A Case of Exploding Mangoes

by Mohammed Hanif

  I jumped over the hedge as I closed in on the dais, and before the thief could see me I had pounced and pinned him to the ground.

  ‘Why are you wrestling with an old man like me?’ Uncle Starchy’s voice was calm. He offered no resistance.

  I felt like somebody had caught me poking the hole in my mattress. Never smoke that stuff again, was the promise I made myself.

  ‘I thought somebody was messing with the flag,’ I said, getting up.

  ‘It’s already messed up, I was taking it for a wash,’ he said, searching the dais as if he had dropped something. His hand disappeared under his shirt, fumbled there for a moment, then came out holding a small, empty jute sack.

  ‘You are being foolish, son. Where do you think you are going?’ he said, looking around in panic.

  For a moment I thought he was talking to me. I was feeling stupid, but I wasn’t going anywhere, so I stood still and followed his gaze. He went down on his knees and put his face close to the dais and started moving around on his knees as if his foolish son was a worm.

  Uncle Starchy had the slow grace of a lifelong drug addict. He moved with such agility and sense of purpose that I joined in the search without knowing what we were looking for. He peered down from the dais and spotted something on the little grass patch between the dais and the edge of the parade square; with the flag wrapped around his hand, he lunged at it. I saw it only for a fraction of a second as it wriggled, raised its jade-green head and its zebra stripes convulsed along its lengths. Then it curled itself into a spiral. Uncle had caught it by the tail and was stroking the back of its head with his forefinger as if caressing a rare jewel. The krait’s head collapsed on itself and Uncle bundled it into the flag and held it with his two fingers, away from his body.

  I would have thought I was still hallucinating if Uncle Starchy himself hadn’t launched into an explanation. ‘There is nothing pure in this country, not hashish, not heroin, not even chilli powder.’

  I wondered what Uncle Starchy was on today.

  ‘This is nature’s nectar.’ He waved the bundled flag in front of my eyes. The snake seemed to have gone to sleep. The crumpled moon and star on the flag was still.

  ‘Uncle, you need to see a doctor.’ I put my finger to my forehead and moved it in a circle. ‘You’ve been drinking gasoline again.’

  ‘That has a horrible smell and your tongue feels like a piece of dead meat. Disgusting.’ He spat in disgust.

  ‘And this?’ I pointed towards the bundle in his hand. ‘That looks like a sharp bugger. It could kill you.’

  Uncle smiled a faint smile, felt the bundle tentatively with his hand, then gripped something with his two fingers. He pulled it up gently and I got a good look at the beautiful head on this little beast, his eyes two miniature emeralds, his mouth opened to reveal a gleamy, checkered pattern on the floor of his mouth; his forked tongue lashing out in angry little stabs.

  Before I could realise what Uncle Starchy had in mind, he opened the buttons on his shirt, bared his shoulder and brought the krait’s head within striking distance. Its tongue lapped into Uncle Starchy’s shoulder. He jerked his hand backwards, his head tilted left in slow motion and almost fell on his shoulder, his eyes closed and a whimper escaped his mouth. Then his eyes opened slowly. They were alert, like two soldiers starting their watch. His forehead, normally strewn with a network of wrinkles, was relaxed. Even his shadow seemed to have lengthened and ran the entire length of the parade square.

  He tied a tight knot on the flag, stuffed it in the jute sack and, having secured his prisoner, looked at me as if expecting a review of his performance.

  ‘It could kill you,’ I said, sounding and feeling protective.

  ‘Only if you’re greedy,’ he said, and then added as an afterthought, ‘or if you inject it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s a medicine if you take it pure. Mix it with metal and it becomes poison. You might feel as if you are drugged for a while, but in the end it will kill you. Try this. Put a drop on the point of a knife, scratch an elephant’s skin with it and the elephant will drop dead. Elephant might dance first. Elephant might think he’s got wings. Elephant might drag his feet. But elephant will drop dead in the end.’

  The moon shone through a transparent cloud and Uncle’s shadow shrunk to his own length as if he was being folded into a manageable size.

