Having waited patiently for almost two hours and starting to lose all hope from sheer frustration, Goldie's head suddenly appears through the open back door of the ambulance to confirm he has sorted everything and we were okay to proceed once more; he has an enormous smug grin on his face as he yammers away, exuding a sense of bravado that only a hero who has saved the universe should have not a smarmy git like him!
He explains that after all the suspicion, it really was genuinely an overturned truck that was blocking the road and the local people and some officers with his help of course, managed to somehow build a makeshift pulley to drag the behemoth out of the way to allow the flow of traffic to start running again until the morning when something a tad more sophisticated could remove the truck all together.
"No surprise there then that your father was being a little too cautious there, eh Neema?" I overhear my sister tease as Neema jokingly huffs and puffs away.
Auntie Poppy thanks Goldie profusely for all his hard work but it all feels seriously over the top to me - it was not as though he had slayed some dragon!
You'd think after all he has done a simple thank you from his big sister would be enough but that was Auntie Poppy's way I guess, far too loving and forgiving...maybe she wasn't as similar to mum as I thought cause mum would have told Goldie to put a sock in it and get the show on the road.
Whilst all the ass-kissing goes on Neema rolls her eyes repeatedly feeling the same sense of despair at Auntie Poppy's behaviour as I, as my sister and I look at each other with a brief but very obvious grimace which luckily Goldie does not notice but of course Tanny does, as I see him from the corner of my eye staring up at me with both curiosity and confusion written all over his face.
As Goldie pulls his head back out and shuts the door behind him, Auntie Poppy takes a deep breath and smiles slightly now knowing we were all sorted to continue forward before looking around at us all pulling our awkward faces.
There is an uncomfortable pause as she thinks about what to say to put us more at ease for having to had rely on the hero that is Goldie to rescue the day, but luckily no explanations are needed as we are interrupted by the rumble of the engine as it is started up by the driver.
A synchronised murmur of relief from all of us works its way around our enclosure as we start to move and finally accept that the wait is over and we are on our way again...plus do not have to air our thoughts about him!
As the ladies begin chatting away or more precisely, Neema and my sister start chatting away clearly gossiping about Goldie whilst Auntie Poppy decides to keep to herself by reciting some prayers and blessings for mum, Tanny leans over to me and whispers in my ear, "Don't think I didn't see that...what's with you and all of ya against Uncle Goldie? Not like you man!"
I look at Tanny and though I want to tell him, I find myself scrunching up my nose, tightening my lips and shaking my head from side to side clearly indicating to him that this was not something I wanted to talk about.
Tanny looks a little surprised that for the first time, I was refusing to share something with him but knowing me as well as he does, he drops the issue and patting me on one shoulder, puts his headphones back in and tries to go back to sleep in his corner of the ambulance...which he seems to manage to achieve in seconds!
I snicker a little at first as I hear Tanny snoring away already but then feel a sense of disappointment that I didn't want to share what was bothering all of us so much about Goldie.
I trust Tanny implicitly but the tales surrounding Goldie were far too disturbing and frankly, somewhat embarrassing to us as a family to share...although perhaps if the truth were known about the kind of man Goldie really is maybe less people would rely on him as much as they did and see him for the complete bastard he is!
Despite his demeanour and looks making him appear dodgy to say the least, it is still quite hard to imagine the things Goldie has done to others in the family; truth be told, he was like one of my best friends when I lived in Bangladesh growing up despite him being my uncle, but guess I was younger and much more naive then to fully appreciate how twisted his mind was.
Amongst all the stupid scams or tricks he's pulled over the years, all of which our father told us about when we became old enough to understand them (which in his mind was both of us being 30 plus!!!), the worst ones were his illicit affair and the robbery; mum was so ashamed of these incidents that even after she knew we knew, we continued pretending everything was fine and never discussed it with her in any way, shape or form.
With the first, the affair, I find myself imagining what it would be like to be from a family of 4 brothers and sisters but then losing mum whilst I am only 4 similar to how old Auntie Poppy was at the time mum's birth mother passed away.
I continue thinking what the siblings must have gone through and how badly they must have coped despite having their father alive and well as in those days, he would have been the type of father who didn't have the first clue of raising a family so was required to remarry quite speedily not out of love but necessity.
How weird it must then have been to have another 4 siblings to arrive, the youngest being a lovely little boy, before tragically losing their new mother who never distinguished her own children from that of her step-children - loving them all equally, and learning how to deal with the loss all over again.
I then imagine being that baby boy needing love and guidance severely lacking from his father. Being taken under the wing of one of my brothers - the only one who has decided not to leave dad's side and the local village where we were all born and work the land we all own - who takes sole responsibility for me despite the other siblings wanting to contribute, bringing me up like his own. A brother who works all hours under the sun tirelessly, to pay for everything I ever desired and needed to get the head start in life he never got.
I imagine then that my brother has an arranged marriage to a girl from a neighbouring village and she moves into the house we are all sharing and she along with my brother looks after me - never once complaining about the burden I am on them financially or other wise.
But then somewhere along the line, be it through some sordid grooming from the wife's side due to lack of affection from the husband who is always working or a case of advances from a highly sexed teenager which can no longer be denied, the wife and I begin to have a sexual relationship.
I feel my body shudder at the kind of betrayal Goldie had committed...it was not even a rumour - it was fact. Worst bit of it all was that as divorce is not considered the done thing in Bangladesh, even after my uncle found out about Goldie fucking his wife, he did nothing.
He didn't divorce her, didn't try to tear Goldie apart - nothing! The argument being they had a little daughter together, a lovely little girl they nicknamed Princess, and that would devastate her life.
Not only would it ruin her psychologically but in the future, the family would find it almost impossible to marry her off to a family if she came from a broken home; for some reason guys can get away with anything in Bangladesh - from sleeping around to having several wives but girls? Apparently they need to be pure as white and unspoilt in every way.
Add to that the sheer humiliation for the family name as a whole and well, uncle's hands were tied I guess. I realise it is a gross generalisation but the attitude people in Bangladesh have to divorce is shocking..."God forbid there be divorcees in the family; it's much better to have people shagging each other's wives behind closed doors than anyone contemplating filing for divorce!" I muse sarcastically.
But the worst bit of the whole situation? Everyone suspects Princess is Goldie's anyway but no one dares say it or do a DNA test to try prove it! No, that's just not done - although sleeping with someone who is meant to be like your mother whilst she is still married to your brother is apparently.
Have to be honest, having seen pictures of my cousin who I love immensely despite the disgust I feel towards Goldie and Princess's mother, it is pretty obvious she is Goldie's daughter and not my uncle's. The 4 siblings borne from my step-grandmother have such distinguishing features that unless there is some unexpected way the gene carrying Goldie's face has managed to jump from that side of the gene pool into my grandfather's side, there is no way the little lady has been fathered by a brother borne of my original grandmother; the family resemblance to the step brother and sisters is undeniable.
Heck, when my auntie was in chronic pain delivering the baby coming into this whirlwind world of incest and betrayal, I was told by my dad that she called out not for my uncle (her husband and supposed father of her child) but Goldie. Normally I would have said this was purely gossip but unfortunately, my dad in his capacity as a doctor, was present during the delivery as mum and him were visiting at the time and my uncle was extremely poorly so he was privy to the incident as it unfolded.
Although dad wanted to tell mum about this the moment he came out of the delivery room, everyone was so excited about the little one's arrival that dad never managed to do so and later, discarded his thoughts as merely conjecture and unfair to discuss with mum spreading further aspersions over what everyone already knew.
However, when all this was coming out and dad was sharing the gory details of the affair with my sister and I and hence why we should not trust Goldie as far as we can throw him, he could not help but tell us of his suspicions surrounding the birth.
The situation is horrendous and despite the family trying to keep all this under wraps, let's be honest - many outsiders know!
Even then, in spite of this and Goldie hardly being a great catch having never finished formal education beyond his O'Levels and flitting from job to job never being able to stick to one due to complete disinterest or being sacked from it for being useless, people have still flocked around our family with proposals of marriage based on the sheer weight of our family's name alone. Incredibly people are more than happy to forgive Goldie's misdemeanours in favour of having their daughter become part of Dada's family!
However, no proposal is ever good enough for Goldie, due to his unhealthy obsession with auntie.
Okay, forgetting the whole creepy suspicion of grooming, let's say they really are in love and the daughter, be it Goldie's or not, would be happy enough to accept Goldie as her father and desert uncle. Despite all the stigma, surely that would be better than the arrangement they have now - everyone playing happy family whilst all this is brewing underneath, right?
From what I understand, the situation they have now is that Goldie tends to live in Dhaka living with Auntie Poppy and her family doing odd bits of work here and there whilst auntie continues her life playing wife and dedicated mother in the village sharing a bed with uncle as a married couple do. Fine so far.
However, when Goldie does come home, whilst he stays and sleeps in a separate room, it is rumoured between certain hours of the night, uncle can be seen in his night clothes sitting near the pond at the back of their house as Goldie makes love to his wife.
"What the fuck???!!!" I think to myself as I can feel every muscle in my body wanting to smack the living daylights out of Goldie.
To add insult to injury, supposedly uncle has now stopped working all together due to ill health but without health insurance or pensions in this country, how does he continue running the household? Well, it is suspected that Goldie pays for everything be it through a sense of responsibility, repayment of a debt or feeling of guilt - but I personally see it as a trade-off: "I'll continue shagging your wife until you die but pay for everything you and they need until then. Don't worry though, I shan't humiliate you by pushing you to divorce your wife or eloping with her..." is what I can only assume the conversation went as when uncle and Goldie perhaps discussed the arrangements.
"Practically pimping off his own wife" I go on to think with utter disdain but then my anger subsides a little as I feel an overwhelming sense of upset for my uncle, "God only knows how true all of this is, but seriously fucked up!...but then again, what would I do I wonder if culturally, physically and financially I had no other choices available?"
As for the robbery? What a fucking palaver. As I think of it, it dawns on me that cliches are cliches because they are true - fact really can be stranger than fiction.
As mentioned, the loser tends to flit between jobs usually for no other reason bar him feeling as though he can being the brother of a high-flyer such as Dada, but like all human beings, Goldie is always on the look out of making big bucks fast.
So one day whilst chatting away to one of his sister's husbands, he finds out the husband has quite a large amount of cash stashed away in the house for the further education and wedding dowry of his two daughters; the idea of dowry itself angers me but my concerns surrounding that can stay hidden until another time I am sure.
Goldie then goes away only to come back some weeks later to say he has an amazing deal that he can offer the husband if he wanted to invest all of his savings and get a threefold return on his investment within the year and the husband, coming from a very humble background quickly agrees despite all of the above regarding the affair which he knows about, as he trusts Goldie implicitly.
"[Goldie] is after all, my wife's younger brother" he must have rationalised as he handed over his briefcase full of cash into Goldie's sweaty paws, never discussing any of this with his wife as he is the master of the manor so to speak and most Bangladeshi households still exist on a parallel dimension where they are stuck in the 1930s!
Goldie swans off on the back of a motorbike with a mate of his and that is the end of that...for the time being.
A few hours later, the husband is informed that Goldie and his mate were ambushed by some thugs who somehow knew they were carrying all this cash in their briefcase and having been beaten up badly, this was stolen from them.
The husband is clearly devastated but at no point suspects this has anything to do with Goldie and forgives him, being thankful that he is alive and well.
The husband is then told by the ever efficient local police investigators that they will try and investigate matters but as this kind of crime was quite common, it would be unlikely they would be able to find who did this and the husband finally breaks down in tears and confesses all to his wife.
Thankfully, her woes are then relayed up the food chain and makes its way to the ears of none other then Dada himself and pulling some pretty major strings, the FBI version of the Bangladeshi police force get involved.
The rest of the story gets a bit hazy from here on in, probably because I understand the techniques used on the suspects to the robbery were not the fluffy type that you would expect in England but rather forms of mild beatings to quite major torture...Slumdog Millionaire people? Yep - the torture scenes in that are a very accurate depiction of what went on I understand.
The police officers who were on the take and the friend who drove the motor bike that day eventually confessed that the mastermind behind the whole scam was GOLDIE!!!!
Absolutely unbelievable.
When the family then tried to track the bastard down to find out the truth directly from him, turned out he had already fled the country and was sitting pretty in Singapore trying to find work as a caterer...so what happens next?
Not extradition from the family, no that would make too much sense.
No, instead, except for my auntie who suffered the scam and thus has never forgiven him even after 4 years now and rightly so, everyone else asks him to come back and that all shall be forgotten and they understand why he did all of this as everyone wants to make a quick buck...and he crawls back out from under his rock.
Claiming to have spent all the money he stole, he arrives back in Bangladesh with his tail between his legs and coincidentally, shiny new gold tooth, hides behind Dada who gets all the charges dropped as it would be too embarrassing for his career for his younger brother to be chucked into prison for these shenanigans, and gets on with his life as if nothing had ever happened.
Even now, he has not paid back a single penny to my auntie and her husband despite knowing that the husband has repeatedly threatened to controversially, divorce my poor auntie if the money is not repaid in the hope that the threat will make Goldie pay up...a plan that would work if the fucker had a conscience. He doesn't even seem to show any remorse as to how his fucking irresponsible and vindictive behaviour will impact on their daughters who are merely 14 and 18 respectively...
"...Yet, the daughters seem to love him to bits although they know everything he has done to their family and everyone seems to count on him whenever a job needs doing as if no one else is capable of doing it. Incredible!"
I then jokingly begin to chant to myself using the famous Ghostbusters' theme tune, "There's something weird in your neighbourhood...who you gonna call? If it ain't Goldie, call that fucker..." as I imagine the idiot walking around with his chest all puffed up, sunglasses on and gold tooth sparkling with his smug grin running from ear to ear and then cringe.
"Such a horrible - horrible person" I think to myself as I clench my fists and feel my blood boiling once more, "...and still because the Bangladeshi attitude is blood is thicker than water, he is always given shelter and sanctuary by the family instead of being fucking turfed out and telling him to burn in hell. Even I try never to be too bloody disrespectful to him as he's my uncle because it is so instilled in me not to be disrespectful to your elders but sometimes...just sometimes, I want to bash his head in with..."
Suddenly the ambulance screeches to a halt and Tanny snorts his way to the land of the living, "Waah? Hoo dere...?"
My sister, Neema and Auntie Poppy laugh at Tanny's reaction to the jerky stop as I ask the driver what the problem was.
"The drivers are all jumping out of the car to check the wheels and adjust air in the tyres for the last bit of the journey," he says but as I look totally lost at his comment he continues with a wry smile, "If you thought the journey had been bad by the time we got to the road block Sir, wait until you experience the rest!" and with that he disappears outside.
"Great! Thanks for that!" I say quietly as I frown and sit back down, "if he knew what I had been thinking for the last few miles I'm sure he would realise that nothing could be worse...nothing..."
I hesitate as I look over at mum lying in front of me and realise how wrong I am, "...or maybe not...".
And with that I lay my hands on mum's coffin and remind myself once again the real reason I was there; there were indeed worse things that could happen and for now, Goldie was not one of them.
20100122
Chapter Eleven: Hindsight
Having had a relatively calm journey crossing the river, we are on the other side and once again zooming along in the confines of our ambulance which has begun to feel like a mechanised prison - the four walls beginning to feel claustrophobic and even with the sun having long gone and the air conditioning humming away, the heat is still somewhat irritating. The no frills and lack of suspension not helping matters either as we bounce constantly up and down over the dilapidated roads.
Still, I wanted to travel with mum so I remind myself that it is unfair to bitch and moan about the position I find myself in. Besides, so far the journey has been running relatively smoothly to be honest; since we left Dhaka, traffic has not been too bad which is a rarity bearing in mind that it normally tends to be a nightmare in Bangladesh with one having to add at least 2hours to every 1 mile trip if they want to get somewhere on time so I quit complaining and shut up.
I peer out of the window whilst the rest of the gang are fast asleep now; besides the whispers of the driver and his navigator sitting next to him in the front cabin, all I can hear is the rumble of the engine and all I can feel is the occasional bump and swerve caused by the uneven roads full of pot-holes.
Darkness surrounds us everywhere as there are no street lights or road markings anywhere. I spot the occasional flicker of oil-filled lanterns in little huts hidden away on the roadside and stray dog flitting in and out of the woods, eyes gleaming from our headlights.
My mind starts to wander again and I find myself back at my parents' house in England within the warm embrace of my wife - her arms hanging over my shoulders and head peering over mine as I sit laughing away with mum and the rest of the family - only a few months ago during Easter.
Somehow I sensed things were not going well at all so my wife and I preemptively travelled down to my parents' house a few days prior to the Easter break so that we could all spend some quality time together...quality time...an extra 3 days on top of Easter! Frankly, if I'd known how soon thereafter she was going to leave us I would have quit my job and stayed with her until the end..."but hindsight is 20:20 I guess and there is no point having regrets" I say to myself.
