A Case Of Exploding Mangoes Part 2

They s.h.i.+fted in their seats, not knowing how to deal with this. They were all Muslims and they all knew that the Chief had a religious bent. Some of them even called him 'the mullah' when talking on secure telephone lines. But a meeting was a meeting and mixing religion with the business of running the country was a concept not comprehensible to them. A quarter of a century of military training had prepared them for many tasks; they could make toasts in five different languages, they could march in step and hold joint military exercises with the best armies in the world. If they chose to shed their uniforms they could take up diplomatic careers or run universities. But all their staff-and-command courses and all their survival skills were not enough. They didn't know how to say no to an offer of a recitation from the Quran from their own Chief. They s.h.i.+fted some more in their seats. They breathed in some more rose-scented air.

General Zia took out a slim, magenta-coloured copy of the Quran from his folder, put on his reading gla.s.ses and started to recite. All the commanders looked down respectfully and listened in silence; some put their hands in their laps, wondering whether the time had come for them to face the consequences of their G.o.dless ways.

The recitation didn't last more than three minutes. General Zia's voice was croaky but something about reading the Quran aloud makes even the most toneless voice sound bearable. He finished the recitation and handed the Quran to the General on his left.

"Since General Akhtar speaks very good English, I'll ask him to read out the translation for those of us who don't understand Arabic."

Utter nonsense, the Naval Chief thought. None of us understands Arabic.

General Akhtar started reading haltingly: "'I begin in the name of G.o.d, the holiest, the most merciful.'" General Zia stared at him without blinking as the translation was read out. As soon as he finished General Zia grabbed the copy from him and held it up to his generals.

"What do you think it says here in this part that I just recited?" There was a moment's silence. General Beg snivelled behind his handkerchief. "Come on, speak up." General Zia raised his voice. Then he obeyed his own command: "In Arabic it says 'In the name of Allah'. It doesn't say in the name of G.o.d, it doesn't say in the name of G.o.ds, it doesn't say in the name of some nameless deity. It says: 'In the name of Allah'." He left a dramatic pause. "Let me remind my brothers here that the very first thing that a non-Muslim has to say to become a Muslim, the very first article of faith that every believer has to profess is: There is no G.o.d but..." He paused again and looked around the table expecting them to complete the first katima katima. No one spoke up. He repeated. "There is no G.o.d BUT..."

"Allah," they all murmured, like schoolchildren unsure if they were being asked a trick question.

"Yes." General Zia brought down his fist on the table. "My dear generals, let's get one thing clear before we hear your protests and your suggestions: There is no G.o.d but Allah. And since Allah Himself says there is no G.o.d, let's abolish the word. Let's stop pretending G.o.d is is Allah. It's a Western construct, an easy way to confuse who is the creator and who the destroyer. We respect all religions, especially the religions of Christianity and Judaism. But do we want to become like them? Christians call Jesus the son of G.o.d. Are we to understand that some G.o.d came down while Mary was fast asleep and..." Here he made a circle with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand and poked at it with the middle finger of his right hand. "Jews are pretty close to calling Moses their G.o.d. You might think that it's all the same to our people, G.o.d, Allah, same difference?" He mimicked the clipped English accent many of his generals preferred. "But who should be telling them that we believe in Allah and not in any other G.o.d? Didn't Allah choose us to clear up this confusion?" Then as an afterthought he appealed to the patriotism of his fellow generals. "Even Hindus call their six-armed monsters their G.o.ds. Isn't that a reason enough to stay away from this word? And if any of you have any concerns that people will not appreciate the difference between G.o.d and Allah, I suggest we leave it to Allah." Allah. It's a Western construct, an easy way to confuse who is the creator and who the destroyer. We respect all religions, especially the religions of Christianity and Judaism. But do we want to become like them? Christians call Jesus the son of G.o.d. Are we to understand that some G.o.d came down while Mary was fast asleep and..." Here he made a circle with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand and poked at it with the middle finger of his right hand. "Jews are pretty close to calling Moses their G.o.d. You might think that it's all the same to our people, G.o.d, Allah, same difference?" He mimicked the clipped English accent many of his generals preferred. "But who should be telling them that we believe in Allah and not in any other G.o.d? Didn't Allah choose us to clear up this confusion?" Then as an afterthought he appealed to the patriotism of his fellow generals. "Even Hindus call their six-armed monsters their G.o.ds. Isn't that a reason enough to stay away from this word? And if any of you have any concerns that people will not appreciate the difference between G.o.d and Allah, I suggest we leave it to Allah."

