2008 - A Case of Exploding Mangoes

by Mohammed Hanif

  General Akhtar stood in front of the mirror and looked at his face and upper body. He was three years older than General Zia but physically in much better shape. Unlike General Zia, who hated the outdoors and had gone all puffy in the cheeks, General Akhtar still managed a weekly game of golf and an occasional field trip to the army divisions posted at the border. The golf gave him the chance to get some exercise and catch up with the US Ambassador on matters of national security.

  General Akhtar’s hair was thinning from the sides but his barber did a good job of mixing his crew cut with a clever camouflage for his expanding bald patch. He had stood here many times, in front of this mirror, put a fourth star on his shoulder and struck a pose for the cover of Newsweek. He had rehearsed his acceptance speech for the Nobel Peace Prize. “All the wars I have fought, all the liberty that the people of the region enjoy, the cold war that has turned into warm, glowing peace…”

  “Would you like me to activate the monitor, sir?” the operator asked him. The operator had shown no curiosity, had resisted the temptation to snoop around and had behaved like a professional spy. Never ask why, just who, where and when. The operator was pleased with himself.

  General Akhtar gave out a phone number without turning away from the mirror and watched the operator’s face closely. He noticed a shadow cross the operator’s face as he finished writing down the number. His hands, which had been moving with such professional concentration before, shook as he fed the number into the little black box. General Akhtar wondered what the operator would make of it. He was sure that he would not say anything, not that anyone would listen to a telephone operator, but he looked hard in the mirror at the operator’s reflection. The operator was now back to his professional self and busy putting away his instruments in his toolbox.

  He was thinking of getting out of this office and then finishing the remaining two hours of his shift before starting his part-time job as a signboard painter at a cinema. He was thinking that even if he was given a full-time job at the agency he would continue painting over the weekend. The operator was not thinking at all about the fact that the second most powerful man in the country had just ordered him to put a tap on the telephone line of the most powerful man in the country.

  Many of General Akhtar’s fellow generals described him as cold, calculating, even a cruel man. But in reality, General Akhtar’s cruelty was always a second thought, almost incidental to his job. He didn’t like his job because he could listen to people’s most intimate conversations or get people killed. He didn’t feel any real sense of power when he picked up his phone and gave his agents a list of people who were becoming a threat to national security. But when he did pick up the phone, he liked his agency to respond like a properly oiled weapon. He would have liked it if these situations never arose, but when they needed to be dealt with, he wanted it to be done efficiently. He didn’t like the stories about bullets stuck in the chamber or targets disappearing at the last moment.

  When the operator reached the door and put his hand on the handle, General Akhtar said: “Thank you.”

  The operator hesitated for a moment, looked back and smiled, and that’s when General Akhtar realised that he didn’t know his name.

  “What is your name, operator?”

  The operator, who had rehearsed the answer in his mind for the whole eleven months that he had worked here, replied with a flourish, almost sure that he was taking a step further in his life; hoping to be appointed the senior operator, hoping to be embraced by the organisation, elevated to an officer rank, maybe given one of the old Corollas that the officers discarded every year when the new models arrived.

  “Same as yours. Akhtar, sir. But with an E. Akhter Masih.”

  General Akhtar wasn’t impressed. There are probably a million Akhtars in this country, he thought, and two million Masihs. And this smartass can’t keep his mouth shut about as ordinary a coincidence as that. Could he be expected to keep his mouth shut at all? Could he be expected to forget the numbers, the names, the transcripts of the phone calls that he handled all day? Was it wise to hire a Christian when everybody knows they love to gossip? The only other Christians who worked in General Akhtar’s agency were sweepers. Must be a reason, he thought.

  “Do you know what Akhtar means?”

  “Yes, sir, a star. A very bright star.”

  “You are quite intelligent for an operator. But remember some of the stars that you see at night are not really stars. They died millions of years ago but they were so far away that their light is beginning to reach us only now.”