I go back to thinking about the amazing time we all had - despite her failing health, mum was in such high spirits with all of us there and it was great to see her laugh. Having been in hospital for four consecutive months running over Christmas and into the New Year, she was delighted to be home that March let alone have us all rallying around her in the April, that just made her ecstatic though she did not have the energy to show it as much as I am sure she would have wanted to.
Despite her smiles, she had become a mere slither of the woman she was and by then, her skeletal form with cancer ridden pancreas and failing liver causing her stomach to swell, was more or less confined to a wheelchair.
I suddenly surprise myself by laughing a little, warmly remembering even at that stage, how tough mum was, "If I resign myself to that chair, it is all over" she used to say and with that she used to try stand up and walk a few steps before having to rest on her walking stick or us jumping to her aid.
"Soooo stubborn..." I murmur to myself with a chuckle.
However, her resentment of the chair really was a double edged sword as though she hated what it implied, going anywhere was difficult without it which meant mum had inadvertently confined herself to the house through this hatred and sense of embarrassment caused by having to rely on it.
But for me, enough was enough.
Spring was in the air, flowers were blossoming and as corny as it sounds, I knew then that staying indoors would do mum more harm than good; wallowing in self-pity and suffering her pain rather than soaking up the beauty of what lay around her beyond the isolation she had created.
So I dragged her out - at first kicking and screaming - and driving to the nearest park, forced her to swallow her pride and get in her chair as I wheeled her around whilst dad, my sister and her family and my wife trailed behind us all chatting away as the cool spring sun beat down on us.
At first she said nothing, almost throwing a tantrum for having to be out in her wheeled monstrosity but after a few jokes from me and flowers presented to her by my baby nephews, she began to relax and forget her woes.
My favourite moment of that day begins to push tears through my eyes as I recall mum sitting in her chair next to me with myself sitting on a bench, watching the family kicking a ball around on the open fields of the park.
I was babbling on to mum how ridiculous dad and my brother-in-law looked trying to out do my sister, wife and nephews with their attempts to be professional footballers whilst the others just wanted to have a laugh when Mum put her hand on mine and very softly spoke to me: "thank you baba..." she said, pausing slightly before continuing, "I love you so much for being as pushy as me! Definitely your mother's son, eh?" and with that we laughed for a bit before I lent my head on her shoulder and began to cry...we said nothing more to each other that day until we came home and even then, it was Khan family chaos as usual which mum thrived on.
Suddenly my sad thoughts are broken by the driver's mobile phone going off and upon answering it, the driver jolts our ambulance to a halt and jumps out - asking none of us to leave the vehicle until we hear otherwise.
Except for Tanny, the jolt wakes my sister, Auntie Poppy and Neema up from their slumber but before they can ask me what is going on, I have already jumped out of the vehicle and drying my eyes with my shirt, follow the driver to the front of the convoy where Dada's 4x4 awaits.
Dada goes to speak to the driver but is clearly annoyed to see I am close behind him, "I thought I said to you to ask everyone to remain on board?" he says bluntly to the driver as the driver looks at me and then sheepishly looks to the ground.
"He did Dada, but you know me - my mother's son and all" I jest to take the attention away from the poor guy and break the tension, "so what's the story?"
"I have been alerted by one of your uncles who works in the Highways Control Services that a truck has overturned further on and is currently blocking the road and there are a handful of officers and some local people trying to get it sorted..." Dada says but before he goes on I interrupt completely exasperated, "It's going to take blooming ages to sort isn't it? I mean, there's hardly going to be roadside assistance in these neck of the woods is there!! Man, I knew things were going too smoothly!!!"
"Baba, do you know what? I would be happy to wait a bit and find out that was the true problem but as your uncle said to me when he called, there is a lot of corruption in this country so until we know exactly what the situation is, with us being who we are and who your mum is, it would not surprise me if this all turned out to be a ploy to mug or kidnap us or something of that nature - unfortunately you're a long way off from England now!" Dada says looking very serious, "I want everyone to stay in their vehicles and for your little uncle [in other words, Goldie!] to go on ahead by foot just to check the position out before we do anything else. For now I want you to go back to the ambulance and rest but don't tell anybody anything just yet as it will only worry them, okay?"
I stare at Dada clearly looking confused, angry and annoyed all at the same time - this was not some Bollywood movie but real life, did he realise what he was saying was totally ridiculous, "As if someone would knock a tree down in the middle of the night to block us with the view to fucking kidnap us...as if we're that special or even that loaded" I think to myself as I watch Dada's lips moving saying something reassuring I'm sure but not taking in a word he is uttering, "Mum? Why the heck are we blooming here and not England again!!??"
Suddenly a familiar voice travels from the darkest depths of the 4x4 and manages to catch my attention, "It sounds all very serious for now but chances are it will be nothing. Your Dada is wanting to be careful that is all so go back to your mummy and sister for now okay?"
Although I can hardly see him with there being no lights anywhere, I recognise the calming voice of my dad instantly and breaking out of my weird trance I decide to grit my teeth and stop pulling awkward faces and instead, bid the elders farewell for now and slump my way across to the ambulance.
As I near our ambulance dodging the numerous cracks and holes in the tarmac, I see Goldie hopping out of his carrier; thankfully I can't see his face or that glistening gold tooth of his because of the pitch black surroundings but he does holler over to me as I pass, "Ok baba?"
I want to answer back but refrain myself from saying anything and ignore him completely. If anyone would arrange something as deranged as trying to have us mugged or kidnapped it would be Goldie for sure seeing as his sense of morals is down in the gutters at best so making polite chit-chat with him was not high on the agenda for me especially when potentially, his ploy may be coming together.
I suddenly pause and realise how in an instant, my family has managed to make me as paranoid as they are and I begin to laugh hysterically at how crazy the whole situation is and with that start walking again towards the ambulance where I spot Tanny hanging out of the back with my sister in tow, "Dude, wassup? What's been going down?"
I pause for a moment and take a deep breath as I rationalise the decision made by Dada before I say anything after all, despite my annoyance at how stupid it all sounded, I had to respect the fact that Dada has been living in Bangladesh for many years, not I, and done more things than I could ever imagine, so if he didn't know the best way to deal with things in this country no one would...
...almost like if I could turn back time and experience losing mum again, I would do that. Even though the pain would be unbearable knowing that there was nothing we could do to make her better, I would then have the chance to at least spend double the amount of time I actually did with her in reality. With experience comes knowledge with knowledge comes hindsight.
And with that thought in mind I look at my sister and Tanny both of whom are staring at me eagerly anticipating a detailed update and I merely say, "Hindsight's what's been going down, dude - hindsight".
Still, I wanted to travel with mum so I remind myself that it is unfair to bitch and moan about the position I find myself in. Besides, so far the journey has been running relatively smoothly to be honest; since we left Dhaka, traffic has not been too bad which is a rarity bearing in mind that it normally tends to be a nightmare in Bangladesh with one having to add at least 2hours to every 1 mile trip if they want to get somewhere on time so I quit complaining and shut up.
I peer out of the window whilst the rest of the gang are fast asleep now; besides the whispers of the driver and his navigator sitting next to him in the front cabin, all I can hear is the rumble of the engine and all I can feel is the occasional bump and swerve caused by the uneven roads full of pot-holes.
Darkness surrounds us everywhere as there are no street lights or road markings anywhere. I spot the occasional flicker of oil-filled lanterns in little huts hidden away on the roadside and stray dog flitting in and out of the woods, eyes gleaming from our headlights.
My mind starts to wander again and I find myself back at my parents' house in England within the warm embrace of my wife - her arms hanging over my shoulders and head peering over mine as I sit laughing away with mum and the rest of the family - only a few months ago during Easter.
Somehow I sensed things were not going well at all so my wife and I preemptively travelled down to my parents' house a few days prior to the Easter break so that we could all spend some quality time together...quality time...an extra 3 days on top of Easter! Frankly, if I'd known how soon thereafter she was going to leave us I would have quit my job and stayed with her until the end..."but hindsight is 20:20 I guess and there is no point having regrets" I say to myself.
I go back to thinking about the amazing time we all had - despite her failing health, mum was in such high spirits with all of us there and it was great to see her laugh. Having been in hospital for four consecutive months running over Christmas and into the New Year, she was delighted to be home that March let alone have us all rallying around her in the April, that just made her ecstatic though she did not have the energy to show it as much as I am sure she would have wanted to.
Despite her smiles, she had become a mere slither of the woman she was and by then, her skeletal form with cancer ridden pancreas and failing liver causing her stomach to swell, was more or less confined to a wheelchair.
I suddenly surprise myself by laughing a little, warmly remembering even at that stage, how tough mum was, "If I resign myself to that chair, it is all over" she used to say and with that she used to try stand up and walk a few steps before having to rest on her walking stick or us jumping to her aid.
"Soooo stubborn..." I murmur to myself with a chuckle.
However, her resentment of the chair really was a double edged sword as though she hated what it implied, going anywhere was difficult without it which meant mum had inadvertently confined herself to the house through this hatred and sense of embarrassment caused by having to rely on it.
But for me, enough was enough.
Spring was in the air, flowers were blossoming and as corny as it sounds, I knew then that staying indoors would do mum more harm than good; wallowing in self-pity and suffering her pain rather than soaking up the beauty of what lay around her beyond the isolation she had created.
So I dragged her out - at first kicking and screaming - and driving to the nearest park, forced her to swallow her pride and get in her chair as I wheeled her around whilst dad, my sister and her family and my wife trailed behind us all chatting away as the cool spring sun beat down on us.
At first she said nothing, almost throwing a tantrum for having to be out in her wheeled monstrosity but after a few jokes from me and flowers presented to her by my baby nephews, she began to relax and forget her woes.
My favourite moment of that day begins to push tears through my eyes as I recall mum sitting in her chair next to me with myself sitting on a bench, watching the family kicking a ball around on the open fields of the park.
I was babbling on to mum how ridiculous dad and my brother-in-law looked trying to out do my sister, wife and nephews with their attempts to be professional footballers whilst the others just wanted to have a laugh when Mum put her hand on mine and very softly spoke to me: "thank you baba..." she said, pausing slightly before continuing, "I love you so much for being as pushy as me! Definitely your mother's son, eh?" and with that we laughed for a bit before I lent my head on her shoulder and began to cry...we said nothing more to each other that day until we came home and even then, it was Khan family chaos as usual which mum thrived on.
Suddenly my sad thoughts are broken by the driver's mobile phone going off and upon answering it, the driver jolts our ambulance to a halt and jumps out - asking none of us to leave the vehicle until we hear otherwise.
Except for Tanny, the jolt wakes my sister, Auntie Poppy and Neema up from their slumber but before they can ask me what is going on, I have already jumped out of the vehicle and drying my eyes with my shirt, follow the driver to the front of the convoy where Dada's 4x4 awaits.
Dada goes to speak to the driver but is clearly annoyed to see I am close behind him, "I thought I said to you to ask everyone to remain on board?" he says bluntly to the driver as the driver looks at me and then sheepishly looks to the ground.
"He did Dada, but you know me - my mother's son and all" I jest to take the attention away from the poor guy and break the tension, "so what's the story?"
"I have been alerted by one of your uncles who works in the Highways Control Services that a truck has overturned further on and is currently blocking the road and there are a handful of officers and some local people trying to get it sorted..." Dada says but before he goes on I interrupt completely exasperated, "It's going to take blooming ages to sort isn't it? I mean, there's hardly going to be roadside assistance in these neck of the woods is there!! Man, I knew things were going too smoothly!!!"
"Baba, do you know what? I would be happy to wait a bit and find out that was the true problem but as your uncle said to me when he called, there is a lot of corruption in this country so until we know exactly what the situation is, with us being who we are and who your mum is, it would not surprise me if this all turned out to be a ploy to mug or kidnap us or something of that nature - unfortunately you're a long way off from England now!" Dada says looking very serious, "I want everyone to stay in their vehicles and for your little uncle [in other words, Goldie!] to go on ahead by foot just to check the position out before we do anything else. For now I want you to go back to the ambulance and rest but don't tell anybody anything just yet as it will only worry them, okay?"
I stare at Dada clearly looking confused, angry and annoyed all at the same time - this was not some Bollywood movie but real life, did he realise what he was saying was totally ridiculous, "As if someone would knock a tree down in the middle of the night to block us with the view to fucking kidnap us...as if we're that special or even that loaded" I think to myself as I watch Dada's lips moving saying something reassuring I'm sure but not taking in a word he is uttering, "Mum? Why the heck are we blooming here and not England again!!??"
Suddenly a familiar voice travels from the darkest depths of the 4x4 and manages to catch my attention, "It sounds all very serious for now but chances are it will be nothing. Your Dada is wanting to be careful that is all so go back to your mummy and sister for now okay?"
Although I can hardly see him with there being no lights anywhere, I recognise the calming voice of my dad instantly and breaking out of my weird trance I decide to grit my teeth and stop pulling awkward faces and instead, bid the elders farewell for now and slump my way across to the ambulance.
As I near our ambulance dodging the numerous cracks and holes in the tarmac, I see Goldie hopping out of his carrier; thankfully I can't see his face or that glistening gold tooth of his because of the pitch black surroundings but he does holler over to me as I pass, "Ok baba?"
I want to answer back but refrain myself from saying anything and ignore him completely. If anyone would arrange something as deranged as trying to have us mugged or kidnapped it would be Goldie for sure seeing as his sense of morals is down in the gutters at best so making polite chit-chat with him was not high on the agenda for me especially when potentially, his ploy may be coming together.
I suddenly pause and realise how in an instant, my family has managed to make me as paranoid as they are and I begin to laugh hysterically at how crazy the whole situation is and with that start walking again towards the ambulance where I spot Tanny hanging out of the back with my sister in tow, "Dude, wassup? What's been going down?"
I pause for a moment and take a deep breath as I rationalise the decision made by Dada before I say anything after all, despite my annoyance at how stupid it all sounded, I had to respect the fact that Dada has been living in Bangladesh for many years, not I, and done more things than I could ever imagine, so if he didn't know the best way to deal with things in this country no one would...
...almost like if I could turn back time and experience losing mum again, I would do that. Even though the pain would be unbearable knowing that there was nothing we could do to make her better, I would then have the chance to at least spend double the amount of time I actually did with her in reality. With experience comes knowledge with knowledge comes hindsight.
And with that thought in mind I look at my sister and Tanny both of whom are staring at me eagerly anticipating a detailed update and I merely say, "Hindsight's what's been going down, dude - hindsight".
20100120
Chapter Ten: Famished
Despite being fast asleep, I wake up totally uninterrupted by someone else, as you do when a vehicle starts coming to a halt. Even at 32, it still amazes me how your body knows a vehicle is slowing down or has reached its destination and wakes you up - that weird sixth sense thing always manages to illicit a smile from me and this time is no different.
Stretching without thinking about much else save for contemplating the wonder that is the human psyche, my smirk is short-lived as my hands slam into the roof of the ambulance! I manage to hold back a scream but whimper instead as I look around sheepishly hoping no one has noticed my idiotic manoeuvre.
Auntie Poppy, who has swapped places with my sister, chats to Neema whilst my sister is slumped over the end of mum's coffin fast asleep and Tanny is snoring blissfully at my side with his headphones on. By some miracle no one has taken any notice of me, so I quickly shake the pain away out of my wrists.
I look outside and see we haven't quite reached our destination yet despite having travelled for around 6 or 7 hours with only one small stop for refuelling. From what I can tell based on discussions we had before we set off, we have only reached approximately halfway, marked by a huge river separating us from further towns and villages before reaching mum's little haven hidden away in the Bangladeshi undergrowth.
Along the river there is a lot of activity going on - the side of both the road and river front dotted with shining lights ebbing in the darkness.
From what I can see down the road outside the window, I realise that the lights are made up of some dim light bulbs but most, oil fuelled lanterns, cutting through the night as shopkeepers sit or squat in little open fronted wooden stalls hoisted up on stilts, perhaps to prevent it from being washed away during the flood season. They are furiously fanning their fresh food items to stop insects taking a bite from their products and probably themselves!
Oddly enough, I can't help but notice how very bony they all are - looking almost malnourished - and unusually dark for the everyday Bangladeshi, probably from having to work non-stop during the day as well; sweltering in the scorching heat. They are wearing what are called lungees, an Eastern version of a sarong I would say, mostly conservatively coloured in grey and brown checks with various coloured vests on and half sleeved open shirts flapping in the mild breeze blowing across the river.
I take in with amazement all the goods they are selling from drinks and crisps all the way through to clothes, multitools and makeup under one roof, "Practically a department store but with minimal overhead...Debenhams, eat your heart out, eh?" I think to myself.
Opening the window to the ambulance, I look further along the road and see men and women walking around with large thatched and weaved baskets holding fruit and fish freshly picked or caught that day balanced on top of their heads. They are shouting at the top of their voices to draw in potential customers to sell their goods to.