The complete silence that followed his short speech satisfied General Zia.

"Can' we now hear the Naval Chief's protest?"

The Naval Chief, still reeling from the lecture about G.o.d's nomenclature, suddenly felt very small. He was worrying about a breach in protocol when the whole nation was calling G.o.d by all sorts of wrong names.

The generals who had called Zia a mullah behind his back felt ashamed at having underestimated him: not only was he a mullah, he was a mullah whose understanding of religion didn't go beyond parroting what he had heard from the next mullah. A mullah without a beard, a mullah in a four-star general's uniform, a mullah with the instincts of a corrupt tax inspector.

The others sat stunned around the table, still trying to comprehend what they had just heard. If General Zia could have read their minds this is what he would have read: What did they teach him at Sandhurst?

A country that thinks it was created by G.o.d has finally found what it deserves: a blabbering idiot who thinks he has been chosen by Allah to clear his name.

He really makes sense. How come I didn't think of it before?

Who is he going to appoint as his deputy?

Am I in an army commanders' meeting or a village mosque?

I am going to prohibit the word G.o.d at home.

Who would have thought there was a theocratic genius in that uniform?

Can we get on with the agenda? We have just toppled an elected b.l.o.o.d.y government, how the h.e.l.l are we going to run this country? Is Allah going to come down and patrol the b.l.o.o.d.y streets?

The only person who voiced his thoughts was General Akhtar, a former middleweight boxer, a clean-shaven man of tribal origin who was packed with so much soldierly dignity that he could have been born in any country on any of the five continents and he still would have become a general. His ability to carry himself with martial grace and his talent for sucking up to his superiors was so legendary that according to a joke popular in the trenches, he could wipe out a whole enemy unit by kissing their a.s.ses.

The other generals stopped thinking and moved forward in their chairs to listen to General Akhtar. "By Allah's grace you have brought this country back from the edge of destruction, by Allah's mercy you have saved this country when the politicians were about to push it over the edge of a precipice. I want to thank-" He stopped himself as he was about to thank G.o.d. He folded his boxer's hands respectfully on the green folder. "I want to thank Allah and our visionary Chief of Staff to whom Allah has given the wisdom to take the right decision at the right time." He looked around the table before continuing. "I also want to thank our very professional commanders sitting around this table who carried out the coup on the orders of our Chief in such an orderly manner that not a single bullet had to be fired, not a single drop of blood had to be shed."

The power balance in the room suddenly s.h.i.+fted and the eight men, despite their different levels of affiliation to religion, diverse tastes in whisky and women, and various English accents, reached the same conclusion: General Akhtar had beaten them to it. They should have spoken these words. The rose-scented air in the meeting room suddenly felt stale. General Beg wiped his nose and put his handkerchief back in his pocket.

The conference moved on to the agenda, to the urgent matter of securing the country's borders, finding legal cover for the coup and enlisting politicians who could be trusted to support the military regime. General Zia hinted at the nice things to come: "I need governors for the provinces, I need ministers to run the ministries. Who can I count on except the professionals gathered around this table?"

