In the first meeting after General Zia’s coup, eight generals, including the heads of the navy and the air force, sat around a table in the conference room of General Headquarters. Keeping in mind the historic nature of the session, the orderlies had sprayed rose-scented air freshener generously and the room smelled like a freshly sealed coffin. The Adjutant General, General Beg – a two-star general given to unpredictable fits of sneezing – sat in a corner with a white handkerchief over his nose, ready to record every word that was uttered in the conference. A copy of the agenda lay before each of them in a green leather folder embossed with golden crossed swords cradling a thin, new moon. General Zia noticed that although all eight of them stood up and saluted, they all sat down without waiting for him to take his chair first. They shifted in their seats and before he could declare the meeting open the Naval Chief said, ‘I want to bring it on the record that I was informed about the coup when it was already under way …’
The Adjutant General’s suppressed sneeze distracted everyone for a moment and General Zia found the opening he badly needed. He fixed the Naval Chief with a benevolent stare and spoke in a pleading voice. ‘Of course we’ll hear your protest and of course we’ll need your guidance in what we have set out to do. But since we are all meeting for the first time after we were able to save our country without spilling a single drop of blood, should we not start the meeting with a recitation from the Quran? May Allah guide us in all our endeavours.’
They shifted 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 shifted 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 glasses 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 godless 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 God, 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 God, it doesn’t say in the name of gods, 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 God but …’ He paused again and looked around the table expecting them to complete the first kalima. No one spoke up. He repeated. ‘There is no God 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 God but Allah. And since Allah Himself says there is no God, let’s abolish the word. Let’s stop pretending God 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 God. Are we to understand that some god 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 God. You might think that it’s all the same to our people, God, 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 god? 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 gods. 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 God 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 God’s nomenclature, suddenly felt very small. He was worrying about a breach in protocol when the whole nation was calling God 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 God 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 God 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 bloody government, how the hell are we going to run this country? Is Allah going to come down and patrol the bloody 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 asses.
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 God. He folded his boxer’s hands respectfully on the green folde
r. ‘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 shifted 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 reassured, 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 God’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 which had always been handy for ghazal poets as it rhymed with most of the operative verbs; Rab, which poor people invoked in their hour of distress; Maula, which Sufis shouted in their hashish 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 competitions, from road inauguration speeches, from memorial services, from cricket players’ curses; even from beggars’ begging pleas.
In the name of God, God 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 worshippers 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-lashing 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 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 shirt buttons. I want to repair the worn-out heels of his shoes.
We have been studying The Art of War in our War Studies class 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 hell is responsible for this disgrace? Who is not cooperating with the inquiry?’ He waves his investigation file in my face.
‘I swear to God, 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 Class or strapped to their seats in cockpit 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 godly 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. 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 worship 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.
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 glass box next to the entrance to the mosque. It has a green dome with golden stripes and four minarets and little plastic figures worshipping 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.
‘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 hit 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 God Himself. The mosque these days has more worshippers 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. 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.
‘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 Shigri 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 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.
A Case of Exploding Mangoes Page 4