  ‘How much for a shot?’ I said, slipping my hand into my empty pocket, fully aware that Uncle Starchy never charged for his wares.

  ‘Who do you think I am, sir? A drug pusher?’ He was back to his usual mumbling self. The light in his eyes was already fading.

  ‘I need to take care of some family business,’ I said apologetically.

  ‘He is drained now.’ He patted his jute sack. ‘It’ll take him another week to produce what you need.’

  On the seventh day I opened the stack of freshly starched uniforms that Uncle Starchy had deposited on my bed, and a finger-sized glass phial rolled out with a few drops of amber liquid sticking to its bottom.

  I am offered tea, probably as a reward for completing the first test two minutes before the allotted twenty-five minutes. I hate tea, but the hot syrup singes the back of my throat and for a moment the smell that had lodged itself on my palate is burnt away.

  The second test has no questions, just pictures. Not proper pictures but some crazy bugger’s abstract version of life in which you can’t tell whether it’s an amoeba or a map of India’s strategic defence capabilities.

  Careful, I tell myself. I linger over my cup of tea. This is where they can really tell the loonies from borderline geniuses like me.

  The first picture, I swear, is of a fox’s severed head.

  ‘Lake. Bermuda Triangle, maybe,’ I say.

  Every third month there is an article in Reader’s Digest about aeroplanes disappearing over the Bermuda Triangle. It has to be the sanest answer. I can see that the doctor is scribbling down my answers; in fact, he is writing down much more than I am saying.

  There is a giant bat hanging upside down in the second picture.

  ‘Bow tie.’

  ‘Anything else come to your mind?’ he asks.

  ‘A pink-and-black bow tie. A very big bow tie.’

  I am shown two penises attacking each other.

  ‘Military boots,’ I say. ‘Military boots at ease.’

  A man hunched in the middle of a mushroom cloud.

  ‘A hurricane. Maybe an underwater submarine.’

  Bloodthirsty witches are wrestling.

  ‘Horseshoe.’

  A pair of baby pigs stare at me.

  ‘Yoda in the mirror.’

  The last picture is as clear as the painter of these sick pictures could make them; a pair of testicles placed on a block of pink ice.

  ‘Mangoes,’ I say. ‘Or some fruit. Maybe on ice.’

  I sit and stare into the empty cup of tea while the doctor records his last observations feverishly on his notepad.

  He is definitely in a hurry. He throws his pictures, papers, pencil in his briefcase, wishes me luck – ‘Good luck, young man’ – and is already standing at the door, adjusting his beret; another Medical Corps insignia, another pair of snakes with their tongues out.

  ‘Sir, why were you sent –?’

  ‘Remember, young man, our motto is To do or die. Never ask …’

  ‘Sir. Medical Corps’ motto is to To serve humanity without –’

  ‘Look, young man, I have to catch a flight to Islamabad. They want the results back immediately. They are probably trying to find out if you know what you have been doing. Do you?’

  ‘I haven’t done anything.’

  ‘That answer doesn’t figure in this questionnaire so I can’t really include it in my assessment. You can tell him that.’

  He signals to the soldier who brought me from the bathroom and who has suddenly appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Good luck. It seems you are from a good family.’

 
The soldier doesn’t blindfold me. He walks me into a room that is trying very hard to look like a torture chamber. A barber’s chair with rubber straps on its armrests is connected to amateurish-looking electrical devices. An assortment of canes, leather whips and scythes are arranged on a table along with a glass jar of chilli powder. Nylon ropes hang from a hook on a wall and a pair of old tyres is connected to the ceiling with metal chains, probably to hang the prisoners upside down. The only new item is a white Philips iron, unplugged. A torture chamber that doubles as a laundry room, I wonder. It all seems decorative, a bit like an abandoned theatre set. But then I look up at the ceiling, see splashes of dried blood and, looking around again, realise that all the paraphernalia is functional. I still can’t figure out how the hell they managed to splash someone’s blood onto the ceiling.

  ‘Sir, please take off your uniform,’ the soldier says respectfully.

  I guess I am about to find out.