They got up and left the room rea.s.sured, but none forgot their Chief's message. In the next eleven years, many of these generals would retire. Some would go on to govern provinces, others would be replaced by their juniors. Two things that weren't even on the agenda survived every upheaval that followed. General Akhtar remained a general until the time he died, and all G.o.d's names were slowly deleted from the national memory as if a wind had swept the land and blown them away. Innocuous, intimate names: Persian Khuda Khuda which had always been handy for ghazal poets as it rhymed with most of the operative verbs; which had always been handy for ghazal poets as it rhymed with most of the operative verbs; Rab Rab, which poor people invoked in their hour of distress; Maula Maula, which Sufis shouted in their has.h.i.+sh sessions. Allah had given Himself ninety-nine names. His people had improvised many more. But all these names slowly started to disappear: from official stationery, from Friday sermons, from newspaper editorials, from mothers' prayers, from greeting cards, from official memos, from the lips of television quiz-show hosts, from children's storybooks, from lovers' songs, from court orders, from telephone operators' greetings, from habeas corpus applications, from inter-school debating compet.i.tions, from road inauguration speeches, from memorial services, from cricket players' curses; even from beggars' begging pleas.

In the name of G.o.d, G.o.d was exiled from the land and replaced by the one and only Allah who, General Zia convinced himself, spoke only through him. But today, eleven years later, Allah was sending him signs that all pointed to a place so dark, so final, that General Zia wished he could muster up some doubts about the Book. He knew if you didn't have Jonah's optimism, the belly of the whale was your final resting place.

As the imam started reciting the after-prayer prayer, it took General Zia a moment to realise that he was being subjected to Jonah's story yet another time. It took him another moment to realise that the imam had never before recited this verse at morning prayers. He broke into violent sobs. The other wors.h.i.+ppers continued with their prayers; they were used to General Zia crying during his prayers. They were never sure if it was due to the intensity of his devotion, the matters of state that occupied his mind or another tongue-las.h.i.+ng from the First Lady. Everyone pretended to ignore the presidential tears. General Zia turned his face to the left, turned his face to the right, blessed the entire world and grabbed General Akhtar's hand. He began to speak but choked on his own words. General Akhtar squeezed General Zia's hand and patted his back to calm him down. The words finally came out: "Can you please raise my security level?" General Akhtar nodded enthusiastically and squeezed his hand again with a boxer's grip. General Zia snivelled, his left eye shed a tear, his right eye looked suspiciously towards the imam. "Raise it to level red please."

THREE.

"i don't want Inter Services intelligence poking their nose in my business," 2nd OIC mutters as he walks me back from the Commandant's office to my cell. I want to say, "Amen, sir. Amen." But one look at him and I decide to keep my mouth shut. He seems to be in an introspective mood. Every visit to the Commandant's office saps the 2 OIC mutters as he walks me back from the Commandant's office to my cell. I want to say, "Amen, sir. Amen." But one look at him and I decide to keep my mouth shut. He seems to be in an introspective mood. Every visit to the Commandant's office saps the 2nd OIC of his leftover ambition. For a moment I pity him. I pity his crouched walk. I want to pat his belly straining against his uniform's s.h.i.+rt b.u.t.tons. I want to repair the worn-out heels of his shoes. OIC of his leftover ambition. For a moment I pity him. I pity his crouched walk. I want to pat his belly straining against his uniform's s.h.i.+rt b.u.t.tons. I want to repair the worn-out heels of his shoes.

We have been studying The Art of War The Art of War in our War Studies cla.s.s and fragments of Sun Tzu are still fresh in my mind. Didn't he say that if the enemy leaves a door open, don't hesitate, rush in? in our War Studies cla.s.s and fragments of Sun Tzu are still fresh in my mind. Didn't he say that if the enemy leaves a door open, don't hesitate, rush in?

"Sir, I agree with you, it will be a disgrace for the Academy if the ISI has to be called in," I say, sounding very concerned.

"And who the h.e.l.l is responsible for this disgrace? Who is not cooperating with the inquiry?" He waves his investigation file in my face.

"I swear to G.o.d, sir-" I say and shut up because he looks into my eyes, takes a turn and instead of marching me back to the cell, starts walking towards the mosque.