  There was a certain spring in Operator Akhter’s footsteps as he walked to the bus stop after work that clay. He was aware of being alive. The fume-filled air was fragrant in his lungs, his ears were alive to the chirping of the birds, the bus horns were love tunes in the air, waiting to be plucked and put to words. Not only did he share a name with his boss, his inherent intelligence had also been recognised; ‘quite intelligent for an operator’, ‘quite intelligent for an operator’, General Akhtar’s words echoed through his head. Those who thought that the General was arrogant had obviously not been worthy of his attention, Operator Akhter thought.

  It can be said that Operator Akhter was a bit careless—careless like people are who have just heard the good news they have been waiting for all their lives. It also must be said that Operator Akhter wasn’t intoxicated, nor was he reckless. He stepped onto the road like a person whose luck had just turned. It can be said that he didn’t look left or right; it was almost as if he expected the traffic to part for him. These are facts and cannot be denied. But the car that came at Operator Akhter was determined, and when it locked onto its target it didn’t hesitate; it didn’t want to punish him for his bad pedestrian-crossing manners, it didn’t want to break his legs or leave him a cripple as a punishment for feeling optimistic. No, the driver of this car was very clear-headed and far too determined for a casual roadkill. Before the life went out of his eyes, after his broken ribs punctured his lungs and his heart frantically pumped blood in a last futile attempt to keep him alive, Operator Akhter was surprised to see, the last surprise of his life, that the white Corolla that crushed him had no number plate.

  General Akhtar picked up the receiver on the new phone that Operator Akhter had connected, called General Zia and offered to resign from his post as the Chief of Intelligence.

  “I should not have trusted that Christian, sir.”

  “Who was it?”

  “The painter, sir, who made that portrait. Akhter Masih.”

  “Has he told you who was behind this?”

  “No, sir, he had a car accident.”

  General Zia sighed.

  “You are the only man in this country I can still trust.”

  “It’s an honour, sir.”

  “There was this message from Shigri’s son…”

  “No need to call back, sir. We already have him. I’ll bring his statement with me, sir. It was a little sting and we have got much more than we were expecting. He is only the tip of this iceberg, sir…”

  “Do talk to him personally. Give him my salaam.”

  “There is another urgent matter, sir. The National Day Parade.”

  “How am I supposed to go to the parade under Code Red?”

  “Sir, there is not a single country in the world that doesn’t have a national day.”

  “Can’t we have a national day without the National Day Parade?” General Zia liked his own idea and got very excited. “We’ll just have a national day here in the Army House. Let’s call some widows. No, maybe we should designate this national day as National Orphans’ Day. Get some children here, set up some rides.”

  “Sir, people want a military parade on National Day. They want to see tanks and they want to wave at lighter planes flying past—”

  “But the security protocol—”

  “Sir, we can have the National Day Parade on any day that you choose to have it. We can record it and broadcast it on
National Day.”

  In that moment General Zia realised why he had never been able to get rid of Akhtar. He was always one step ahead of the enemy even when the enemy was invisible.

  General Akhtar rightly interpreted that moment of silence as presidential consent to go ahead with the arrangements for the National Day Parade.

  “Convey my gratitude to Brigadier TM, sir, for discovering that stupid camera. I’d recommend him for a promotion, but I know you want him by your side. He is the only true hero this country has got.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  “Are you ready?” Major Kiyani’s voice asks from the front seat. I nod my head without saying a word. He comes to the back of the jeep, the door opens. I take a deep breath and move towards the door; my head spins with the effort but I put my other foot forward and find the ground beneath my feet solid, welcoming. Major Kiyani unties the knot on my blindfold. We are in a car park full of white Corollas, most of them without number plates. The only exception is a black Mercedes with three bronze stars on the numberless plate and a flag covered in a little plastic sheath. Office buildings surround us on all sides, fading yellow and dotted with iron-barred gates that lead to staircases. Beyond the antennae and satellite dishes sprouting from its roof I can see Islamabad’s fog-covered mountains.

  We are not meeting General Zia.