The sheer noise of all that combined with the sound of engines from vehicles on the road and the boats on the river should be annoying, but along with the warmth of the river air, it actually feels comforting.
Some of the fish mongers and fruit sellers see my head peeking out and as if by magic, the ambulance is surrounded by several of them pushing and shoving, trying to get me to buy some items. Despite saying no several times, they are still insisting that I buy something seeing as "you are clearly rich sir!"...how they figured that out with me travelling in an ambulance surprises me initially, but then again, I am fairer than most and probably am speaking Bengali with an English accent without even realising - both usually taken as signs of having money.
Before I say anything further though, Neema jumps in, "No thank you - can't you see my brother and we are in an ambulance! We're not tourists but on a very serious trip so please, go bother some other vehicle!" - I have no idea why her way worked rather than mine, but on finishing her sentence, they have dispersed as quickly as they appeared.
I chuckle a little and joke that Neema clearly has got mum's attitude gene going on to which Neema smirks but then becomes sombre again as she looks over to mum and rests her had on my sister's back as she still snoozes away.
"How long are we going to be stuck here?" I ask Neema and Auntie Poppy, "Well usually until the boat to transport us arrives, but if you want to step out and stretch your legs for a bit, baba, go ahead; you'll be able to see the boat over the horizon when it comes anyway."
No sooner does Auntie Poppy finish her sentence, do I open the rear door of the ambulance and jump out, up and over Tanny.
My abrupt reaction is not a case of cabin fever, although I am sure that is what Auntie Poppy and Neema are thinking, but in reality incredible sadness hitting me once again in waves by Auntie Poppy merely using the word baba when speaking to me.
It is a Bengali term of endearment used for young men or boys by family members, usually mother or father to their son, but mum was the only one who used to call me that. I know Auntie Poppy said it out of affection but the pain of hearing that overwhelmed me in an instant; she looks so similar to mum and sounds almost identical yet, realisation slapped me again with the cold hard fact that this was not mum calling me baba - mum was no more.
I had to get away from there.
I walk down the road passed the procession of vehicles parked, all eagerly revving their engines awaiting the arrival of the boat, and decide a bout of mischief may cheer me up. As such, as I pass by, I begin waving and pulling faces at not just my family in the other cars and vehicles making up our convoy but also random people as well sitting in their coach-loads. Most merely stare at me in total confusion wondering how on earth they knew anyone out here but the more pleasant response for me was when someone would pull a face back at me and then end up laughing hysterically at the absurdity of it all.
As I near the river's edge passed the final shop, I suddenly hear a rustling in a darkened corner near the side of the shop and look over.
At first I cannot tell what it is as there is very little light, so I take my time to let my eyesight adjust and to my dismay, I see a lady in tattered clothes digging through an overflowing dustbin with such a sense of urgency as if her life depended on it.
I can hear the boat arriving and though there is suddenly an immense gravitation by the crowds in the road towards the river front or back to their vehicles, I decide to continue watching her for a little longer - morbid curiosity engulfing me - to see why she appeared so desperate.
The curiosity was not caused by never having seen such a depressing sight as unfortunately, in Bangladesh, a third world country after all, this kind of thing is a common occurrence, but no matter how much information you have, nothing prepares you for the reality of the situation when it confronts you. The state of mind I am in almost wants to see the suffering of others to remind myself that my life could be a fuck load harder than it is...so I linger on.
I notice that finally the lady has stopped rummaging through the waste having found what looks like food or something that is remotely edible as she eats a tiny part of it to test it. Having satisfied herself that it could be served though, she pauses and looks around almost as if she felt guilty for stealing this scrap before dashing over to the river bank where I see her sitting in a darkened corner: a little girl no more than 4 years of age, crying from sheer hunger waiting for her mother to feed her. The lady arrives with her treasure and though she is probably aching from starvation, I see her cradle her beloved child and lull her to a much needed calm before feeding her all of what she found.
A mother's love - so incredible - so beautiful - so unimaginably powerful.
Without even trying, I begin to cry both with thoughts of mum and what we shared and what I had just seen.
The world is a cruel place at times yet against all odds, here was a mother willing to wear rags and dig through rubbish forgoing her dignity and her own hunger to feed her beloved child.
As my mind wanders, the boat docks and cars and foot passengers are being allowed on board so the traffic starts flowing and the usual Bangladeshi style of honking horns for the heck of it begins once again. I am so lost in my thoughts though that none of it seems to matter until I hear a munching in my ear, "Yo gay-boy, we're off man - the ladies thought you'd been abducted or something. Lets go!".
I turn to see Tanny standing there with a massive packet of crisps, two bars of chocolate and a bag with 2 bottles of coke in it, his mouth full of so many crisps that I am surprised he can even speak.
He looks at me with one eye brow arched as I am staring at all his food, "Dude - it's for all of us. I know I'm a fat bastard but not that fat!!!"
I pull a wad of Bangladeshi notes out of my pocket and ask him how much it all is but Tanny won't take a penny and puts everything in the bag and passes it to me, "I know that look - you're gonna make like a super hero or something, right?"
I don't say a word but turn and bolt towards the lady and her child as Tanny watches on.
"Here - this is from my mum" I say to the startled mother cradling her little one and before she even has a chance to realise what's happening, I turn and start racing back up the embankment towards Tanny and where the ambulance is.
Tanny is shouting and pointing at the boat as I approach him and I notice what he is pointing at - the ambulance is already on and the gates are being lowered, "Has nobody even noticed I'm not there?" I think as sweat starts flooding my eyes as I turn once more and start heading towards the boat before we miss it.
As the boat gets ever closer, I hear a faint cry from the lady, "May Allah bless your mother for all eternity!" and I start laughing from the feeling of being able to do a little something for someone in mum's name.
Barely managing to clamber on board, the gate is shut behind us as the crew are staring at us not best pleased that we almost delayed them and I drop to the floor half panting and half laughing.
Tanny plonks himself next to me and putting an arm over my shoulders jeers me as I wipe the sweat off my brow, "You're one crazy fuck bro, but I luv ya for it!...Now, when you gonna buy me some more food - I'm famished!!"
Stretching without thinking about much else save for contemplating the wonder that is the human psyche, my smirk is short-lived as my hands slam into the roof of the ambulance! I manage to hold back a scream but whimper instead as I look around sheepishly hoping no one has noticed my idiotic manoeuvre.
Auntie Poppy, who has swapped places with my sister, chats to Neema whilst my sister is slumped over the end of mum's coffin fast asleep and Tanny is snoring blissfully at my side with his headphones on. By some miracle no one has taken any notice of me, so I quickly shake the pain away out of my wrists.
I look outside and see we haven't quite reached our destination yet despite having travelled for around 6 or 7 hours with only one small stop for refuelling. From what I can tell based on discussions we had before we set off, we have only reached approximately halfway, marked by a huge river separating us from further towns and villages before reaching mum's little haven hidden away in the Bangladeshi undergrowth.
Along the river there is a lot of activity going on - the side of both the road and river front dotted with shining lights ebbing in the darkness.
From what I can see down the road outside the window, I realise that the lights are made up of some dim light bulbs but most, oil fuelled lanterns, cutting through the night as shopkeepers sit or squat in little open fronted wooden stalls hoisted up on stilts, perhaps to prevent it from being washed away during the flood season. They are furiously fanning their fresh food items to stop insects taking a bite from their products and probably themselves!
Oddly enough, I can't help but notice how very bony they all are - looking almost malnourished - and unusually dark for the everyday Bangladeshi, probably from having to work non-stop during the day as well; sweltering in the scorching heat. They are wearing what are called lungees, an Eastern version of a sarong I would say, mostly conservatively coloured in grey and brown checks with various coloured vests on and half sleeved open shirts flapping in the mild breeze blowing across the river.
I take in with amazement all the goods they are selling from drinks and crisps all the way through to clothes, multitools and makeup under one roof, "Practically a department store but with minimal overhead...Debenhams, eat your heart out, eh?" I think to myself.
Opening the window to the ambulance, I look further along the road and see men and women walking around with large thatched and weaved baskets holding fruit and fish freshly picked or caught that day balanced on top of their heads. They are shouting at the top of their voices to draw in potential customers to sell their goods to.
The sheer noise of all that combined with the sound of engines from vehicles on the road and the boats on the river should be annoying, but along with the warmth of the river air, it actually feels comforting.
Some of the fish mongers and fruit sellers see my head peeking out and as if by magic, the ambulance is surrounded by several of them pushing and shoving, trying to get me to buy some items. Despite saying no several times, they are still insisting that I buy something seeing as "you are clearly rich sir!"...how they figured that out with me travelling in an ambulance surprises me initially, but then again, I am fairer than most and probably am speaking Bengali with an English accent without even realising - both usually taken as signs of having money.
Before I say anything further though, Neema jumps in, "No thank you - can't you see my brother and we are in an ambulance! We're not tourists but on a very serious trip so please, go bother some other vehicle!" - I have no idea why her way worked rather than mine, but on finishing her sentence, they have dispersed as quickly as they appeared.
I chuckle a little and joke that Neema clearly has got mum's attitude gene going on to which Neema smirks but then becomes sombre again as she looks over to mum and rests her had on my sister's back as she still snoozes away.
"How long are we going to be stuck here?" I ask Neema and Auntie Poppy, "Well usually until the boat to transport us arrives, but if you want to step out and stretch your legs for a bit, baba, go ahead; you'll be able to see the boat over the horizon when it comes anyway."
No sooner does Auntie Poppy finish her sentence, do I open the rear door of the ambulance and jump out, up and over Tanny.
My abrupt reaction is not a case of cabin fever, although I am sure that is what Auntie Poppy and Neema are thinking, but in reality incredible sadness hitting me once again in waves by Auntie Poppy merely using the word baba when speaking to me.
It is a Bengali term of endearment used for young men or boys by family members, usually mother or father to their son, but mum was the only one who used to call me that. I know Auntie Poppy said it out of affection but the pain of hearing that overwhelmed me in an instant; she looks so similar to mum and sounds almost identical yet, realisation slapped me again with the cold hard fact that this was not mum calling me baba - mum was no more.
I had to get away from there.
I walk down the road passed the procession of vehicles parked, all eagerly revving their engines awaiting the arrival of the boat, and decide a bout of mischief may cheer me up. As such, as I pass by, I begin waving and pulling faces at not just my family in the other cars and vehicles making up our convoy but also random people as well sitting in their coach-loads. Most merely stare at me in total confusion wondering how on earth they knew anyone out here but the more pleasant response for me was when someone would pull a face back at me and then end up laughing hysterically at the absurdity of it all.
As I near the river's edge passed the final shop, I suddenly hear a rustling in a darkened corner near the side of the shop and look over.
At first I cannot tell what it is as there is very little light, so I take my time to let my eyesight adjust and to my dismay, I see a lady in tattered clothes digging through an overflowing dustbin with such a sense of urgency as if her life depended on it.
I can hear the boat arriving and though there is suddenly an immense gravitation by the crowds in the road towards the river front or back to their vehicles, I decide to continue watching her for a little longer - morbid curiosity engulfing me - to see why she appeared so desperate.
The curiosity was not caused by never having seen such a depressing sight as unfortunately, in Bangladesh, a third world country after all, this kind of thing is a common occurrence, but no matter how much information you have, nothing prepares you for the reality of the situation when it confronts you. The state of mind I am in almost wants to see the suffering of others to remind myself that my life could be a fuck load harder than it is...so I linger on.
I notice that finally the lady has stopped rummaging through the waste having found what looks like food or something that is remotely edible as she eats a tiny part of it to test it. Having satisfied herself that it could be served though, she pauses and looks around almost as if she felt guilty for stealing this scrap before dashing over to the river bank where I see her sitting in a darkened corner: a little girl no more than 4 years of age, crying from sheer hunger waiting for her mother to feed her. The lady arrives with her treasure and though she is probably aching from starvation, I see her cradle her beloved child and lull her to a much needed calm before feeding her all of what she found.
A mother's love - so incredible - so beautiful - so unimaginably powerful.
Without even trying, I begin to cry both with thoughts of mum and what we shared and what I had just seen.
The world is a cruel place at times yet against all odds, here was a mother willing to wear rags and dig through rubbish forgoing her dignity and her own hunger to feed her beloved child.
As my mind wanders, the boat docks and cars and foot passengers are being allowed on board so the traffic starts flowing and the usual Bangladeshi style of honking horns for the heck of it begins once again. I am so lost in my thoughts though that none of it seems to matter until I hear a munching in my ear, "Yo gay-boy, we're off man - the ladies thought you'd been abducted or something. Lets go!".
I turn to see Tanny standing there with a massive packet of crisps, two bars of chocolate and a bag with 2 bottles of coke in it, his mouth full of so many crisps that I am surprised he can even speak.
He looks at me with one eye brow arched as I am staring at all his food, "Dude - it's for all of us. I know I'm a fat bastard but not that fat!!!"
I pull a wad of Bangladeshi notes out of my pocket and ask him how much it all is but Tanny won't take a penny and puts everything in the bag and passes it to me, "I know that look - you're gonna make like a super hero or something, right?"
I don't say a word but turn and bolt towards the lady and her child as Tanny watches on.
"Here - this is from my mum" I say to the startled mother cradling her little one and before she even has a chance to realise what's happening, I turn and start racing back up the embankment towards Tanny and where the ambulance is.
Tanny is shouting and pointing at the boat as I approach him and I notice what he is pointing at - the ambulance is already on and the gates are being lowered, "Has nobody even noticed I'm not there?" I think as sweat starts flooding my eyes as I turn once more and start heading towards the boat before we miss it.
As the boat gets ever closer, I hear a faint cry from the lady, "May Allah bless your mother for all eternity!" and I start laughing from the feeling of being able to do a little something for someone in mum's name.
Barely managing to clamber on board, the gate is shut behind us as the crew are staring at us not best pleased that we almost delayed them and I drop to the floor half panting and half laughing.
Tanny plonks himself next to me and putting an arm over my shoulders jeers me as I wipe the sweat off my brow, "You're one crazy fuck bro, but I luv ya for it!...Now, when you gonna buy me some more food - I'm famished!!"
20100118
Chapter Nine: Passengers
After much debate, my decision on who is to ride with whom en route to mum's village has been approved and people hop on board their respective vehicles although some not quietly.
Intentionally speaking loudly within earshot of me, I overhear some aunties and uncles whinging especially Goldie, about how a child has called the shots and although I visualise jumping on top of them and throttling them laughing manically as I do, surprisingly - I manage to show much more restraint and ignore their waffle.
Sure, they may feel they have the right to travel with mum in the ambulance, but honestly, there was only enough room for 5 people and there was no way I was going to give those places up to just anyone - besides, unlike the ambulance, other vehicles had better suspension and far superior air conditioning so really, I was doing them a favour.
Obviously, Dada expected me to say myself and my sister were to ride with mum but even when we spoke in Asif's room and made the infamous list, I could tell he was curious as to who I deemed worthy.
Before I said or did anything though, he had already preempted that he and Dadi were better off travelling in the luxury 4x4 seeing as they were both over 65 and it was a 12 hour trip and had written that at the top of the the list...whether he meant that or he knew I would not choose him to be there is something I guess I shall never know.
Still, not having to go through the motions of saying to him he could not travel with mum was a relief. Offending the big man would be the last thing I would want to do seeing as he had organised everything and all dad had to do was pay up as and when needed. Plus, Dada was the closest thing to a father mum ever had so all in all, if he wanted to ride with us of course, he could have - would have...perhaps even, should have!
My reasons for not wanting to pick him were purely selfish in that despite all of his wit and charm, being the ruling elder of the family travelling for 12 hours with him and having to watch what I was saying would seriously have been a ball ache! I and my sister both wanted people with us who we could relax with and just be ourselves with without having to watch ourselves...as much as possible that is under the excruciatingly painful circumstances.
Also, if he travelled with us, then Dadi would also be there and that I did have a problem with.
Large to the point of making Jabba the Hut from Star Wars fame look like he had been on Weightwatchers, Dadi was not the most liked person in the family but for some bizarre reason was always treated with utmost respect. Truthfully, this was probably down to a combination of things: everyone's unwavering love for Dada coupled with genuine fear of the things she was capable of doing to ruin people's lives politically, financially or just generally by influencing the right people in the wrong way - including poor Dada.
And this was something none of us Khans could stand, especially mum.
Dadi regularly manipulated others to suit her needs - offering to do favours for people on the promise of abusing Dada's power but once getting what she needed, almost invariably never delivering on her promises. Even worse was her habit of poisoning Dada's mind against his side of the family - convincing him how they were all after his money and authority - even us living in England!!!
Mum really hated having to be the only one strong enough to speak up against Dada and Dadi but it was so frustrating for her to somehow reach over the seven seas and make Dada see sense whilst everyone else was too fearful to correct him even when they knew the truth and that he was wrong about members of his side of the family.