  ‘Why?’ I say, trying to muster up some officer-like dignity.

  ‘I want to make sure there are no marks on your body.’

  I take off my shirt, slowly. He takes it from me and puts it on a hanger. My boots are put aside. He folds my trousers carefully. I spread my hands, challenging him to come and do whatever it is that he needs to do. He points to my underwear.

  I oblige.

  He goes around me. I stand upright, hands folded at the back, not fiddling, not scratching. If he wants to see me naked, he’ll not get the satisfaction of looking at a coy pansy.

  I am waiting for the interrogation to start but he doesn’t seem to have any questions.

  ‘Sir, please stand in a corner and don’t touch anything.’ He plugs the iron into a socket before leaving the room.

  Even professional torturers must procrastinate sometimes, I tell myself. Or maybe it’s some kind of do-it-yourself torture system; you stand and stare at these instruments and imagine how your various body parts would respond to them. I try not to think about the amber light on the iron. Major Kiyani did say no marks.

  He returns with the yellow-green file and a new-found interest in my family.

  ‘Are you related to the late Colonel Shigri?’

  I take a deep breath and nod.

  ‘I came to his funeral. You probably don’t remember me.’

  I search his face for any clues to his intentions.

  ‘I hope you’ll forgive me, sir. I am only doing my duty.’

  I nod my head again as if I have already forgiven him. He seems like someone who wants to help but doesn’t want to be misunderstood.

  ‘You know he built this place. On two weeks’ notice. I was the construction supervisor.’

  ‘I thought Mughals built this place.’

  A torture chamber is not exactly the right place to discuss the achievements of your ancestors.

  ‘No, sir, this extension, the offices, the barracks and all this stuff underground. He ordered the construction.’

  Nice work, Dad.

  The file in his hand is marked ‘Confidential’ and carries my air force number. I wonder what it says about me. About Obaid? About us?

  ‘Did he order this as well? Did he use to …?’ I wave my hand towards the barber’s chair and chains hanging from the ceiling.

  ‘The Colonel was only doing his duty.’ He shuts the file and clasps it to his chest under his folded arms. I knew Dad was running the logistics of guerrilla war in Afghanistan for General Zia. I knew he was liaising between the Americans who were funding the war and the ISI, which was responsible for distributing these funds to the mujahideen. But he never told me his duty involved building and managing facilities like this one.

  ‘We are all doing our duty,’ I whisper and lunge towards the table besides the barber’s chair, where I pick up a scythe and hold it to my neck. The metal is cold but it doesn’t seem that it can cut anything.

  ‘Don’t move. If you move you’ll find lots of marks on my body.’

  He unfolds his hands, still not sure what I want from him.

  ‘Give me that file.’

  He clutches the file with one hand and extends his arm towards me. ‘Sir, don’t be foolish.’

  ‘For five minutes. Nobody will know.’ The threat in my voice is overshadowed by the implicit reassurance.

  He moves hesitantly towards me, clutching the file to his side. He probably has no experience of being blackmailed by naked prisoners.

  ‘This is the least you can do after all my father did for you,’ I urge him.

  I have no idea what Dad might have done for him. But he did say he had attended the funeral.

  ‘Five minutes.’ He looks towards the door and scratches the half-moon scar on his cheek, which has suddenly turned red.

  I nod energetically and extend my hand towards him, offering him the scythe as a sign of my peaceful intentions.

  He takes the scythe with one hand and gives me the file. His hand trembles.

  The preliminary report filed by Major Kiyani …

  I flip over the cover page. The first report is my own statement. I turn the page and something falls out. I pick up a Polaroid picture from the floor. The picture is fuzzy; a mangled propeller, a smashed canopy, a wing ripped from the fuselage. It all adds up to a crashed MF17. The picture has a date at the bottom; it shows the day Obaid went AWOL. My eyes blur for a moment. I put the picture back in the file. Another form, another statement with Bannon’s signature. ‘Paper profile: Under Officer Shigri.’ Words like bright officer, personal loss, secretive behaviour flash in front of my eyes before I hear footsteps approaching the room.