  Major Kiyani walks in front of me without looking back and enters one of the gates. I hear the hum of the electronic machines behind closed doors. At the end of the corridor is another gate. A soldier in uniform salutes Major Kiyani, opens the door and salutes again. Major Kiyani doesn’t bother to respond. I look towards the soldier and nod my head. Major Kiyani walks into the first room on the right and comes out with a black gym bag, which he passes to me. We stop in front of a white door that says ‘Officers Only’. I step in and smell the sweet smell of disinfectant and hear the sound of running water. Major Kiyani stays in the doorway and says: ‘Get cleaned up, you are going to have lunch with a VIR’ I hear him walking away. I look into the gym bag and find a bar of soap, a razor, toothbrush, a fresh uniform and a bottle of perfume: Poison.

  Who am I having lunch with that they want me to be perfumed?

  Is one of Dad’s friends coming to bail me out?

  I catch my reflection in the bathroom mirror and see a phantom. My eyes are two shallow red pools, my face is dried cactus, my uniform shirt has curry stains on it.

  A wave of self-pity rises from the pit of my stomach. I try to suppress it by telling myself: All right, I look like someone who lives in dirty bathrooms and Mughal dungeons. But at least I get an occasional lunch invitation.

  My movements are slow. I turn on the tap and put the tip of my forefinger in the water. I look in the mirror. The person who stares at me is still a stranger. They probably cleaned up Obaid’s cupboard, sealed his books and clothes in a trunk and put it in storage. They sent me this bottle of perfume so that I don’t forget why I am here. I wonder how they explained it to Obaid’s father. I wonder if he thinks his son is a martyr. My eyes burn.

  I quickly splash water first on my eyes, then on my face. I pull my shirt out of my trousers, take off my shoes and stand in front of the mirror, naked to my waist. I look around for any windows. There is an extractor fan, but the opening is too small and probably opens into a room full of armed guards.

  We’ll have lunch, then.

  Major Kiyani shouts from outside: “You don’t want to keep the General waiting, do you?”

  I am in a dining room, a proper bloody dining room with white tablecloths, white china and a jug of orange juice. Gleaming brass dish covers can’t contain the aromas wafting through the room. The prisoner, it seems, has died and gone straight to heaven.

  Major Kiyani stands in the doorway, puffing on his Dunhill, fidgeting with the gold ring on his middle finger. The food waiting on the table seems to be the least of his worries. I can barely wait for those covers to be lifted. Even the onion rings lying in the salad dish are making my heart beat faster. Major Kiyani looks out into the corridor and moves out a few steps. I raid the orange juice jug and pour myself a glass. My mouth, raw with the past few nights’ horrible flavours, stings, but my throat welcomes it and I empty the glass in one long swig. The footsteps in the corridor come closer. Heels click. Major Kiyani’s laughter is subdued, nervous. General Akhtar enters the room followed by Major Kiyani and a turbaned waiter in white uniform. I stand up and bring my heels together, suddenly feeling like the host at this lunch. General Akhtar sits at the head of the table. Major Kiyani sits on the edge of his chair. I am not sure what to do. “Sit down, son.” General Akhtar gives me a benevolent smile as if he is the only man in this world who understands me. His actions speak otherwise. I want to eat. He wants to talk.

  “I have seen your file,” he says, rearranging his knife and fork on his plate. “You’ve got your father’s sharp brain but it’s quite obvious that this boy, this friend of yours…” He looks towards Major Kiyani who says, “Obaid, sir. Obaid-ul-llah…”

  “Yes, this Obaid chap was not very clever. I won’t ask you where he was trying to fly off to because you have already told Major Kiyani that you don’t know. But I’ll just say that this Obaid chap probably read too many books and obviously did not understand most of them. I am sure you could have come up with a better idea.”

  I look up at him for the first time and my appetite begins to disappear.

  General Akhtar is decked up like a sacrificial cow, all golden braid and shiny medals. I am certain that he hasn’t gone to so much trouble just for his meeting with me. He is dressed to go to the party. Two men in uniform meeting over lunch: one all dressed up for the fourth of July bash, the other one on short leave from a Mughal dungeon.