Falcons Road, which leads to the mosque, is melting under my boots. My fellow cadets are either in their Character Building Cla.s.s or strapped to their seats in c.o.c.kpit simulators, practising emergency landings. And here I am, being frogmarched to Allah's house. It's not even time for prayer. And 2nd OIC, I know, is not the praying type. I am not G.o.dly either, but since the Commandant declared all five daily prayers compulsory and started a roll call, I have paid Him a few visits. OIC, I know, is not the praying type. I am not G.o.dly either, but since the Commandant declared all five daily prayers compulsory and started a roll call, I have paid Him a few visits.

Obaid turned very pious for a few days, even got me a book from the library called Health, Wealth and Wisdom Through Prayer Health, Wealth and Wisdom Through Prayer. He spent more and more of his time off in the mosque. His devotion ended the day a duty cadet caught him doing yoga between the prayers. One moment he was sitting there in lotus position, his thumbs and forefingers resting on his knees, trying to unlock his kundalini, and the next moment he was being charged with performing Hindu wors.h.i.+p in a mosque. He was only let off when I threatened the duty cadet that he'd never again be invited to our video nights.

I can't think of anything 2nd OIC can find in the mosque to add to his file. OIC can find in the mosque to add to his file.

Unless Allah has volunteered to stand witness against me.

The mosque is made from a series of old barracks converted into a low-ceilinged prayer hall with a plywood minaret stuck on top, a temporary arrangement, as the architectural model for Allah's new abode is encased in a gla.s.s box next to the entrance to the mosque. It has a green dome with golden stripes and four minarets and little plastic figures wors.h.i.+pping in the compound. We stop at the mosque's gate. 2nd OIC sits down to take his shoes off. I remain standing, not sure what is expected of me. OIC sits down to take his shoes off. I remain standing, not sure what is expected of me.

"You are coming in with me, Under Officer," he says.

"My clothes are not clean, sir." I trot out the same half-truth that I have used for months to avoid compulsory prayers.

"Don't worry, we just need to talk."

My stomach pulls a negative g. Sun Tzu knew his element of surprise, but he never wrote about what it felt like to be on the receiving end of it.

The mosque is empty at this time except for a few cadets dressed in white shalwar qameez and skullcaps and absorbed in what seems like a very intense game of cards. I don't recognise their faces but I can tell from their clothes that they are the latest victims of the ongoing starch war. Our Commandant wants everyone to wear double-starched uniforms, even in June, which leads to regular outbreaks of rashes and ugly skin infections. There are always long lines of cadets at the sickbay, legs straining hard to avoid the razor-sharp creases of the trousers, hands trying to itch in impossible places. The Medical Squadron considers it a health hazard and has. .h.i.t back with its own Standard Operating Procedures for Dealing with the Outbreak of an Epidemic. Anyone who gets a skin infection because of his starched uniform gets a prescription which says 'no starched uniforms'. The Commandant won't have any non-starched uniforms on active duty and he can't really allow them to stay in their dorms, so they have all been ordered to spend their day in the mosque.

"Is that a punishment or a reward?" Obaid used to ask. The only clear winner in this running feud between the medical establishment and our Commandant is G.o.d Himself. The mosque these days has more wors.h.i.+ppers than ever before.

When our boys in white see the 2nd OIC approaching they scramble to collect their cards and coins and transform themselves from a bunch of one-rupee rummy-rascals to devout young men. 2 OIC approaching they scramble to collect their cards and coins and transform themselves from a bunch of one-rupee rummy-rascals to devout young men. 2nd OIC gives them an appreciative look as if merely by pretending to pray they have absolved themselves in his and Allah's eyes. I don't get it even when he picks up a copy of the Quran from the book racks along the wall in the main prayer hall, hands it over to me and stands there staring. I wait for his next command. OIC gives them an appreciative look as if merely by pretending to pray they have absolved themselves in his and Allah's eyes. I don't get it even when he picks up a copy of the Quran from the book racks along the wall in the main prayer hall, hands it over to me and stands there staring. I wait for his next command.

