Spiral Road Read Free

me.
    The official ignores the caustic comments. He stamps the immigration card and tears it along the perforated line. He reads the Customs Declaration Form and then marks it with a diagonal line. ‘Show that to customs,’ he instructs. ‘Go through the red area. Next!’
    I’d ticked the box next to the NOTHING TO DECLARE option. The red area? Now I’m beginning to think I won’t be leaving the airport in a hurry.
    Other passengers have their luggage checked. A customs officer in a plain white sari ignores me and continues talking to a male colleague. The man appears to be in his early forties. I can’t help staring at the ravine scar that runs down his right cheek. He’s tall and thin, with blood-shot eyes and a perpetual smirk on his face, as though it’s an imprint of his superiority to the rest of the world.
    ‘Hamid Bhai, we’re going to miss you!’ the woman says affectionately. ‘Come and visit us any time you like! You still haven’t told us your future plans.’
    ‘Some other job,’ he says vaguely with a swish of his hands. ‘I haven’t decided. Something more exciting. More meaningful.’
    Hamid finally notices me. He asks for my passport. ‘Australian!’ he exclaims. ‘How long have you lived there?’
    ‘Thirty years,’ I reply in Bangla.
    His expression softens as though in approval of my fluency in the national language. ‘Are Australians prejudiced against Muslims?’
    ‘I’m an Australian. I’m not prejudiced against myself.’
    ‘There’s a difference between someone like you and the descendents of the British.’
    ‘There are people from all over the world living there.’ I’m too jet-lagged to be bothered with a further explanation of the country’s ethnic diversity.
    ‘Do Muslims feel threatened in Australia?’
    ‘You need to ask a practising Muslim.’
    He examines the immigration card. ‘You wrote nothing where it says religion.’
    ‘It’s optional.’
    ‘Your country invaded Iraq.’ There’s a note of accusation in his voice, as though he has irrefutable proof that I was part of the decision-making process that sent Australian troops to the Middle East.
    Another man in a khaki uniform takes the passport and disappears behind a partition. The woman tips the contents of my suitcase and backpack onto the counter. She continues chatting with Hamid. Mindlessly they poke and probe each item of belonging.
    ‘Video camera? Laptop?’ Hamid inquires. ‘British pounds? Euros? American dollars?’
    ‘Mobile phone.’ I place it on the bench.
    They take turns to examine the mobile before returning it to me. I’m led behind the partition and searched.
    Most of the clothes and gifts for family members are tossed back into the suitcase. The rest is dumped in the backpack along with my letters and documents, which have been perfunctorily examined. The woman motions towards a partly open door.
    ‘Why?’ I ask. ‘What about my passport?’
    She shrugs nonchalantly.
    I glare at her.
    ‘Please wait in there. Your passport will be returned. You can leave your suitcase here. You may take the backpack.’
    The room stinks of cigarettes, even though there are no butts in sight. Several chairs are placed around a clunky wooden table in the middle. The walls are painted avocado green. The flecked mosaic floor looks invitingly cool and clean. A ceiling fan creaks and whirls overhead. I move the chair to ensure that I’m not sitting directly under it.
    Already I yearn to return to my inconspicuous life as a librarian in Melbourne.
    A T HOME MY workdays are full of book matters, emails, order forms and purchases, organising and attending meetings, arranging lectures and catching up with the news on websites. I leave some of the more difficult jobs to my assistant, Danielle Banks. She’s adept at dealing with budget cuts and staff stress. Over the years we’ve both learned that compliance and compromise achieve much more than confrontation. Danielle also happens to be a more