upsets me that I cannot reach out to him,’ I confess. ‘I don’t know what to say. My own father. I can’t help thinking of him as he was—strong and decisive, sensible and dutiful. Abba had such a great sense of occasion! He would have never said what he did just then about