  Why eat before a party? I think. And he reads my thoughts. He is not the head of intelligence for nothing.

  “I always eat before going to a party, you don’t know what you’ll get there. And today I’ve got two. We’re also holding the parade today for National Day,” he says, lifting one of the brass dishes. He picks up a quail from a pile of roasted little birds and pushes the dish towards me.

  I put a little bird on my plate and stare at it for a long time as if hoping it will grow its wings back and fly away, but it lies there in its crisp brown skin, blackened at its joints.

  “Look at me when I am talking to you,” General Akhtar says, staring at his plate. Then he lifts his head and gives me a fatherly smile as if the only thing he is concerned about is my table manners.

  I look up and see a balding head and pale thin lips that have probably never uttered a word he really meant.

  I hold my fork with one hand, and sneak my other hand under the table and squeeze my balls. I need the pain to remind myself of the context of this roast-bird feast.

  The bird looks even tinier at the end of his retired boxer’s hand. A whole piece of breast goes into his mouth and he pulls out a bunch of cleaned bones from his thin lips. He smiles a yellow smile and dabs the corner of his thin lips with a starched white napkin.

  “It’s not easy for me.” He picks up another dish cover and starts chewing on a slice of cucumber. “There is friendship and there is loyalty to one’s country. If you are not loyal to your father can you be loyal to a friend? See, we are both in the same boat.”

  I am surprised at the rate at which this brotherhood is expanding.

  I am also surprised that Dad used to call him General Chimp. Because the man’is, clearly, a reptile. Evolution took a wrong turn and this man ended up a mammal instead of growing scales and claws.

  “I hope you are keeping him somewhere comfortable,” he says to Major Kiyani, who puts down his knife and fork and mumbles into his napkin. Something about the number of available rooms in the Fort.

  “You put him in that shithole?” He looks at Major Kiyani with complaining eyes. “Do you even know who he is?” Major Kiyani puts his napkin back and looks up with a twinkle in his eyes.

  “Did you ever work with Colon
el Shigri?”

  “No, sir, never had the pleasure. I did investigate the circumstances of the Colonel’s tragic demise. I think I helped out the young man here with the paperwork.”

  “He was a man of principles. He lived his life by his principles and he died by his principles.”

  The General’s sense of humour is not really helping my appetite. “But, my son,” he turns towards me, “what is evident here is that you have kept your dignity. Even in these difficult times you have held your head high.” He picks up an invisible breadcrumb from his lap. “And that, my dear son, comes from blood, from being of a good family. Your dad would have been proud, my son.”

  Why the hell does he keep calling me ‘my son’? Even my own dad never called me ‘my son’.

  “As you realise, it’s very difficult for me. On the one hand, there is my late friend’s son who has already seen enough tragedy in his life. On the other hand, there’s the security of the country, which is my responsibility.” He spreads his arms, pointing his knife and fork towards his chest, underlining the enormity of the task.

  “What would you do in my position?”

  I would stop stuffing my face with tiny birds while deciding someone’s fate, I want to say.

  “I don’t know what you know, sir,” I say obliquely, throwing in a truckload of humility. “And I obviously don’t have the experience you’ve had.” I can see he wants to hear more so I throw in a punchline picked up from Secretary General’s perpetual grouse against me and my uniform. “That’s why you are where you are and I am where I am.” I don’t say what the comrade always says after that: we are both going blind and we will die without touching a woman ever again.

  “I’ll tell you a story that might explain my dilemma,” says General Akhtar, “a true story. I was your age, a lieutenant in the Indian Army, must have been a couple of months before the partition. I was ordered to accompany a train full of Hindus going to Amritsar and I was told to make sure that it got there safe and sound.

  “You must have heard about the trains from the Indian Punjab arriving in Lahore carrying Muslims. Full of cut-up bodies. All those stories about unborn children being carved out from their mothers’ wombs and their heads being put on spears were true. I didn’t see any myself, but I knew they were all true. But orders were orders, and I set off with the train, telling my platoon that every single passenger on the train was my responsibility.