If I had to be brutally honest, mum despised Dadi and that is the bottom line. Even before she became terminal, she regularly told us, sometimes in anger and other times with tears, of all the time she had lost between brother and sister whenever they fell out over issues mainly because of Dadi.
"Issues that could have been settled with just one word from Dada...asking Dadi to hold her tongue..." mum used to say, but when she started fading away all she could do was cry about it.
Now?...Now it was far too late.
After all, Dada would never be able to get that time back with mum would he? Never make up for all the errors or arguments, never be able to say sorry...never be able to kiss mum on the forehead like he always did whenever he saw her every few years when she visited Bangladesh or he visited England.
Time that should have been spent laughing and joking together wasted in trying to soothe hurt feelings being harboured by one another or worse, being lost all together. Such a shame that a great man like Dada, who had the strength to fight for the freedom of his country could not find it in himself to fight for his family. But such is life - full of disappointment and regret!
But I digress.
With two places taken by my sister and I, and another three to go, you would have thought dad would be in that equation but alas the poor guy opted out or more precisely, I opted him out due to a bad back which had been flaring up regularly during the long flight and then intermittently since landing - a point he only revealed to my sister and I when getting freshened up!!
I had noticed dad seemed to be limping at times but ignored it as him feeling tired or not wearing comfortable footwear, but upon him confessing his "extremely poor health" and that he was "older than mummy...due to die soon", the last thing I wanted was hypochondriac dad taking ten tonnes of painkillers to overcome his pain but then end up laid up in bed half asleep due to the over dose of drugs! Don't get me wrong, I sympathised with him and appreciated he was in pain but knowing him, what would other wise have been a dull pain for someone else, had become a potential life-threatening ailment for Dr Khan so I needed to sort the guy out with a break before he buckled even further under the pressure and the pain.
If I had a choice I would have asked him to get into a different vehicle, but due to the state he was in and the sheer comfort level of Dada's 4x4, I instead found myself forcing dad to leave the ambulance to us and ride with Dada and Dadi..."Mum, if you're watching - I'm sorry about this", I think sheepishly.
As such, along with the usual suspects of the Junior Khans, Tanny, my cousin Neema and mum's favourite sister Poppy take their seats beside us with mum laying still in her secured coffin, and with a few honking of horns, calling of names up and down the convoy by Goldie (who seems to have now adopted the look of an American tourist - cap on sideways, cropped trousers, a ghastly coloured vest and sunglasses bouncing on his chest), we finally set off.
As Dada's house disappears in the distance hidden behind a cloud of dust being thrown up by the poorly tarmacked roads, I look around the ambulance as Tanny sits next to me solemnly and does not say a word. He had asked me several times before we set off whether I was sure he should be given the privilege to travel with us, confusion and worry written all over his face then and still showing now, as he saw other family members getting into their designated vehicles and staring daggers at him especially Goldie, but my answer was simple and elegant, "Let's see - you've been in my life consistently since I was 9? Those people - never! So fuck 'em!" and with that, I pushed the guy into the ambulance.
Tanny and I are sitting on a bench seat running directly along the side of mum whilst the ladies are sitting with their backs to the driver's compartment where the driver and his navigator can be seen by me through a little glass hatch chatting away but we cannot hear them over the siren blaring and the intermittent honking of horns to clear the road of beggars, rickshaws and vehicles driving the wrong way on one way roads!
My sister is leaning on Neema's shoulder - eyes swollen from her tears as are Neema's and Auntie Poppy is draped over mum, sobbing gently, her head covered with a white shawl.
I first look at Neema as she props my sister up and think about how she must be feeling. Equally tall as her brother Asif and just as fair with unusually bluey grey eyes, Neema was as gifted albeit a little more sane than Asif and I think to myself how strong she has been and what fantastic support for my sister since arriving at Dada's whilst I was off doing manly things at the Mosque.
Having been so close to Asif (you'd be hard-pressed to tell that they were not twins by the way they acted and behaved) and then having him snatched away, I knew she would appreciate the pain we were going through but also understand our need to want space and not be constantly bombarded with such daft questions as "why are you not crying every other second - don't you miss your mother?" or stupid comments when we eventually do cry such as "you must not cry - the spirit of the deceased wonders the Earth for up to 40 days before they pass on to paradise so if you cry, they will see and it will upset them!".
That along with the fact that she had practically become mum's adopted daughter having to move to London to study her masters and then doctorate shortly after Asif passed away - with mum fussing over her, calling her every few days and sending her food packages - meant that Neema was guaranteed a seat with mum who loved her so much so.
Auntie Poppy on the other hand was chosen as despite being from a family of 8 brothers and sisters, she was the only one mum spoke to almost every other day over the phone and the one mum never fell out with! They were so alike in the way they were and that meant mum could share things with her that she never felt she could with others. Only 5 foot 2 but quite fair, Auntie Poppy was a lady with a small demeanour but a huge heart and was extremely creative to boot. She had also had a real fire in her belly to succeed in what ever she wanted to do - a trait she always praised mum for bestowing on her.
The similarities between mum and Auntie Poppy have always been freakishly uncanny, probably because mum's mother died when Auntie Poppy was only 5 so mum being 12 years older, was her main role model when growing up; the only main difference would be how soft she is overall when compared to the battle axe which was thy mother!!
I turn to watch Auntie Poppy as she sobs endlessly, now hanging off mum's coffin - my sister and Neema constantly rubbing her shoulders and back to help calm her down - and begin doubting whether asking her along was the best idea knowing full well that unlike my sister and I, or even Neema who was in England for some of the time mum was hospitalised, she had not had time to get used to mum deteriorating and eventually pass away.
It perhaps did not help that the last words she had with mum seemed to give no indication that mum's body was finally giving up. A mere four days before mum left us all, mum mustered up some energy from God-only-knows-where despite being on a morphine drip, to tell a distraught Auntie Poppy to "stop crying over the phone - OOOOf!!! You always cry...you're too soft little one!" and that as Auntie Poppy was struggling to sort a Visa for herself to come visit us in England, "Once your brother-in-law actually gets off his bottom to get his doctor friends to do their job and fix me up, I'll sort you out in no time".
Because of this: mum's never ending resilience to the doom that always tried to subdue her, Auntie Poppy never actually felt as though mum had any plans to leave us...if anything, she always joked around with us when we were down about it all that with the stamina mum had, she would probably live forever!
Tears try to edge their way over the cusp of my lashes as I reminisce of the despair in dad's voice when we talked about who should tell her mum had gone and how wrong she was about mum's immortality. How eventually, I took the bull by the horns and volunteered to do the wicked deed and dug deep to find the courage within me and let her know the news over a fucking telephone!
It was heart wrenching.
The screams followed by the sound of Auntie Poppy collapsing on to the floor thousands of miles away from us...well, that sound will stay with me forever.
"Still, mum would have wanted her here and though seeing her pain is fucking killing me, I'd rather go through that than not have her here with us" I feebly try to reason with myself, "...I hope it brings you some peace mum - knowing your little one is with you on your journey home, along with all your children...and Tanny...yeah, guess you weren't expecting him were you?!"
The last part manages to bring out the faint remnants of a smile across my face but that quickly dissolves with pangs of guilt in my mind reminding me that this is not a happy occasion.
I begin to look away from Auntie Poppy who is now being group hugged by my sister and Neema and spot Tanny checking whether mum's bindings have got loose through the constant shaking of the ambulance from the uneven roads. I motion to him to see if he needs a hand but he tells me to relax.
I lean back on the wall of the ambulance and gaze out of the rear window as the ambulance gently rattles away, the silhouette of the city scape slowly fading away into the red sunset with each shake being replaced by huge palm trees - the ever increasing greenery replacing the scenes of towering buildings and chaotic traffic and the contrast looks serene and beautiful.
I sigh deeply and keeping my glance fixated, I lean over to touch mum's coffin, "I'd forgotten how beautiful it could be out here mum...thanks for bringing me to the ball."
And with that, I look around at mum's passengers one last time and resting my head on the wall, let myself drift away for what feels like the first time in an eternity.
Intentionally speaking loudly within earshot of me, I overhear some aunties and uncles whinging especially Goldie, about how a child has called the shots and although I visualise jumping on top of them and throttling them laughing manically as I do, surprisingly - I manage to show much more restraint and ignore their waffle.
Sure, they may feel they have the right to travel with mum in the ambulance, but honestly, there was only enough room for 5 people and there was no way I was going to give those places up to just anyone - besides, unlike the ambulance, other vehicles had better suspension and far superior air conditioning so really, I was doing them a favour.
Obviously, Dada expected me to say myself and my sister were to ride with mum but even when we spoke in Asif's room and made the infamous list, I could tell he was curious as to who I deemed worthy.
Before I said or did anything though, he had already preempted that he and Dadi were better off travelling in the luxury 4x4 seeing as they were both over 65 and it was a 12 hour trip and had written that at the top of the the list...whether he meant that or he knew I would not choose him to be there is something I guess I shall never know.
Still, not having to go through the motions of saying to him he could not travel with mum was a relief. Offending the big man would be the last thing I would want to do seeing as he had organised everything and all dad had to do was pay up as and when needed. Plus, Dada was the closest thing to a father mum ever had so all in all, if he wanted to ride with us of course, he could have - would have...perhaps even, should have!
My reasons for not wanting to pick him were purely selfish in that despite all of his wit and charm, being the ruling elder of the family travelling for 12 hours with him and having to watch what I was saying would seriously have been a ball ache! I and my sister both wanted people with us who we could relax with and just be ourselves with without having to watch ourselves...as much as possible that is under the excruciatingly painful circumstances.
Also, if he travelled with us, then Dadi would also be there and that I did have a problem with.
Large to the point of making Jabba the Hut from Star Wars fame look like he had been on Weightwatchers, Dadi was not the most liked person in the family but for some bizarre reason was always treated with utmost respect. Truthfully, this was probably down to a combination of things: everyone's unwavering love for Dada coupled with genuine fear of the things she was capable of doing to ruin people's lives politically, financially or just generally by influencing the right people in the wrong way - including poor Dada.
And this was something none of us Khans could stand, especially mum.
Dadi regularly manipulated others to suit her needs - offering to do favours for people on the promise of abusing Dada's power but once getting what she needed, almost invariably never delivering on her promises. Even worse was her habit of poisoning Dada's mind against his side of the family - convincing him how they were all after his money and authority - even us living in England!!!
Mum really hated having to be the only one strong enough to speak up against Dada and Dadi but it was so frustrating for her to somehow reach over the seven seas and make Dada see sense whilst everyone else was too fearful to correct him even when they knew the truth and that he was wrong about members of his side of the family.
If I had to be brutally honest, mum despised Dadi and that is the bottom line. Even before she became terminal, she regularly told us, sometimes in anger and other times with tears, of all the time she had lost between brother and sister whenever they fell out over issues mainly because of Dadi.
"Issues that could have been settled with just one word from Dada...asking Dadi to hold her tongue..." mum used to say, but when she started fading away all she could do was cry about it.
Now?...Now it was far too late.
After all, Dada would never be able to get that time back with mum would he? Never make up for all the errors or arguments, never be able to say sorry...never be able to kiss mum on the forehead like he always did whenever he saw her every few years when she visited Bangladesh or he visited England.
Time that should have been spent laughing and joking together wasted in trying to soothe hurt feelings being harboured by one another or worse, being lost all together. Such a shame that a great man like Dada, who had the strength to fight for the freedom of his country could not find it in himself to fight for his family. But such is life - full of disappointment and regret!
But I digress.
With two places taken by my sister and I, and another three to go, you would have thought dad would be in that equation but alas the poor guy opted out or more precisely, I opted him out due to a bad back which had been flaring up regularly during the long flight and then intermittently since landing - a point he only revealed to my sister and I when getting freshened up!!
I had noticed dad seemed to be limping at times but ignored it as him feeling tired or not wearing comfortable footwear, but upon him confessing his "extremely poor health" and that he was "older than mummy...due to die soon", the last thing I wanted was hypochondriac dad taking ten tonnes of painkillers to overcome his pain but then end up laid up in bed half asleep due to the over dose of drugs! Don't get me wrong, I sympathised with him and appreciated he was in pain but knowing him, what would other wise have been a dull pain for someone else, had become a potential life-threatening ailment for Dr Khan so I needed to sort the guy out with a break before he buckled even further under the pressure and the pain.
If I had a choice I would have asked him to get into a different vehicle, but due to the state he was in and the sheer comfort level of Dada's 4x4, I instead found myself forcing dad to leave the ambulance to us and ride with Dada and Dadi..."Mum, if you're watching - I'm sorry about this", I think sheepishly.
As such, along with the usual suspects of the Junior Khans, Tanny, my cousin Neema and mum's favourite sister Poppy take their seats beside us with mum laying still in her secured coffin, and with a few honking of horns, calling of names up and down the convoy by Goldie (who seems to have now adopted the look of an American tourist - cap on sideways, cropped trousers, a ghastly coloured vest and sunglasses bouncing on his chest), we finally set off.
As Dada's house disappears in the distance hidden behind a cloud of dust being thrown up by the poorly tarmacked roads, I look around the ambulance as Tanny sits next to me solemnly and does not say a word. He had asked me several times before we set off whether I was sure he should be given the privilege to travel with us, confusion and worry written all over his face then and still showing now, as he saw other family members getting into their designated vehicles and staring daggers at him especially Goldie, but my answer was simple and elegant, "Let's see - you've been in my life consistently since I was 9? Those people - never! So fuck 'em!" and with that, I pushed the guy into the ambulance.
Tanny and I are sitting on a bench seat running directly along the side of mum whilst the ladies are sitting with their backs to the driver's compartment where the driver and his navigator can be seen by me through a little glass hatch chatting away but we cannot hear them over the siren blaring and the intermittent honking of horns to clear the road of beggars, rickshaws and vehicles driving the wrong way on one way roads!
My sister is leaning on Neema's shoulder - eyes swollen from her tears as are Neema's and Auntie Poppy is draped over mum, sobbing gently, her head covered with a white shawl.
I first look at Neema as she props my sister up and think about how she must be feeling. Equally tall as her brother Asif and just as fair with unusually bluey grey eyes, Neema was as gifted albeit a little more sane than Asif and I think to myself how strong she has been and what fantastic support for my sister since arriving at Dada's whilst I was off doing manly things at the Mosque.
Having been so close to Asif (you'd be hard-pressed to tell that they were not twins by the way they acted and behaved) and then having him snatched away, I knew she would appreciate the pain we were going through but also understand our need to want space and not be constantly bombarded with such daft questions as "why are you not crying every other second - don't you miss your mother?" or stupid comments when we eventually do cry such as "you must not cry - the spirit of the deceased wonders the Earth for up to 40 days before they pass on to paradise so if you cry, they will see and it will upset them!".
That along with the fact that she had practically become mum's adopted daughter having to move to London to study her masters and then doctorate shortly after Asif passed away - with mum fussing over her, calling her every few days and sending her food packages - meant that Neema was guaranteed a seat with mum who loved her so much so.
Auntie Poppy on the other hand was chosen as despite being from a family of 8 brothers and sisters, she was the only one mum spoke to almost every other day over the phone and the one mum never fell out with! They were so alike in the way they were and that meant mum could share things with her that she never felt she could with others. Only 5 foot 2 but quite fair, Auntie Poppy was a lady with a small demeanour but a huge heart and was extremely creative to boot. She had also had a real fire in her belly to succeed in what ever she wanted to do - a trait she always praised mum for bestowing on her.
The similarities between mum and Auntie Poppy have always been freakishly uncanny, probably because mum's mother died when Auntie Poppy was only 5 so mum being 12 years older, was her main role model when growing up; the only main difference would be how soft she is overall when compared to the battle axe which was thy mother!!
I turn to watch Auntie Poppy as she sobs endlessly, now hanging off mum's coffin - my sister and Neema constantly rubbing her shoulders and back to help calm her down - and begin doubting whether asking her along was the best idea knowing full well that unlike my sister and I, or even Neema who was in England for some of the time mum was hospitalised, she had not had time to get used to mum deteriorating and eventually pass away.
It perhaps did not help that the last words she had with mum seemed to give no indication that mum's body was finally giving up. A mere four days before mum left us all, mum mustered up some energy from God-only-knows-where despite being on a morphine drip, to tell a distraught Auntie Poppy to "stop crying over the phone - OOOOf!!! You always cry...you're too soft little one!" and that as Auntie Poppy was struggling to sort a Visa for herself to come visit us in England, "Once your brother-in-law actually gets off his bottom to get his doctor friends to do their job and fix me up, I'll sort you out in no time".
Because of this: mum's never ending resilience to the doom that always tried to subdue her, Auntie Poppy never actually felt as though mum had any plans to leave us...if anything, she always joked around with us when we were down about it all that with the stamina mum had, she would probably live forever!
Tears try to edge their way over the cusp of my lashes as I reminisce of the despair in dad's voice when we talked about who should tell her mum had gone and how wrong she was about mum's immortality. How eventually, I took the bull by the horns and volunteered to do the wicked deed and dug deep to find the courage within me and let her know the news over a fucking telephone!