"Now put your right hand on it and tell me that you don't know why Obaid went AWOL. Tell me you have no knowledge of his whereabouts."

If I wasn't in the mosque I could have told him where to go.

"I can't swear, sir, not on the Quran," I say.

"So you do know about this," he says. "By refusing to swear you are admitting your guilt? Look, it's just you and me and our Allah." He puts his own right hand on the Quran. "Tell me the truth and I swear on the holy Quran I'll get you out of this mess."

"My father made me promise never to swear on the Quran, even if I was telling the truth. In fact, specially if I was telling the truth," I say in a weary voice, my fingers numb around the velvet cover on the Quran.

"Your father never said a prayer in his life," he says.

"You are right, sir, but he was a very spiritual man. He respected the sacred Quran and never involved it in worldly affairs," I say, wondering how Colonel s.h.i.+gri would have liked being described as a spiritual man.

The Colonel did go through a hectic spiritual phase during which he terminated his whisky sessions at midnight and spent the rest of his nights reciting the Quran. And he did did tell me never to swear on the holy book. But his spiritual journey didn't last long enough for anyone to know whether it was, in his own words, 'a change or for a change'. His copy of the Quran was lying open on his study desk the morning he was found hanging from the ceiling fan by his own bed sheet. tell me never to swear on the holy book. But his spiritual journey didn't last long enough for anyone to know whether it was, in his own words, 'a change or for a change'. His copy of the Quran was lying open on his study desk the morning he was found hanging from the ceiling fan by his own bed sheet.

Ceiling fan.

Bed sheet.

His eyes popping out of their sockets.

The Colonel weighed a b.l.o.o.d.y ton. Where were the laws of physics?

"Some people insist on digging their own grave." 2nd OIC s.n.a.t.c.hes the Quran from my hand and puts it back on the shelf. OIC s.n.a.t.c.hes the Quran from my hand and puts it back on the shelf.

"Sir, I really don't know, but that doesn't mean I can't help you find out," I say, trying desperately to inject my own element of surprise into the proceedings.

"Don't f-," he starts to say, but realises that he is in the mosque.

"Get out and fall in outside the mosque," he shouts at the starch victims.

"I don't know why the Commandant wants to involve ISI in this," I say. "Because, sir, you know that Obaid is my friend and I want to find out as much as you do where he went and why," I say, trampling over everything Sun Tzu has taught us trainee warriors.

"Shut your trap," he barks. "I am not interested in your sentiments."

He goes out and has a go at the cadets in white.

"You are turning G.o.d's house into a b.l.o.o.d.y gambling den..."

One good thing about visiting the mosque is that sometimes it can calm even sinners like me. It is in His hands now, Colonel s.h.i.+gri used to say in his spiritual phase.

Second night in the cell and I am already feeling at home. Dinner is served. I slip the first-termer a five-rupee note and busy myself with chicken curry, rice and cuc.u.mber salad. By the time I finish, the duty cadet is back with a bottle of c.o.ke and two Gold Leaf cigarettes. I finish the bottle in two long gulps and light a Gold Leaf, saving the other one for later.

"You got any magazines?" I ask the duty cadet.

He disappears and returns with a year-old copy of Reader's Digest Reader's Digest. I was hoping he'd bring something less intellectual. But then prisoners can't choose their own entertainment. The duty cadet leaves with the dinner tray, forgetting to take the matchbox from me.

One day this a.s.shole is going to be court-martialled.

Stubbing out the Gold Leaf, I take off my shoes and belt and s.h.i.+rt and settle in for the night. I read 'Humour in Uniform' first. Nothing very funny. The only female pictures are in a black-and-white photo feature about Nancy and Ronald Reagan ent.i.tled 'When They Were Young'. Even at twenty-eight she had the face of an old cat's a.r.s.e. The Academy censors have done a good job of obliterating her non-existent b.r.e.a.s.t.s with a black marker. Even in times as desperate as these I skip the photos and start reading the condensed version of Escape from Colditz Escape from Colditz.