  ‘Later,’ says the soldier. He grabs the file from me and before I can anticipate his next move, lifts me up by my waist, shoves my head into the tyre and pulls a metal chain. I find myself hanging halfway between the floor and the ceiling.

  Major Kiyani’s voice is hoarse and he is not pleased to see me swinging calmly in the air, my torso balanced on the tyre.

  ‘I said no marks.’ Major Kiyani walks below me in a circle. Dunhill smoke wafts into my nostrils and I inhale it eagerly. ‘I didn’t say, start a picnic here.’

  Then he picks up the Philips iron and stands close to my head, his gelled hair and burly eyebrows level with my face. He brings the tip of the iron close to my left eyebrow. My eyes squeeze shut in panic. I smell burning hair and jerk my head backwards.

  ‘Tarzan, people are asking about you. You better start talking before their goodwill runs out. It would take me less than a minute to iron the truth out of you but then you would never want to take your clothes off in front of anyone. I am sure even you can’t live with that.’

  Then he turns towards another soldier who has followed him into the room.

  ‘Put some clothes on him and take him to the VIP room.’

  TWELVE

  CLUTCHING THE ROLLED-UP newspaper in both hands, the First Lady walked across the lawns of the Army House, ignoring the duty gardener who lifted his head from a rose bush and raised his soiled hand to his forehead to offer her salaam. As she approached the main gate of the Army House, the duty guards stepped out of their cabin, opened the gate and got ready to follow her. She waved the newspaper at the guards without looking up, signalling them to stay at their post. They saluted and returned to their cabin. The standard procedures for Security Code Red that the guards were following didn’t say anything about the First Lady’s movements.

  She couldn’t remember the last time she had walked through the gate. She always went out in a mini-convoy of two outriders, her own black Mercedes-Benz followed by an open-top jeep full of armed commandos. The road under her feet looked like an abandoned runway, neat and endless. She had never noticed the ancient trees that lined the road on both sides. With their whitewashed trunks and branches laden with dozing sparrows, they seemed like the backdrop for a ghost story. She was surprised when nobody stopped her at the entrance to the Camp Office adjacent to the Army House, where her husband was busy playing the President.

  �
�Get in the bloody queue,’ a voice shouted at her, and she found herself standing at the end of a long queue of women, all middle-aged or old, all covered in white dupattas. She could tell from their faces that they were poor but had made the effort to dress up for the occasion. Their cotton shalwar qameez suits were neat and pressed; some had dusted their cheeks and necks with talcum powder. She noticed at least two shades of red nail polish. The First Lady could see her husband at the other end of the queue; teeth flashing, moustache doing its little dance for the television camera, the middle parting in his oiled hair glinting under the sun. He was distributing white envelopes and as he handed over the envelopes he patted the women’s heads as if they were not poor women getting some much needed cash but schoolchildren at a morning assembly receiving consolation prizes from their headmaster. The First Lady thought of barging forward and confronting him in front of the television crew. She thought of unfurling the newspaper in front of the camera and giving a speech, telling the world that this Man of Faith, the Man of Truth, this Friend of the Widows was nothing but a tit-ogler.

  It was only a passing whim, because she realised not only that her speech would never make it to the nation’s television screens, it would also start some ugly rumours in Islamabad which would circulate to the four corners of the country before the day ended: that the First Lady was a lunatic who felt jealous of the poor widows her husband was trying to help. She thought of opening the newspaper and showing the picture to the other women in the queue, but realised that they would think she was overreacting. ‘What is wrong with a president talking to white women?’ they’d ask. ‘All presidents do that.’

  She looked at the long line of women ahead of her, pulled her dupatta over her forehead tightly and decided to wait patiently in the queue, inching forward as the women in the queue moved towards their benefactor. Her hands kept rolling the newspaper into a tighter and tighter cone. The woman in front of the First Lady had been eyeing her suspiciously since she joined the queue. She looked at the First Lady’s diamond ring, her gold earrings, her mother-of-pearl necklace and hissed. ‘Did your husband leave you all this jewellery, or did you have to kill him to get it?’