It was heart wrenching.
The screams followed by the sound of Auntie Poppy collapsing on to the floor thousands of miles away from us...well, that sound will stay with me forever.
"Still, mum would have wanted her here and though seeing her pain is fucking killing me, I'd rather go through that than not have her here with us" I feebly try to reason with myself, "...I hope it brings you some peace mum - knowing your little one is with you on your journey home, along with all your children...and Tanny...yeah, guess you weren't expecting him were you?!"
The last part manages to bring out the faint remnants of a smile across my face but that quickly dissolves with pangs of guilt in my mind reminding me that this is not a happy occasion.
I begin to look away from Auntie Poppy who is now being group hugged by my sister and Neema and spot Tanny checking whether mum's bindings have got loose through the constant shaking of the ambulance from the uneven roads. I motion to him to see if he needs a hand but he tells me to relax.
I lean back on the wall of the ambulance and gaze out of the rear window as the ambulance gently rattles away, the silhouette of the city scape slowly fading away into the red sunset with each shake being replaced by huge palm trees - the ever increasing greenery replacing the scenes of towering buildings and chaotic traffic and the contrast looks serene and beautiful.
I sigh deeply and keeping my glance fixated, I lean over to touch mum's coffin, "I'd forgotten how beautiful it could be out here mum...thanks for bringing me to the ball."
And with that, I look around at mum's passengers one last time and resting my head on the wall, let myself drift away for what feels like the first time in an eternity.
20100113
Chapter Eight: Say It As It Is
The air conditioning in the bedroom Dada has provided dad and I to freshen up in is blowing wildly, dad having set it on the highest level possible in an attempt to cool us down before we practically melt not just because of the heat from the scorching sun outside but the sheer amount of people milling about.
Dada's house is heaving to say the least. Numerous members of the extended family along side some friends too are all wanting to pay their respects to us and mum whilst some (far too many in my book) even plan to travel with us to mum's little village to bid their final farewells.
As miserable as it sounds, it is quite nice to hide away in our room. A cocoon for dad and I to get away from it all as my sister finds similar solace in another one of the many bedrooms in Dada's house and Tanny manages to escape from it all albeit fleetingly, by dashing home to get a weekend bag packed.
As I dry myself off in the en suite having had a refreshing ice cold shower and am getting myself sorted for the next leg of our trip, there is a knock at the door.
I peer out and see dad look at the door but instead of answering it, he sits down in a heap on a chair in the furthest corner of the room. I can tell he is already sick to death with people constantly wanting to see us although we have said a million times that we don't have time for idle chit-chat as we needed to be on the road within the next hour.
He puts his forehead in his hands in dismay and his shoulders shake; it's all getting on top of him now. I want to go up to him and say few words of comfort but I find the words just aren't coming out and my mouth is arid. The hollowness inside me needs filling or else it will consume me and seems without realising it, all my strength and focus is being re-routed there hence unlike normal, the gift of the gab I do not have!
I silently drift passed dad like a spectre, to see who is at the door as I pull my t-shirt over my head - there is so much sadness looming in this room and not all of it because of losing mum; in fact, my sister could not bear to be there so has been given my cousin Neema's room further along the landing outside.
I open the door and am surprised to see ol'Action Man standing an inch away from it. I say hi as Dada smiles warmly and gently putting a hand on my shoulder asks if I have eaten anything and if everything was alright in the room provided.
"Of course it is Dada - please don't worry about a thing. We have 10 of your maids and butlers scurrying around for us so you don't have to, remember?" I say trying to hide my feelings and diffuse the morbidity in the air.
But my attempts at masquerading my tenderness takes Dada off guard a little; I only know this as I notice his smile shift slightly and hear his voice shake as he speaks, "You and Asif were always so alike! Always trying to stay strong and positive against all the odds, eh?"
I look up at Dada and then away as my head is filled with thoughts of Asif.
I was one of his son's, one of Asif's, favourite cousins and the amount of chaos we caused when we were together was incredible - all under Asif's influence of course!He was crazy but in a good way; the Fresh Prince of Bel Air I am certain was based on the stylings of the guy!
Almost 6 foot which is unheard of for Bangladeshis and bright white to match with a physique rivalling Muhammed Ali in his hey day, Asif was the sort that never shied away from trying new things. Any extreme sports, foreign languages, martial art - you name it, he'd have a go at it if not ultimately excel in it. Nothing was beyond him not even the most unattainable woman - he wanted someone, he got her!
He had a brilliant attitude to life whilst not being pompous - get on with everyone but stay closer to those you loved and never be afraid to tell someone no matter who it is, that they were talking utter shite when they were!!!
Everyone loved him for who he was as there was no pretentiousness or falsehood; what you saw was what you got and in that respect, he was so much like mum.
Yet...the last time I had made any effort to come and see Asif was 10 years ago. 10 years ago at his funeral. He was only 24 at the time and keeping a long and yet another tragic story very brief, he drowned.
I remember when it happened perfectly as that was the first time I had ever lost anyone I was close to...I mean, really close to. We got the news on a Friday having had another normal day at work but by the Monday mum, dad, my sister and I had flown over from England to be with Dada and the rest of the family in Bangladesh to mourn Asif's death. I don't know if it was denial though or just wishful thinking, but the whole time I shed a tear I still remember desperately looking around half expecting the git to jump out suddenly and say something daft to us as our jaws fell to the floor like "Fooled ya suckaaaaZZZ!" but alas, this wasn't to be.
It was...is...such a loss as Asif was an incredible guy and for all intents and purposes, one of my key icons in life in spite of all the miles between us. I always aspired to be him but quite frankly, no one would ever be able to come close not even someone who knew him as well as I did, except for mum.
Ironic then that they were now both gone.
As I think about Asif, I think about the pain Dada, his wife Dadi, not to mention their daughter Neema, feel everyday. How they probably have to keep their guard up daily to stop their spirit from breaking with thoughts of what Asif would be doing today had he been alive.
I turn back to look at Dada and he sees the melancholy in my face, "Cherishing the memories of someone you have loved but lost can only be equal measure of blessing and curse..." Dada says, "...I know he is loving having you around as I do seeing you here." I find myself wanting to look away again as a tear trickles down my cheek.
Dada says nothing but coughs to clear his throat and pinches the top of his nose as he pushes his glasses and his own tears upwards, and gently nudges me back into the room and sits down on the edge of what once was Asif's bed.
Dad has been watching us but says nothing and merely gestures at me to sit down as he suspects Dada has come to see us for something more important than to check whether we have been fed and dressed.
I promptly take a seat on the arm of dad's chair and Dada begins changing his tone to a more managerial one and begins, "Right Khans...enough pleasantries. This is serious. we have a 12 hour road trip, plenty of family politics to avoid, 1 4x4, 2 carriers and 1 ambulance..." he pulls out his gold plated fountain pen and a leather bound pocket diary with a list of everyone in the convoy and looking over his glasses smirks and asks, "All I need to know is who wants the job of telling folk who is travelling with whom?"
"Don't think we don't see what you're doing Dada. Leaving it to us to decide who travels with whom so if there is the usual family row you can point the finger at us huh? Crafty!" I jest.
Dada and dad begin to laugh as I swiftly rise to the challenge and lift the diary and pen out of Dada's hands and as I somewhat vindictively start putting together all those family members who I know mum always thought were annoying into one vehicle, I feel Asif and mum looking over my shoulder and snickering with me.
Dada's house is heaving to say the least. Numerous members of the extended family along side some friends too are all wanting to pay their respects to us and mum whilst some (far too many in my book) even plan to travel with us to mum's little village to bid their final farewells.
As miserable as it sounds, it is quite nice to hide away in our room. A cocoon for dad and I to get away from it all as my sister finds similar solace in another one of the many bedrooms in Dada's house and Tanny manages to escape from it all albeit fleetingly, by dashing home to get a weekend bag packed.
As I dry myself off in the en suite having had a refreshing ice cold shower and am getting myself sorted for the next leg of our trip, there is a knock at the door.
I peer out and see dad look at the door but instead of answering it, he sits down in a heap on a chair in the furthest corner of the room. I can tell he is already sick to death with people constantly wanting to see us although we have said a million times that we don't have time for idle chit-chat as we needed to be on the road within the next hour.
He puts his forehead in his hands in dismay and his shoulders shake; it's all getting on top of him now. I want to go up to him and say few words of comfort but I find the words just aren't coming out and my mouth is arid. The hollowness inside me needs filling or else it will consume me and seems without realising it, all my strength and focus is being re-routed there hence unlike normal, the gift of the gab I do not have!
I silently drift passed dad like a spectre, to see who is at the door as I pull my t-shirt over my head - there is so much sadness looming in this room and not all of it because of losing mum; in fact, my sister could not bear to be there so has been given my cousin Neema's room further along the landing outside.
I open the door and am surprised to see ol'Action Man standing an inch away from it. I say hi as Dada smiles warmly and gently putting a hand on my shoulder asks if I have eaten anything and if everything was alright in the room provided.
"Of course it is Dada - please don't worry about a thing. We have 10 of your maids and butlers scurrying around for us so you don't have to, remember?" I say trying to hide my feelings and diffuse the morbidity in the air.
But my attempts at masquerading my tenderness takes Dada off guard a little; I only know this as I notice his smile shift slightly and hear his voice shake as he speaks, "You and Asif were always so alike! Always trying to stay strong and positive against all the odds, eh?"
I look up at Dada and then away as my head is filled with thoughts of Asif.
I was one of his son's, one of Asif's, favourite cousins and the amount of chaos we caused when we were together was incredible - all under Asif's influence of course!He was crazy but in a good way; the Fresh Prince of Bel Air I am certain was based on the stylings of the guy!
Almost 6 foot which is unheard of for Bangladeshis and bright white to match with a physique rivalling Muhammed Ali in his hey day, Asif was the sort that never shied away from trying new things. Any extreme sports, foreign languages, martial art - you name it, he'd have a go at it if not ultimately excel in it. Nothing was beyond him not even the most unattainable woman - he wanted someone, he got her!
He had a brilliant attitude to life whilst not being pompous - get on with everyone but stay closer to those you loved and never be afraid to tell someone no matter who it is, that they were talking utter shite when they were!!!
Everyone loved him for who he was as there was no pretentiousness or falsehood; what you saw was what you got and in that respect, he was so much like mum.
Yet...the last time I had made any effort to come and see Asif was 10 years ago. 10 years ago at his funeral. He was only 24 at the time and keeping a long and yet another tragic story very brief, he drowned.
I remember when it happened perfectly as that was the first time I had ever lost anyone I was close to...I mean, really close to. We got the news on a Friday having had another normal day at work but by the Monday mum, dad, my sister and I had flown over from England to be with Dada and the rest of the family in Bangladesh to mourn Asif's death. I don't know if it was denial though or just wishful thinking, but the whole time I shed a tear I still remember desperately looking around half expecting the git to jump out suddenly and say something daft to us as our jaws fell to the floor like "Fooled ya suckaaaaZZZ!" but alas, this wasn't to be.
It was...is...such a loss as Asif was an incredible guy and for all intents and purposes, one of my key icons in life in spite of all the miles between us. I always aspired to be him but quite frankly, no one would ever be able to come close not even someone who knew him as well as I did, except for mum.
Ironic then that they were now both gone.
As I think about Asif, I think about the pain Dada, his wife Dadi, not to mention their daughter Neema, feel everyday. How they probably have to keep their guard up daily to stop their spirit from breaking with thoughts of what Asif would be doing today had he been alive.
I turn back to look at Dada and he sees the melancholy in my face, "Cherishing the memories of someone you have loved but lost can only be equal measure of blessing and curse..." Dada says, "...I know he is loving having you around as I do seeing you here." I find myself wanting to look away again as a tear trickles down my cheek.
Dada says nothing but coughs to clear his throat and pinches the top of his nose as he pushes his glasses and his own tears upwards, and gently nudges me back into the room and sits down on the edge of what once was Asif's bed.
Dad has been watching us but says nothing and merely gestures at me to sit down as he suspects Dada has come to see us for something more important than to check whether we have been fed and dressed.
I promptly take a seat on the arm of dad's chair and Dada begins changing his tone to a more managerial one and begins, "Right Khans...enough pleasantries. This is serious. we have a 12 hour road trip, plenty of family politics to avoid, 1 4x4, 2 carriers and 1 ambulance..." he pulls out his gold plated fountain pen and a leather bound pocket diary with a list of everyone in the convoy and looking over his glasses smirks and asks, "All I need to know is who wants the job of telling folk who is travelling with whom?"
"Don't think we don't see what you're doing Dada. Leaving it to us to decide who travels with whom so if there is the usual family row you can point the finger at us huh? Crafty!" I jest.
Dada and dad begin to laugh as I swiftly rise to the challenge and lift the diary and pen out of Dada's hands and as I somewhat vindictively start putting together all those family members who I know mum always thought were annoying into one vehicle, I feel Asif and mum looking over my shoulder and snickering with me.
20100108
Chapter Seven: Faithless
I stand in front of a gathering of 500 or so people at the most spectacular Mosque I have seen for a while.
Grand and beautifully structured, the design has gone for the more intricate Turkish or Moorish feel instead of the minimalist stylings becoming increasingly common the world over, and the bright white with the glistening of glass polished into the floors and walls makes it look like a smaller version of the Taj Mahal in India.
We weren't meant to be there though as far as we knew when we set off to Bangladesh. Plans being organised by mum's older brother, Dada, were that we landed, got to his house to change, freshen up and have a bite to eat before hitting the road again, but due to sheer number of people who wanted to pay their respects to mum but could not travel to her village, Dada had little option than to organise a service in Dhaka and for us to take a detour via the service before getting to his to sort ourselves out if we were to stick by the strict timetables that were in place to coordinate everything before this glitch; albeit a pretty big fucking glitch!
So half way from the Airport, dad was asked to hop into the ambulance with myself, Tanny et al to make our way there with mum whilst my poor sister was told despite having travelled thousands of miles, women were not allowed to attend the Mosque and she was still to travel to Dada's as planned!
My sister was devastated. I can still hear her sobbing as I dashed over from the ambulance to give her a great big hug as dad stepped off - my sister was surely more important than anyone at the fucking service yet here she was being told she meant less as she didn't have a dick. "They're assholes dude" is all I could get myself to say before being told the ambulance needed to get going if we were to make the service.
"Heartbreaking," I say as I lower the microphone bringing myself back into the present and preparing to speak.
I can hear the echos of people shuffling uncomfortably on the hard floor and whispering as they stare up at me and I, look back at them scanning them like a hawk searching it's prey.
Looking around I notice a few faces I know but most, I have no idea who they are. "Fan or foe?" I wonder as I spot tears sparkling in their eyes but uncertain whose are genuine. Sure there were many a friend amongst those I did not know that had gathered but seeing as not one had ever come to my attention especially over the few years mum quickly deteriorated, in the sense of enquiring about her I figured fan was a more apt word.
Fan. Foe. Friend. All of them apt words perhaps, but with mum gone - they lay empty and all at once, I get drowned once again by a wave of emotion. A sudden realisation hits me like a sledgehammer that my thoughts of who was who and how they related to mum and her life was pointless seeing as she had left me...left us!
"It doesn't matter...none of it matters." I mumble to myself as the speakers crackle and buzz around the Mosque and down its cavernous corridors.
I pause as tears well up inside and a lump in my throat appears as though I have swallowed an apple whole. My chest is close to bursting with all the hurt, anger and upset I'm holding inside but now was not the time to let it all out not when there was so much to do.
Dad and Tanny are sitting just behind me and I am gently shaken out of my thought by a tug on my trouser legs by Tanny at dad's beckoning, more likely than not, because dad could see the sadness in my face. I look over to them and both dad and Tanny give a warm smile of reassurance and I in turn, nod at them, take a deep breath and begin to speak.
"I have so many things I could say about mum but I cannot seem to find the words. My mind is full of confusion and disarray and frankly it pains me to think of anything to do with her. I hurt when I remember the happy upbringing my sister and I had and the wonderful wife she was to my father. I cry when I think about how much she touched not just our lives but the lives of others; how she was always there when you needed her the most but never asked for anything back. How she filled lives - through her humour, wit and poetry both in conversation and her writing - with laughter and joy.
I have so much to live up to; I have so much to give...to even come close to the blood sweat and tears spent tirelessly by mum working for one charity or another.
A giving heart - a kind heart, mum was snatched away from us by the All Mighty having fought against Allah's black racer, the angel of death for 3 years. In the end it took diabetes, pancreatic cancer and liver failure to take her away from us! The doctors were repeatedly amazed at her resilience and she would merely laugh and tell them it was pure, undiluted and unwavering faith that had been getting her through the bad times..."