I leave it halfway through and compare my situation with Lieutenant Anthony Rolt's. It's obvious to me that I am worse off. Even if I do make a hang-glider out of this foam mattress and some matchsticks, where the h.e.l.l am I going to jump from?

I flick the pages in a last attempt to find inspiration. In 'Life is Like That' there is a five-line anecdote about someone called Sherry Sullivan who washed her car wearing an overall and her neighbour mistook her for her husband. The name does something and my armies are suddenly on the march. I avoid the hole in the mattress. These holes are like highway wh.o.r.es, filthy and tired.

My encounter with Sherry Sullivan ends in such violent throes of pa.s.sion that the second Gold Leaf is forgotten and I enter a sleep so blissful that in my technicolour dreams the 2nd OIC is s.h.i.+ning my boots and the Commandant is polis.h.i.+ng my sword with the tip of his tongue. Captain Rolt's hang-glider lands safely in Trafalgar Square. OIC is s.h.i.+ning my boots and the Commandant is polis.h.i.+ng my sword with the tip of his tongue. Captain Rolt's hang-glider lands safely in Trafalgar Square.

The morning is even more glorious. I am woken by a waft of Old Spice. Loot Bannon is standing at the door. "Wakey-wakey, dear inmate."

There are about one thousand and fifty things that I need to ask him. But he is in too cheerful a mood.

"Nice pad you got here," he says.

"It's not as bad as it looks," I say. "You found yourself a new Silent Drill Commander?" My attempt at sarcasm is ignored. I light up my second Gold Leaf.

"I see your supply lines are secure." His turn to be witty.

"Did Obaid tell you anything?" I ask. My matter-of-fact voice surprises me. Gold Leaf on an empty stomach always turns me into a detached thinker.

I know what they call me and Obaid behind our backs.

Fort Bragg b.i.t.c.hes.

Just because we are chummy with Bannon. Although Bannon is merely a drill instructor from Fort Bragg-only a lowly lieutenant-in the Academy's food chain he is somewhere between a shark and a spotted leopard.

"Baby O is on the lam," he says as if it's breaking b.l.o.o.d.y news.

I take a last long puff from the cigarette, inhale a smouldering filter and break into a cough.

"I'm meeting El Comandante for my routine this afternoon. I should have some top info for you by then." He is suddenly his distant Yankee self.

"And by the way, the Commandant wants you to carry on the good work with the Silent Drill Squad," he says.

In my relief I decide to stick to philosophy.

"You know what Sun Tzu said? Wait your enemy out and you have won half the battle."

"Did that old c.h.i.n.k really say that?"

"If he had spent a night in this cell jerking off to Reader's Digest Reader's Digest he would have reached the same conclusion." he would have reached the same conclusion."

As I come down the stairs from the guardroom, surveying the world like only a paroled prisoner can, I confront the limits of my freedom. A middle-aged military police chap carrying an ancient Enfield 303 rifle is waiting for me.

"I have orders to keep you under close guard," he says. I should have expected it; they are not going to let me roam freely. The only surprise is that Bannon conveniently forgot to tell me about this arrangement. Bannon's memory has more holes than an overused short-range shooting target.

Let's see how fast my guard can run.

There is enough time to get to the parade square. I can probably funeral-march to my dorm, have a leisurely bath and still make it in time for the parade, but I feel a sudden burst of energy and start moving at the double, my guard and his 303 rifle trying hard to keep pace with me. The morning breeze welcomes me and I am suddenly flying. The distance between me and my guard keeps increasing. A formation of new recruits pa.s.ses me and they greet me at strength 5, with the enthusiasm of those starting a new life. "Buck up, boys. The country needs you," I shout back.

I whistle at a pair of crows kissing on the telephone pole. Our old washerman carrying our laundry on his donkey cart is startled out of his slumber by my loud greeting: "Good morning, Uncle Starchy, go easy on the white stuff."