I hesitate as the word faith topples out of my mouth and my heart starts beating wildly. After all, as far as I could see it, mum had been betrayed by having this faith. Faith in someone or something that didn't help her, but instead let her fade away. There was no miracle - no healing of the sick through some imaginary super power; mum had died and suffered a long agonizing death!
Tears push their way passed my eyes but I wipe them off my face as quickly as they appeared before anyone notices and my face begins to burn with a complex mixture of confusion, depression and rage, "Faith...I could spend a lot of time talking about faith - my lack of it and mum's total and absolute belief in it..." I stop myself before I say something I know I will regret for the rest of my life; now was not the time for religious debate particularly in a densely populated country of strong believers in Islam.
I clench my jaw and continue, "...but as I mentioned, I cannot find the words though to be honest, nothing can put in words what mum meant to me - what she meant to the world. If her spirit is watching, please pray for her and hope her wandering soul finds peace once she reaches paradise. Thank you."
There is complete silence in the Mosque as I sit down.
What is mere moments feels like a lifetime as I notice some of the onlookers glaring at me clearly because of my blasphemous confession of not having faith so I look over at dad worriedly to see if he feels the same but he just smiles knowing it took a lot of courage to say what I did. Besides, it was completely impromptu, from the heart and save for a few words, was entirely in Bengali no less plus I had stood in for dad who was actually the one the Molabhi or Islamic Priest had asked to say a few words but he could not bear to do so, so I guess there was little he could say even if he wanted to.
But then the clapping begins and before I know it, everyone is applauding me - not in a manic standing ovation kind of way mind, more a reserved "well done lad" kind of way with a pat on my back - and ushering me to stand, the Molabhi gives me a big hug and blesses me.
As he lets go to turn his attention to the microphone and wind up the service with a final prayer, I lean over to Tanny hiding cupping my mouth with my hand, "What do you wanna bet that he probably blessed me to save my soul from Satan for being a non-believer? Still, definitely better than a lynching I'd say".
Tanny practically splutters and coughs at my comment but manages to get himself himself under control just in time for the Molabhi to finish off and turn to us and usher myself, dad and Tanny to lead everyone out. Though I am confused initially, it suddenly dawns on me that the Molabhi knows mum and dad had two children so probably thinks Tanny is the other child and this is confirmed as he passes his condolences to all three of us. I guess it is hard to imagine that someone as fair as Tanny with the crazy beard and hair that he has could be anything but foreign!!
After chatting to dad for a few moments more, the Molabhi then says his final goodbyes and disappears back inside as we step out of the entrance into the forecourt of the Mosque and see a sea of people at the bottom of the steps eagerly waiting to pay their respects to us.
At first all I can think of is how unfair it is that women are not allowed to attend Mosques here in Bangladesh and therefore how cruel it was that my sister could not join us at the service here and more importantly, see all these people gathered here for mum. The tears in her eyes and sobbing when we left her on her carrier heading to Dada's were still killing me.
But these thoughts are quickly replaced with relief that my sister was absent when my eyes looked further afield and spotted the crowd growing bigger and bigger at the gate near the top of the walk way approaching the Mosque from the road; it was the media circus again - they may have given us a break inside but we were fair game again now we were outside.
Before we are hounded though, Dada who I had totally forgotten was even at the service, appears and steps in front of myself, dad and Tanny.
A short, stocky guy, he is the embodiment of what Action Man would look like if he became a pensioner - even at 32 I get embarrassed at how pumped up the guy looks!! Add to that a line of medals and awards and numerous political achievements as well, and you have a media magnet in his own right let alone, being the brother of my mum. His presence causes a real surge of excitement in the media camp all set up at the gates.
Forget us! The real story now was not only about mum dying but how this affected Dada!! Quite surprisingly, you'd think mum would have relished having such a well known icon as her brother but truth be told, she hardly ever told anyone they were related as she always wanted to make it big her own way so finding out they were connected was big news - two celebs for the price of one!
Relief washes over me as the limelight shines firmly on Dada. Seeing as when we get immersed in with family soon enough, everyone will want to either hug, kiss, treat or talk to us if not merely whale and cry with us for losing mum, I was happy to take every little bit of respite lady luck was willing to offer and now was one of those times.
I watched in amazement how Dada began walking down the stairs and greeted all those waiting and seemed out of every few people he talked to however briefly, one or two people added to a continually growing swarm surrounding him - all trying their best to get his attention and see if there was anything he needed in the vain hope that Dada's pleasure will translate to some exotic or political favour!
Being who he is though, Dada just ignores those taking up too much of his time and looking at his watch, snaps his fingers to beckon his security team over as he commands the sycophants to "Clear some room. We need to leave now".
Security push and shove through the collected bystanders and media hoards to give us a clear walk way to the vehicles waiting for us beyond the gate and I am in awe and how Dada has done that so quickly - it was chaos at the cargo bay!
"How organised does one have to be to have security on stand by and to sort a service of this size?!" I ponder as some people actually salute Dada, the former war hero - and us - as we march passed. However inappropriate, I even burst out laughing at one point as one reporter manages to muster up enough strength to ask half a question before being cut off by Dada with a simple, "Not now. Thank you."
As security urges us to jump on board the revving ambulance back with mum, I get in and sit with one arm stretched over her coffin and look back at the Mosque and Dada as dad gets on board to get settled and Tanny diappears to his banger ready for the next migration.
I find myself smile as I realise that though I may not have faith, there are plenty of those who I believe in.
Grand and beautifully structured, the design has gone for the more intricate Turkish or Moorish feel instead of the minimalist stylings becoming increasingly common the world over, and the bright white with the glistening of glass polished into the floors and walls makes it look like a smaller version of the Taj Mahal in India.
We weren't meant to be there though as far as we knew when we set off to Bangladesh. Plans being organised by mum's older brother, Dada, were that we landed, got to his house to change, freshen up and have a bite to eat before hitting the road again, but due to sheer number of people who wanted to pay their respects to mum but could not travel to her village, Dada had little option than to organise a service in Dhaka and for us to take a detour via the service before getting to his to sort ourselves out if we were to stick by the strict timetables that were in place to coordinate everything before this glitch; albeit a pretty big fucking glitch!
So half way from the Airport, dad was asked to hop into the ambulance with myself, Tanny et al to make our way there with mum whilst my poor sister was told despite having travelled thousands of miles, women were not allowed to attend the Mosque and she was still to travel to Dada's as planned!
My sister was devastated. I can still hear her sobbing as I dashed over from the ambulance to give her a great big hug as dad stepped off - my sister was surely more important than anyone at the fucking service yet here she was being told she meant less as she didn't have a dick. "They're assholes dude" is all I could get myself to say before being told the ambulance needed to get going if we were to make the service.
"Heartbreaking," I say as I lower the microphone bringing myself back into the present and preparing to speak.
I can hear the echos of people shuffling uncomfortably on the hard floor and whispering as they stare up at me and I, look back at them scanning them like a hawk searching it's prey.
Looking around I notice a few faces I know but most, I have no idea who they are. "Fan or foe?" I wonder as I spot tears sparkling in their eyes but uncertain whose are genuine. Sure there were many a friend amongst those I did not know that had gathered but seeing as not one had ever come to my attention especially over the few years mum quickly deteriorated, in the sense of enquiring about her I figured fan was a more apt word.
Fan. Foe. Friend. All of them apt words perhaps, but with mum gone - they lay empty and all at once, I get drowned once again by a wave of emotion. A sudden realisation hits me like a sledgehammer that my thoughts of who was who and how they related to mum and her life was pointless seeing as she had left me...left us!
"It doesn't matter...none of it matters." I mumble to myself as the speakers crackle and buzz around the Mosque and down its cavernous corridors.
I pause as tears well up inside and a lump in my throat appears as though I have swallowed an apple whole. My chest is close to bursting with all the hurt, anger and upset I'm holding inside but now was not the time to let it all out not when there was so much to do.
Dad and Tanny are sitting just behind me and I am gently shaken out of my thought by a tug on my trouser legs by Tanny at dad's beckoning, more likely than not, because dad could see the sadness in my face. I look over to them and both dad and Tanny give a warm smile of reassurance and I in turn, nod at them, take a deep breath and begin to speak.
"I have so many things I could say about mum but I cannot seem to find the words. My mind is full of confusion and disarray and frankly it pains me to think of anything to do with her. I hurt when I remember the happy upbringing my sister and I had and the wonderful wife she was to my father. I cry when I think about how much she touched not just our lives but the lives of others; how she was always there when you needed her the most but never asked for anything back. How she filled lives - through her humour, wit and poetry both in conversation and her writing - with laughter and joy.
I have so much to live up to; I have so much to give...to even come close to the blood sweat and tears spent tirelessly by mum working for one charity or another.
A giving heart - a kind heart, mum was snatched away from us by the All Mighty having fought against Allah's black racer, the angel of death for 3 years. In the end it took diabetes, pancreatic cancer and liver failure to take her away from us! The doctors were repeatedly amazed at her resilience and she would merely laugh and tell them it was pure, undiluted and unwavering faith that had been getting her through the bad times..."
I hesitate as the word faith topples out of my mouth and my heart starts beating wildly. After all, as far as I could see it, mum had been betrayed by having this faith. Faith in someone or something that didn't help her, but instead let her fade away. There was no miracle - no healing of the sick through some imaginary super power; mum had died and suffered a long agonizing death!
Tears push their way passed my eyes but I wipe them off my face as quickly as they appeared before anyone notices and my face begins to burn with a complex mixture of confusion, depression and rage, "Faith...I could spend a lot of time talking about faith - my lack of it and mum's total and absolute belief in it..." I stop myself before I say something I know I will regret for the rest of my life; now was not the time for religious debate particularly in a densely populated country of strong believers in Islam.
I clench my jaw and continue, "...but as I mentioned, I cannot find the words though to be honest, nothing can put in words what mum meant to me - what she meant to the world. If her spirit is watching, please pray for her and hope her wandering soul finds peace once she reaches paradise. Thank you."
There is complete silence in the Mosque as I sit down.
What is mere moments feels like a lifetime as I notice some of the onlookers glaring at me clearly because of my blasphemous confession of not having faith so I look over at dad worriedly to see if he feels the same but he just smiles knowing it took a lot of courage to say what I did. Besides, it was completely impromptu, from the heart and save for a few words, was entirely in Bengali no less plus I had stood in for dad who was actually the one the Molabhi or Islamic Priest had asked to say a few words but he could not bear to do so, so I guess there was little he could say even if he wanted to.
But then the clapping begins and before I know it, everyone is applauding me - not in a manic standing ovation kind of way mind, more a reserved "well done lad" kind of way with a pat on my back - and ushering me to stand, the Molabhi gives me a big hug and blesses me.
As he lets go to turn his attention to the microphone and wind up the service with a final prayer, I lean over to Tanny hiding cupping my mouth with my hand, "What do you wanna bet that he probably blessed me to save my soul from Satan for being a non-believer? Still, definitely better than a lynching I'd say".
Tanny practically splutters and coughs at my comment but manages to get himself himself under control just in time for the Molabhi to finish off and turn to us and usher myself, dad and Tanny to lead everyone out. Though I am confused initially, it suddenly dawns on me that the Molabhi knows mum and dad had two children so probably thinks Tanny is the other child and this is confirmed as he passes his condolences to all three of us. I guess it is hard to imagine that someone as fair as Tanny with the crazy beard and hair that he has could be anything but foreign!!
After chatting to dad for a few moments more, the Molabhi then says his final goodbyes and disappears back inside as we step out of the entrance into the forecourt of the Mosque and see a sea of people at the bottom of the steps eagerly waiting to pay their respects to us.
At first all I can think of is how unfair it is that women are not allowed to attend Mosques here in Bangladesh and therefore how cruel it was that my sister could not join us at the service here and more importantly, see all these people gathered here for mum. The tears in her eyes and sobbing when we left her on her carrier heading to Dada's were still killing me.
But these thoughts are quickly replaced with relief that my sister was absent when my eyes looked further afield and spotted the crowd growing bigger and bigger at the gate near the top of the walk way approaching the Mosque from the road; it was the media circus again - they may have given us a break inside but we were fair game again now we were outside.
Before we are hounded though, Dada who I had totally forgotten was even at the service, appears and steps in front of myself, dad and Tanny.
A short, stocky guy, he is the embodiment of what Action Man would look like if he became a pensioner - even at 32 I get embarrassed at how pumped up the guy looks!! Add to that a line of medals and awards and numerous political achievements as well, and you have a media magnet in his own right let alone, being the brother of my mum. His presence causes a real surge of excitement in the media camp all set up at the gates.
Forget us! The real story now was not only about mum dying but how this affected Dada!! Quite surprisingly, you'd think mum would have relished having such a well known icon as her brother but truth be told, she hardly ever told anyone they were related as she always wanted to make it big her own way so finding out they were connected was big news - two celebs for the price of one!
Relief washes over me as the limelight shines firmly on Dada. Seeing as when we get immersed in with family soon enough, everyone will want to either hug, kiss, treat or talk to us if not merely whale and cry with us for losing mum, I was happy to take every little bit of respite lady luck was willing to offer and now was one of those times.
I watched in amazement how Dada began walking down the stairs and greeted all those waiting and seemed out of every few people he talked to however briefly, one or two people added to a continually growing swarm surrounding him - all trying their best to get his attention and see if there was anything he needed in the vain hope that Dada's pleasure will translate to some exotic or political favour!
Being who he is though, Dada just ignores those taking up too much of his time and looking at his watch, snaps his fingers to beckon his security team over as he commands the sycophants to "Clear some room. We need to leave now".
Security push and shove through the collected bystanders and media hoards to give us a clear walk way to the vehicles waiting for us beyond the gate and I am in awe and how Dada has done that so quickly - it was chaos at the cargo bay!
"How organised does one have to be to have security on stand by and to sort a service of this size?!" I ponder as some people actually salute Dada, the former war hero - and us - as we march passed. However inappropriate, I even burst out laughing at one point as one reporter manages to muster up enough strength to ask half a question before being cut off by Dada with a simple, "Not now. Thank you."
As security urges us to jump on board the revving ambulance back with mum, I get in and sit with one arm stretched over her coffin and look back at the Mosque and Dada as dad gets on board to get settled and Tanny diappears to his banger ready for the next migration.
I find myself smile as I realise that though I may not have faith, there are plenty of those who I believe in.
20100105
Chapter Six: Enter the Wingman
Our carrier parks around the corner from where the maddening crowds are gathered although we can see the other one with my cousins and mum's younger brother (with the image of his gold tooth still hanging over me), drive nonchalantly directly into them - I squirm in my seat as I expect to see someone get splattered but thankfully, that does not happen.
I suddenly notice that the carrier they are in has a red light on the roof like an ambulance would have and as the driver attempts to park up near the cargo bay entrance, he starts honking his horn and switches the light and siren on to make some room - it is only then it hits me that the third carrier didn't just happen to have a red light like an ambulance, it was an ambulance!
How I could have missed that at the airport is any one's guess but stands to reason that we needed someway to allow mum to travel with us to her little village outside of Dhaka (the capital city in which we had landed) and we certainly couldn't have her riding in a converted scooter-taxi!!
If anything, the flashing light and siren intrigues onlookers even more and despite airport security being present, the crowd keeps on growing and surrounding the ambulance like some B-movie zombie horror flick.
The door to the ambulance opens and mum's younger brother starts shouting god only knows what profanity, to the crowd to move out of his way which is only obvious from the expression on his face and the way his arms swing about wildly as we are too far away to hear him, but there is no movement from the onlookers...with the image of zombies now in mind though, I chuckle to myself as I imagine him chewing a cigar and then jumping out into them with a chainsaw.
Dad looks at me disapprovingly for my inappropriate chuckling which I completely ignore but my sister strikes me in the ribs with her elbow to reinforce dad's authority and I take reign of my wandering mind.
Feeling bad for my misdemeanour, I decide to do something more constructive instead of sitting around daydreaming and make moves to get out of the carrier; despite my dislike of him, I plan how I can by-pass the crowd to go over and give mum's younger brother, the Zombie-slayer, a hand before things got out of control leaving little or no room for us to get mum into the ambulance.
As I scramble across my sister, dad is trying to speak to me perhaps asking me to stay where I am and to let the experts handle it but I am all fired-up now and his comments fall on deaf ears as I slide open the door and let what feels like hellfire into our icy cold cabin. I am once again taken aback by the sheer intensity of the heat but only for a moment, and then make my way round the carrier on my way to attempt to provide some crowd control.
I am focused, driven with a single-mindedness probably common with people going into war and start marching towards the ambulance - my anger starts taking control again, "Why won't people just leave us the fuck alone??!" my mind screams.
But suddenly, as I am about to practically headbutt my way through, my thoughts are rudely interrupted by a very American gravelly voice shouting over, "Not changed a bit eh, Jason? You really gotta learn to chill man...".
Certainly this could not be my conscience talking as if anything, he tends to have almost a Stephen Fry-esque demeanour to him or so I like to think, so I look round.
White as a ghost and as tall as a pygmy with jet black hippy-styled goatie and pony-tailed hair to match, Tanvir is standing next to his suped up and somewhat battered Ford Escort which is parked next to our carrier. A childhood friend from when mum and dad decided my sister and I should learn about our heritage and culture and brought us to live in Bangladesh between the mid-eighties to the early nineties, Tanvir (or Tanny for short), had always been my wingman when I was in trouble - and this time was no different.
Even though I had probably spoken to him twice since last time I visited the country (although the birth of Facebook meant we touched base more often than that online), when I knew I was going to be coming to Bangladesh, I knew I wanted Tanny to help me through the impending onslaught that was going to be laid down before me and when I called, without hesitating a second, he agreed to drop everything and ride with me; so here he was!
"Jason? Do you have to call me that - even now? We're like 30 dude!" I shout back as I turn and head towards him as he starts walking towards me, "I really don't want anyone knowing that my childhood idol was Jason Donovan so much so that I tried dying my hair blond, memorised all of his songs and demanded everyone calls me Jason!"
We both begin to laugh like we did when we were kids and as we get close enough, Tanny grins and then sticks up his hand in a high five motion but I grab him and give him a man-hug - the type where you try to ensure only the arms manage to pat each other's back - but after only 2 seconds, the pretentiousness of trying to be macho eludes me and before I know it, I start to whimper and the hug gets stronger.
Tanny's grip gets tighter as I cry as if he thinks I'm going to collapse and to be fair, under the strain of the last few days and now the excruciating heat, I almost feel as though I will.
"I knew there was something homo-erotic about you guys - I just knew it! Ahhh, young love!" my sister shouts out laughingly as she hangs out of an open window in the carrier whilst subtly wiping tears from her eyes having watched the whole thing through the darkened windows.
We both look up at her and then at each other and almost jump back from our hug as we start laughing. However, this breaks the tension and brings me back to reality and the need to maintain a stiff upper lip if I am to get through this which included less crying, less laughing and more action!
I let go of Tanny and though I try to make general chit chat, he knows me all too well that my mind is elsewhere and asks to to shut up and ushers me back in the direction from which I came - towards the crowd, "I forgot my shield and helmet but my truncheon's available man," Tanny says pointing at his groin, "although I could just light up a huge wad of weed and offer it around - perhaps they'd rather get high?"
I grin for a second and then still my face again and turn to give Tanny a cold stare and he knows that now was not the time to start our never ending debate over the pros and cons of cannabis use! Mum had died, I was a lawyer, we were stressed and this was not a headline I wanted the media to start splashing across pages instead of details of mum's life and times - Does Mr Khan Junior Smoke Weed?.
By the time we reach the ambulance having pushed and shoved our way through the crowd, I notice that the gates to the cargo bay are open and mum's younger brother is leading a procession of men made up of my lanky cousins along with some of the security team, struggling under the sheer weight of mum's coffin wrapped and tied in hessian, with dad and my uncle walking along side the custom's official who is completing some forms. How on earth dad got there before me is beyond me but I think to myself sheepishly, "In all the commotion, dad's sorted everything!"
Or so I thought!
The cameramen and news crew noticing mum's arrival charge towards her passed Tanny and I, and the sudden excitement almost leads to the men dropping her but mum's younger brother manages to get underneath to balance the weight.
His face is now like thunder as he starts shouting about the incompetence of my poor cousins and the helpers in almost dropping mum, his head folded over and chin touching his chest as sweat drips off him. My cousins and the other men say nothing and freeze as they look around like scared lemurs at the cameras and reporters, having never seen anything like this and hoping the situation will sort itself out.
There is now hardly any room to get to the open door of the ambulance and though dad is visibly annoyed at the surge of people flooding the area, my uncle takes him aside indicating that it would be best for him to go back to his carrier and wait rather than get involved with making way or facing the media until he was ready to do so; luckily no one except family had quite identified who mum's husband and children were so they seemed more interested in mum rather than pester dad.
As I watch dad being safely lead away, Tanny and I look at each other and immediately jump to the aid of mum's younger brother.
Though Tanny is too short to help with carrying mum as the coffin rests on our shoulders and his only reach the height of our chests, I urge him to act as the battering ram for us by staying at the front and clearing the path so Tanny does just that asking as politely as possible for him, for the media and onlookers to "get out of the fucking way!"
Mum's younger brother feels more reassured with our arrival and though he is still focused, there is a huge grin on his face and his gold tooth keeps sparkling at me.
"Nice work dude! Just keep doing what you're doing and stand at the front! Kick ass if you need to so myself, and the rest of us including...Goldie here," I say nodding my head in the direction of mum's younger brother,"can get mum to the fucking ambulance - sorry for the swearing mum!"
We wade through the chaos as questions are being thrown at us left, right and centre - where were we from in England, where were we going, how did mum die, were her immediate family here, etc. etc. etc. - but Tanny keeps them at bay with a simple "No comment - now move!" and somehow we manage to get mum into the ambulance and Tanny, Goldie, myself and my cousins get on board with her whilst the security guys stay outside and shut the door behind them.
We all take a breath as the air conditioning in the ambulance cools us down but the noise still going on outside is immense so it is hard to relax.
Whilst the media hounds seem to have lost interest for now as they quite obviously are making their way to their vehicles to follow us, the ambulance is constantly being banged and knocked by the other people wanting to just be nosey and see what all the commotion is about or for the more perceptive, try and beg for money from us seeing as we can afford a private ambulance for our dearly departed so must be loaded!
"We really need to get going" I shout, being drowned out by the banging on the car as well as the sound of the vents blowing cold air and the siren that has been blaring the whole time.
Goldie gets some rope out from under the bench mum has been placed on and though I cannot hear him completely, I can tell from his movements that he wants to tie mum's coffin down to secure her in place; Tanny and I swiftly oblige and give him a hand as my cousins look on still aghast from the madness that had ensued and is still taking place!
As we finish the last knot, Tanny turns to me, "Man, we need to get you guys and auntie out of here - I need to get my car!" then in his best Arnie impression he goes on, "I'll be back!" and slides the door open and jumps out as Goldie asks the driver to start up the engine.
As the ambulance tries to push its way through the hoards, horn being repeatedly blown but having little or no effect, all five of us including the driver breath sighs of relief or maybe exasperation even, as I mutter "Welcome to Bangladesh huh?"
My cousins burst out laughing as does Goldie who thanks me for coming to his aid, "and I also want to thank...thank...errr, that weird looking hippy guy?" he pauses,"...who on earth was he by the way?" he asks suddenly realising he has no idea who Tanny was or where he had come from.
Before I can say anything, despite all the noise, we hear an engine of another car revving away with some extremely loud Metallica tune playing - looking out I see Tanny hanging out of his window, hair set lose and floating around like seaweed, "Move outta the way - mad man coming through! Oh yeeeeeaah!" and the sheer surprise of his look let alone arrival, actually works and making like Moses, Tanny manages to part the sea...albeit a sea of people so not quite same on the miraculous scale...with my dad and sister following him in their carrier.
As my cousins and Goldie stare out at the lunatic I am proud to call friend, I answer Goldie's original question with a smile and a nod, "He's my Wingman, Goldie - he's my Wingman."
I suddenly notice that the carrier they are in has a red light on the roof like an ambulance would have and as the driver attempts to park up near the cargo bay entrance, he starts honking his horn and switches the light and siren on to make some room - it is only then it hits me that the third carrier didn't just happen to have a red light like an ambulance, it was an ambulance!
How I could have missed that at the airport is any one's guess but stands to reason that we needed someway to allow mum to travel with us to her little village outside of Dhaka (the capital city in which we had landed) and we certainly couldn't have her riding in a converted scooter-taxi!!
If anything, the flashing light and siren intrigues onlookers even more and despite airport security being present, the crowd keeps on growing and surrounding the ambulance like some B-movie zombie horror flick.
The door to the ambulance opens and mum's younger brother starts shouting god only knows what profanity, to the crowd to move out of his way which is only obvious from the expression on his face and the way his arms swing about wildly as we are too far away to hear him, but there is no movement from the onlookers...with the image of zombies now in mind though, I chuckle to myself as I imagine him chewing a cigar and then jumping out into them with a chainsaw.
Dad looks at me disapprovingly for my inappropriate chuckling which I completely ignore but my sister strikes me in the ribs with her elbow to reinforce dad's authority and I take reign of my wandering mind.
Feeling bad for my misdemeanour, I decide to do something more constructive instead of sitting around daydreaming and make moves to get out of the carrier; despite my dislike of him, I plan how I can by-pass the crowd to go over and give mum's younger brother, the Zombie-slayer, a hand before things got out of control leaving little or no room for us to get mum into the ambulance.
As I scramble across my sister, dad is trying to speak to me perhaps asking me to stay where I am and to let the experts handle it but I am all fired-up now and his comments fall on deaf ears as I slide open the door and let what feels like hellfire into our icy cold cabin. I am once again taken aback by the sheer intensity of the heat but only for a moment, and then make my way round the carrier on my way to attempt to provide some crowd control.
I am focused, driven with a single-mindedness probably common with people going into war and start marching towards the ambulance - my anger starts taking control again, "Why won't people just leave us the fuck alone??!" my mind screams.
But suddenly, as I am about to practically headbutt my way through, my thoughts are rudely interrupted by a very American gravelly voice shouting over, "Not changed a bit eh, Jason? You really gotta learn to chill man...".
Certainly this could not be my conscience talking as if anything, he tends to have almost a Stephen Fry-esque demeanour to him or so I like to think, so I look round.
White as a ghost and as tall as a pygmy with jet black hippy-styled goatie and pony-tailed hair to match, Tanvir is standing next to his suped up and somewhat battered Ford Escort which is parked next to our carrier. A childhood friend from when mum and dad decided my sister and I should learn about our heritage and culture and brought us to live in Bangladesh between the mid-eighties to the early nineties, Tanvir (or Tanny for short), had always been my wingman when I was in trouble - and this time was no different.
Even though I had probably spoken to him twice since last time I visited the country (although the birth of Facebook meant we touched base more often than that online), when I knew I was going to be coming to Bangladesh, I knew I wanted Tanny to help me through the impending onslaught that was going to be laid down before me and when I called, without hesitating a second, he agreed to drop everything and ride with me; so here he was!
"Jason? Do you have to call me that - even now? We're like 30 dude!" I shout back as I turn and head towards him as he starts walking towards me, "I really don't want anyone knowing that my childhood idol was Jason Donovan so much so that I tried dying my hair blond, memorised all of his songs and demanded everyone calls me Jason!"
We both begin to laugh like we did when we were kids and as we get close enough, Tanny grins and then sticks up his hand in a high five motion but I grab him and give him a man-hug - the type where you try to ensure only the arms manage to pat each other's back - but after only 2 seconds, the pretentiousness of trying to be macho eludes me and before I know it, I start to whimper and the hug gets stronger.
Tanny's grip gets tighter as I cry as if he thinks I'm going to collapse and to be fair, under the strain of the last few days and now the excruciating heat, I almost feel as though I will.
"I knew there was something homo-erotic about you guys - I just knew it! Ahhh, young love!" my sister shouts out laughingly as she hangs out of an open window in the carrier whilst subtly wiping tears from her eyes having watched the whole thing through the darkened windows.
We both look up at her and then at each other and almost jump back from our hug as we start laughing. However, this breaks the tension and brings me back to reality and the need to maintain a stiff upper lip if I am to get through this which included less crying, less laughing and more action!
I let go of Tanny and though I try to make general chit chat, he knows me all too well that my mind is elsewhere and asks to to shut up and ushers me back in the direction from which I came - towards the crowd, "I forgot my shield and helmet but my truncheon's available man," Tanny says pointing at his groin, "although I could just light up a huge wad of weed and offer it around - perhaps they'd rather get high?"
I grin for a second and then still my face again and turn to give Tanny a cold stare and he knows that now was not the time to start our never ending debate over the pros and cons of cannabis use! Mum had died, I was a lawyer, we were stressed and this was not a headline I wanted the media to start splashing across pages instead of details of mum's life and times - Does Mr Khan Junior Smoke Weed?.
By the time we reach the ambulance having pushed and shoved our way through the crowd, I notice that the gates to the cargo bay are open and mum's younger brother is leading a procession of men made up of my lanky cousins along with some of the security team, struggling under the sheer weight of mum's coffin wrapped and tied in hessian, with dad and my uncle walking along side the custom's official who is completing some forms. How on earth dad got there before me is beyond me but I think to myself sheepishly, "In all the commotion, dad's sorted everything!"
Or so I thought!
The cameramen and news crew noticing mum's arrival charge towards her passed Tanny and I, and the sudden excitement almost leads to the men dropping her but mum's younger brother manages to get underneath to balance the weight.
His face is now like thunder as he starts shouting about the incompetence of my poor cousins and the helpers in almost dropping mum, his head folded over and chin touching his chest as sweat drips off him. My cousins and the other men say nothing and freeze as they look around like scared lemurs at the cameras and reporters, having never seen anything like this and hoping the situation will sort itself out.
There is now hardly any room to get to the open door of the ambulance and though dad is visibly annoyed at the surge of people flooding the area, my uncle takes him aside indicating that it would be best for him to go back to his carrier and wait rather than get involved with making way or facing the media until he was ready to do so; luckily no one except family had quite identified who mum's husband and children were so they seemed more interested in mum rather than pester dad.
As I watch dad being safely lead away, Tanny and I look at each other and immediately jump to the aid of mum's younger brother.
Though Tanny is too short to help with carrying mum as the coffin rests on our shoulders and his only reach the height of our chests, I urge him to act as the battering ram for us by staying at the front and clearing the path so Tanny does just that asking as politely as possible for him, for the media and onlookers to "get out of the fucking way!"
Mum's younger brother feels more reassured with our arrival and though he is still focused, there is a huge grin on his face and his gold tooth keeps sparkling at me.
"Nice work dude! Just keep doing what you're doing and stand at the front! Kick ass if you need to so myself, and the rest of us including...Goldie here," I say nodding my head in the direction of mum's younger brother,"can get mum to the fucking ambulance - sorry for the swearing mum!"
We wade through the chaos as questions are being thrown at us left, right and centre - where were we from in England, where were we going, how did mum die, were her immediate family here, etc. etc. etc. - but Tanny keeps them at bay with a simple "No comment - now move!" and somehow we manage to get mum into the ambulance and Tanny, Goldie, myself and my cousins get on board with her whilst the security guys stay outside and shut the door behind them.
We all take a breath as the air conditioning in the ambulance cools us down but the noise still going on outside is immense so it is hard to relax.
Whilst the media hounds seem to have lost interest for now as they quite obviously are making their way to their vehicles to follow us, the ambulance is constantly being banged and knocked by the other people wanting to just be nosey and see what all the commotion is about or for the more perceptive, try and beg for money from us seeing as we can afford a private ambulance for our dearly departed so must be loaded!
"We really need to get going" I shout, being drowned out by the banging on the car as well as the sound of the vents blowing cold air and the siren that has been blaring the whole time.
Goldie gets some rope out from under the bench mum has been placed on and though I cannot hear him completely, I can tell from his movements that he wants to tie mum's coffin down to secure her in place; Tanny and I swiftly oblige and give him a hand as my cousins look on still aghast from the madness that had ensued and is still taking place!
As we finish the last knot, Tanny turns to me, "Man, we need to get you guys and auntie out of here - I need to get my car!" then in his best Arnie impression he goes on, "I'll be back!" and slides the door open and jumps out as Goldie asks the driver to start up the engine.
As the ambulance tries to push its way through the hoards, horn being repeatedly blown but having little or no effect, all five of us including the driver breath sighs of relief or maybe exasperation even, as I mutter "Welcome to Bangladesh huh?"
My cousins burst out laughing as does Goldie who thanks me for coming to his aid, "and I also want to thank...thank...errr, that weird looking hippy guy?" he pauses,"...who on earth was he by the way?" he asks suddenly realising he has no idea who Tanny was or where he had come from.
Before I can say anything, despite all the noise, we hear an engine of another car revving away with some extremely loud Metallica tune playing - looking out I see Tanny hanging out of his window, hair set lose and floating around like seaweed, "Move outta the way - mad man coming through! Oh yeeeeeaah!" and the sheer surprise of his look let alone arrival, actually works and making like Moses, Tanny manages to part the sea...albeit a sea of people so not quite same on the miraculous scale...with my dad and sister following him in their carrier.
As my cousins and Goldie stare out at the lunatic I am proud to call friend, I answer Goldie's original question with a smile and a nod, "He's my Wingman, Goldie - he's my Wingman."
20100103
Chapter Five: Arrival of the Fittest
Our plane lands at 1pm in the afternoon Bangladeshi time on the Friday - just when the sun is at its highest point during the summer season here so the temperature is in the mid-thirties.
Although I have been flying now for over 14 hours, it's not the jet lag that hits me nor the ache in my back from being rammed in my seat for so long but instead it is the sheer intensity of the heat that slaps me across the face the moment the doors open and we step outside; the heat and the aches combined, I suddenly realise what it must feel like to be a piece of prime steak hammered to shit to tenderise and then be thrown into the grill and it is not nice, "Although I'm sure Hannibal Lecter would enjoy a good bite out of me," I smirk to myself.
The muffled sounds in the distance as we disembark are incredible even from the runway and with engines constantly starting up and slowing down around us, as we walk towards the terminal.
I can hear the noise of the traffic on the roads and it brings a smile to my face. Unlike the reserved West, cars are honking their horns loudly to let others know they are turning a corner or coming through - indicators? What indicators?! I can hear the sound of scooters blasting and rattling smoke out of their exhausts and know that they are extra loud as they have been converted into three wheeled passenger carriers so are screaming out due to the sheer strain on their little engines originally meant for transporting two. But best of all, I hear the cries of folk trying to sell goods to the unsuspecting tourists and quickly imagine the poor tourists blatantly paying over the odds due to the weak Taka to the Pound or Dollar and thinking they have a real bargain but not realising haggling is the norm here and they could have got away with paying less than half the price on the labels.
For a moment I completely lose myself - it has been 10 years since I have managed to make time to return to this beautiful but totally chaotic country, and it feels great.
My sister breaks me out of my trance as she asks me to check I have my passport reminding me that one of the reasons we do not live in Bangladesh is because it is rife with crime in particular pick-pocket theft, and British passports are high on the criminal wish list as forged correctly, it is their golden ticket out of the country - a Dick Whittington Complex I like to call it, where they seem to think in the West, the streets are paved with gold.
My smile turns itself on its head to a frown as I check my pockets sighing heavily as I do, and then I produce my golden ticket to my sister after going through 4 pockets, "I haven't forgotten dude - I'm wearing my army trousers for a reason. Even I don't know where my passport is so how much more secure does it need to be?"
Before I even need to show my passport though what I can only assume is security, suddenly appears out of nowhere all dressed in black (although no sunglasses or guns in sight to my disappointment)and they speak to the officer at the check point pointing at us and then approach us and usher all three of us out of the enormous queue to what can only be described as a secret passage hidden behind the walls.
I am slightly nervous due to the menacing look of the officers escorting us but all settles down when one of my uncles appear to greet us already with all our luggage on trolleys, once we are through the winding hallways. I had totally forgotten that we had a relative who worked for the airport and am relieved to see him!
Married to one of mum's sisters, he is a short stocky little man in a safari suit a size too small so you can see every crease of his belly but whilst this should be distracting his eyes are extremely focused and you can't help but look at them or look away. He does not smile when he sees us though but as is to be expected, his face is solemn and the hug he gives each of us speaks volumes. Dad tries to speak to him seeing as we have not seen him in years but his response is short and to-the-point, "Dada has everything sorted as discussed," he says to dad, "so we need to get going."
Immediately I stop thinking like a Westerner and more like a Bangladeshi - we have jumped the queue because of not who we are as Brits, but who we are as Bangladeshis.
If being the son of a neuro-surgeon and well known journalist and author whilst growing up was not enough to put pressure on one to try make something of his life, try being the favourite nephew of a highly decorated military freedom fighter, who then became a General and just before retiring, went into politics and reached the dizzying heights of becoming a major player in Bangladesh's House of Parliament!
Yep, suddenly I remembered we weren't normal people in Bangladesh but something more akin to celebrity so security needed to be tight; normally this would be a good thing and something I would relish having dreamt of being famous like my mum since childhood, "but surely now was not the time" I muse.
My uncle walks along side dad explaining what the plans are but in usual Bangladeshi fashion, my sister and I are left out of the conversation and expected to walk two steps behind them as we are children - which despite my eagerness to tell my uncle that we have not been brought up to be foot soldiers, I seem to adhere to - my Bangladeshi instincts clearly taking over.
Still, we have an entourage of security around us and several men pushing our luggage trolleys so for a moment I ignore my previous conjecture of now not being the time and try to enjoy feeling famous - I puff up my chest, pull my sunglasses over my eyes and walk in a swagger as I wave to the cleaners and other security staff.
My sister watches me for a moment and starts giggling but stops as quickly as she started as dad turns to look at both of us sternly reminding us that this is not a happy occasion and that we cannot put a foot wrong.
We make it to the exit and the doors open and the first thing I notice are huge metal railings all around, leaving just enough room for cars to drive through to drop off and pick up passengers. There are guards standing on either side of the roads armed with rifles escorting cars in and out and keeping the vagabonds and beggars as well as just the spectators there to see the foreigners arrive, away from the doors and the luggage.
I then notice the three people carriers in front of us - all of which it takes me a while to realise, are for us.
Luggage is thrown into one filling it almost to the brim as we have brought so much stuff - mostly bags full of presents mum had bought over the years that she planned to distribute amongst her nearest and dearest as well as the poor, a wish we intended to fulfill - whilst doors to the other cars are closed and the windows of all the vehicles are black so we cannot even see who is inside.
My uncle speaks to dad and I overhear him saying perhaps my sister and I should travel to Dada's house to freshen up and rest and he would take dad over to the cargo bay to collect mum and before dad can say anything, I interrupt quite abruptly, "We travelled here as a family - we continue our journey together as a family - all four of us, father, mother, sister and brother - until we say farewell to mum and not a moment before."
My uncle is clearly surprised by my rudeness and looks at dad for what I can only assume is an indirect request to get him to put me in my place and not bother the elders when they are speaking but dad reasserts my authority, "Like my son said, we stand together even if Allah has prevented us from dying together."
"A tad dramatic!" I think to myself as both myself and my sister move in closer to stand next to dad in the stereotypical One for All and All for One stance but it has the desired effect and my uncle turns to instruct the carrier with our luggage to head off with us playing catch up later.
Before he gets to the second carrier though, the door flies open and mum's youngest brother and two lanky boys step out. They have been taking their time coming out into the incredibly humid heat which has already made me sticky with sweat, enjoying the beauty of air conditioning but watching our every move through the darkened windows and realising plans were changing, decided to step into the arena and find out what was happening.
I recognise mum's younger brother instantly having had him visit us in England previously - about average height and build with a gold tooth - he heads over to us and attempts to hug me and for reasons probably best saved for later, I very begrudgingly hug him back but try to make as little contact with him as possible as if he were diseased and don't even try to hide my disgust.
The boys however, look familiar and I am certain they are our cousins from my mum's side but I am unsure as to which ones they are and my sister does not do much better.
There is a moment of awkwardness but to break the ice, I use my most serious tone and say to them "I have no idea who you are! Are you our servants?".
Being older than them, the cousins don't know how to react as they are unsure if I am joking in which case they are obliged to laugh or am deadly serious, in which case they must adhere by the rule that the elders are always right and behave as though they were our servants initially at least and not be so impertinent to tell us immediately that we were wrong!
Before they say anything though, I laugh and give them both a joint bear hug, "Only kidding guys - I know who you are; you're my cousins...I have no idea how you're related to me but it's a start right?!"
They are visibly over the moon that they have been identified as relatives and not hired help and look especially pleased that they are the first of our plethora of cousins to not just see us, but actually touch us - the famous cousins who live in the West - but before they can say anything, my uncle practically pushes me and my sister into the carrier my dad is already in, cooling down under the breeze and whirr of the fan that the driver has on.
He orders mum's younger brother and the cousins to get into their vehicle without further delay as we needed to move on and shouts at both drivers to get going and his methods though effective, somewhat riles me.
I feel irritated and annoyed that my arrival to Bangladesh has been so rushed and that the moment I was about to reconnect to family I forgot I even had, I was being moved along to the next thing but I tell myself I must exert more self control as the carrier bumps and shakes over the poorly maintained roads away from the airport entrance towards the back.
So I take a deep breath and try to sit back in my seat and relax but my attempts are short lived as the cargo bay becomes visible through the windscreen and I see a crowd of camera men, reporters and workers crowded round the entrance and realise why my uncle did not want us there.
My heart begins to race and my irritation starts mutating into anger less towards him but more towards our situation; my emotions written across my face. My sister reaches out and holds my hand.
"Why couldn't we have had a quiet service for mum - one with no crowds, no strangers - only those that loved her?" I say under my breath as I stare out of the window towards the media circus awaiting us.
Dad looks at me, "Keep strong son. Keep strong like your mummy always did even through her last days. This is only the start - and if you want to get to the end, remember: only the fittest of us will get to see it."
Although I have been flying now for over 14 hours, it's not the jet lag that hits me nor the ache in my back from being rammed in my seat for so long but instead it is the sheer intensity of the heat that slaps me across the face the moment the doors open and we step outside; the heat and the aches combined, I suddenly realise what it must feel like to be a piece of prime steak hammered to shit to tenderise and then be thrown into the grill and it is not nice, "Although I'm sure Hannibal Lecter would enjoy a good bite out of me," I smirk to myself.
The muffled sounds in the distance as we disembark are incredible even from the runway and with engines constantly starting up and slowing down around us, as we walk towards the terminal.
I can hear the noise of the traffic on the roads and it brings a smile to my face. Unlike the reserved West, cars are honking their horns loudly to let others know they are turning a corner or coming through - indicators? What indicators?! I can hear the sound of scooters blasting and rattling smoke out of their exhausts and know that they are extra loud as they have been converted into three wheeled passenger carriers so are screaming out due to the sheer strain on their little engines originally meant for transporting two. But best of all, I hear the cries of folk trying to sell goods to the unsuspecting tourists and quickly imagine the poor tourists blatantly paying over the odds due to the weak Taka to the Pound or Dollar and thinking they have a real bargain but not realising haggling is the norm here and they could have got away with paying less than half the price on the labels.
For a moment I completely lose myself - it has been 10 years since I have managed to make time to return to this beautiful but totally chaotic country, and it feels great.
My sister breaks me out of my trance as she asks me to check I have my passport reminding me that one of the reasons we do not live in Bangladesh is because it is rife with crime in particular pick-pocket theft, and British passports are high on the criminal wish list as forged correctly, it is their golden ticket out of the country - a Dick Whittington Complex I like to call it, where they seem to think in the West, the streets are paved with gold.
My smile turns itself on its head to a frown as I check my pockets sighing heavily as I do, and then I produce my golden ticket to my sister after going through 4 pockets, "I haven't forgotten dude - I'm wearing my army trousers for a reason. Even I don't know where my passport is so how much more secure does it need to be?"
Before I even need to show my passport though what I can only assume is security, suddenly appears out of nowhere all dressed in black (although no sunglasses or guns in sight to my disappointment)and they speak to the officer at the check point pointing at us and then approach us and usher all three of us out of the enormous queue to what can only be described as a secret passage hidden behind the walls.
I am slightly nervous due to the menacing look of the officers escorting us but all settles down when one of my uncles appear to greet us already with all our luggage on trolleys, once we are through the winding hallways. I had totally forgotten that we had a relative who worked for the airport and am relieved to see him!
Married to one of mum's sisters, he is a short stocky little man in a safari suit a size too small so you can see every crease of his belly but whilst this should be distracting his eyes are extremely focused and you can't help but look at them or look away. He does not smile when he sees us though but as is to be expected, his face is solemn and the hug he gives each of us speaks volumes. Dad tries to speak to him seeing as we have not seen him in years but his response is short and to-the-point, "Dada has everything sorted as discussed," he says to dad, "so we need to get going."
Immediately I stop thinking like a Westerner and more like a Bangladeshi - we have jumped the queue because of not who we are as Brits, but who we are as Bangladeshis.
If being the son of a neuro-surgeon and well known journalist and author whilst growing up was not enough to put pressure on one to try make something of his life, try being the favourite nephew of a highly decorated military freedom fighter, who then became a General and just before retiring, went into politics and reached the dizzying heights of becoming a major player in Bangladesh's House of Parliament!
Yep, suddenly I remembered we weren't normal people in Bangladesh but something more akin to celebrity so security needed to be tight; normally this would be a good thing and something I would relish having dreamt of being famous like my mum since childhood, "but surely now was not the time" I muse.
My uncle walks along side dad explaining what the plans are but in usual Bangladeshi fashion, my sister and I are left out of the conversation and expected to walk two steps behind them as we are children - which despite my eagerness to tell my uncle that we have not been brought up to be foot soldiers, I seem to adhere to - my Bangladeshi instincts clearly taking over.
Still, we have an entourage of security around us and several men pushing our luggage trolleys so for a moment I ignore my previous conjecture of now not being the time and try to enjoy feeling famous - I puff up my chest, pull my sunglasses over my eyes and walk in a swagger as I wave to the cleaners and other security staff.
My sister watches me for a moment and starts giggling but stops as quickly as she started as dad turns to look at both of us sternly reminding us that this is not a happy occasion and that we cannot put a foot wrong.
We make it to the exit and the doors open and the first thing I notice are huge metal railings all around, leaving just enough room for cars to drive through to drop off and pick up passengers. There are guards standing on either side of the roads armed with rifles escorting cars in and out and keeping the vagabonds and beggars as well as just the spectators there to see the foreigners arrive, away from the doors and the luggage.
I then notice the three people carriers in front of us - all of which it takes me a while to realise, are for us.
Luggage is thrown into one filling it almost to the brim as we have brought so much stuff - mostly bags full of presents mum had bought over the years that she planned to distribute amongst her nearest and dearest as well as the poor, a wish we intended to fulfill - whilst doors to the other cars are closed and the windows of all the vehicles are black so we cannot even see who is inside.
My uncle speaks to dad and I overhear him saying perhaps my sister and I should travel to Dada's house to freshen up and rest and he would take dad over to the cargo bay to collect mum and before dad can say anything, I interrupt quite abruptly, "We travelled here as a family - we continue our journey together as a family - all four of us, father, mother, sister and brother - until we say farewell to mum and not a moment before."
My uncle is clearly surprised by my rudeness and looks at dad for what I can only assume is an indirect request to get him to put me in my place and not bother the elders when they are speaking but dad reasserts my authority, "Like my son said, we stand together even if Allah has prevented us from dying together."
"A tad dramatic!" I think to myself as both myself and my sister move in closer to stand next to dad in the stereotypical One for All and All for One stance but it has the desired effect and my uncle turns to instruct the carrier with our luggage to head off with us playing catch up later.
Before he gets to the second carrier though, the door flies open and mum's youngest brother and two lanky boys step out. They have been taking their time coming out into the incredibly humid heat which has already made me sticky with sweat, enjoying the beauty of air conditioning but watching our every move through the darkened windows and realising plans were changing, decided to step into the arena and find out what was happening.
I recognise mum's younger brother instantly having had him visit us in England previously - about average height and build with a gold tooth - he heads over to us and attempts to hug me and for reasons probably best saved for later, I very begrudgingly hug him back but try to make as little contact with him as possible as if he were diseased and don't even try to hide my disgust.
The boys however, look familiar and I am certain they are our cousins from my mum's side but I am unsure as to which ones they are and my sister does not do much better.
There is a moment of awkwardness but to break the ice, I use my most serious tone and say to them "I have no idea who you are! Are you our servants?".
Being older than them, the cousins don't know how to react as they are unsure if I am joking in which case they are obliged to laugh or am deadly serious, in which case they must adhere by the rule that the elders are always right and behave as though they were our servants initially at least and not be so impertinent to tell us immediately that we were wrong!
Before they say anything though, I laugh and give them both a joint bear hug, "Only kidding guys - I know who you are; you're my cousins...I have no idea how you're related to me but it's a start right?!"
They are visibly over the moon that they have been identified as relatives and not hired help and look especially pleased that they are the first of our plethora of cousins to not just see us, but actually touch us - the famous cousins who live in the West - but before they can say anything, my uncle practically pushes me and my sister into the carrier my dad is already in, cooling down under the breeze and whirr of the fan that the driver has on.
He orders mum's younger brother and the cousins to get into their vehicle without further delay as we needed to move on and shouts at both drivers to get going and his methods though effective, somewhat riles me.
I feel irritated and annoyed that my arrival to Bangladesh has been so rushed and that the moment I was about to reconnect to family I forgot I even had, I was being moved along to the next thing but I tell myself I must exert more self control as the carrier bumps and shakes over the poorly maintained roads away from the airport entrance towards the back.
So I take a deep breath and try to sit back in my seat and relax but my attempts are short lived as the cargo bay becomes visible through the windscreen and I see a crowd of camera men, reporters and workers crowded round the entrance and realise why my uncle did not want us there.
My heart begins to race and my irritation starts mutating into anger less towards him but more towards our situation; my emotions written across my face. My sister reaches out and holds my hand.
"Why couldn't we have had a quiet service for mum - one with no crowds, no strangers - only those that loved her?" I say under my breath as I stare out of the window towards the media circus awaiting us.
Dad looks at me, "Keep strong son. Keep strong like your mummy always did even through her last days. This is only the start - and if you want to get to the end, remember: only the fittest of us will get to see it."
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