2008 - A Case of Exploding Mangoes

by Mohammed Hanif

  Listening to General Beg’s long-winded reply about the payment for the tanks, General Zia made a mental note that after the tank trial he would settle this sunglasses business once and for all. General Beg was still going on about the direct link between the proposed tank deal and US military aid—all of it falling within the procurement objectives set in the US-Pakistan defence pact—when the first shot rang out.

  General Zia terminated his conversation mid-sentence, put the binoculars to his eyes and searched the horizon. All he could see was a wall of sand. He tried to readjust his binoculars and as the sand began to settle he saw a red banner, the size of a single bed sheet, with a giant hammer and sickle painted on it, fluttering intact over a remote-controlled target-practice vehicle, like a golf cart carrying an advertising banner. The Mi Abram obviously couldn’t see very well. He looked at Arnold Raphel who, with binoculars glued to his eyes, was still searching the horizon optimistically. General Zia wanted to make a joke about the tank being a communist sympathiser but the ambassador didn’t look his way. Other target-practice vehicles started descending the sand dune, bearing other targets: a dummy Indian MiG fighter jet, a gun battery made out of wood and painted a garish pink, a cardboard bunker complete with dummy soldiers.

  The Mi Abram’s cannon fired nine more shells and managed to miss every single target. The tank turned towards the observers’ tent, and lowered its barrel again, slowly, as if tired from all the effort. All the generals saluted, the ambassador put his right hand on his heart. The Mi Abram turned back and trundled up the sand dune. The remote-controlled target vehicles, with their dummy targets still intact, started to line up at the base of the sand dune. A gust of desert wind rose from behind the dune, a swirling column of sand danced its way towards the observers’ tent, everybody about-faced and waited for it to pass. As they turned round, shaking the sand off their caps and flicking it off their uniforms, General Zia noticed that the red banner had come loose from its platform on the vehicle and was fluttering away, over the sand dune. Arnold Raphel spoke for the first time. “Well, we got that one. Even if it wasn’t our firepower but this anti-communist desert force.”

  There was forced laughter followed by a moment of silence during which everyone heard the faint but unmistakable howling of the desert winds. General Beg took his sunglasses off with an exaggerated gesture. “There is another trial left, sir,” he said, giving a dramatic pause. “Lunch. And then the finest mangoes of the season.” He gestured towards an army truck full of wooden crates. “A gift from All Pakistan Mango Farmers Cooperative. And for today’s lunch, our host is the most respected Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff Committee, General Akhtar.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  The Martyrs’ boulevard dividing the freshly whitewashed garrison mess and the football-field-size lawns in front of it, is full of screaming sirens and Kalashnikov-carrying commandos jumping in and out of open-topped jeeps. Every general with more than two stars on his shoulders is escorted by his own set of bodyguards and heralded by his personal siren song, as if the occasion were not a lunch in their own dining hall but a gladiatorial parade where the one with the most ferocious bodyguards and the shrillest siren will win. The Garrison Commander’s idea of a warm welcome seems to involve whitewashing everything in sight that doesn’t move. The pebbled footpath on the lawns in front of the mess is whitewashed, the wooden benches are painted white, the electricity and telephone polls are gleaming white, even the trunk of the lone keekar tree under which I have lined up my Silent Drill Squad is covered in a dull rustic white.

  In this opera of wailing sirens and glinting Kalashnikovs, nobody seems to be bothered about a bunch of cadets at the edge of the boulevard. My boys are slouching on their G$ rifles, trying to scratch their sweat-soaked bodies under starched khaki uniforms without being noticed. The Garrison Commander came to me soon after we disembarked from the truck, the enormity of the occasion seeming to overwhelm him. “I know it’s not a good time but General Akhtar asked for it,” he had said, gesturing towards my boys. “Can you keep it short?” I gave him an understanding smile and said, “Don’t worry, sir. We won’t be keeping him for long.”

  The only person who is really pleased to see us is the bandmaster at the head of the military band formation, three rows of overdressed men lined up in the middle of the manicured lawn in front of the mess. After eyeing me for a while he marches up to me with his silver-crested stick, trailing a tartan doublet behind him, a fake red feather quivering in his beret. His face falls in disbelief when I tell him that we don’t need the band to accompany us.

  “How are you going to march without a beat?”

  “Our drill is silent. It doesn’t require music. And anyway, we are not going to march.”

  “You can do it silently but your boys will need our drums to keep the timing. It’ll add beauty to the drill.” Despite his feathers, tartan doublet and bonnet his face is absolutely dry. Not a single drop of sweat. I wonder how he manages that.

  I shake my head. “Just a rifle salute. With no commands,” I say, trying to reassure him. “The President will take the salute. Meanwhile your men can rest.” He looks closely at my white-gloved hand upon my scabbard. He looks beyond me towards my boys who are wriggling their toes in their boots in an attempt to keep their blood circulation going, and shakes his head. He looks at me resentfully, as if I have made the whole silent drill thing up to put him out of business, then marches back and raises his stick in the air to signal to his band to start playing. They are probably the only lot more miserable than us, with their tartan shoulder drapes, fur-covered bagpipes and polished brass drums, so shiny you can’t look at them without squinting. But they play on, defying the sun, despite the comings and goings of jittery commandos jumping in and out of the jeeps with their guns pointed at the empty horizon; they play on as if the whitewashed garrison mess with its whitewashed pebbles was the most appreciative audience they have ever found.

  The hilt of my sword burns through my white glove. A fine layer of sand has settled on my shoes. I inspect the squad one last time. The boys are alert despite the sweat seeping from under their peaked caps and running down their cheeks. The wooden grips of their Gj rifles are probably melding into the flesh of their hands. We are under the shade of the keekar tree, but its whitewashed trunk doesn’t change the fact that there are more thorns on it than leaves. Its shadow weaves a network of dried branches over a concrete floor marked with white lines for our drill movements. Obaid winks upwards. I look to see if he is pointing at any approaching clouds. Nothing. All I can see is a crow perched on a branch dozing off with its beak tucked under its wings.

  Inside the garrison mess the lunch awaits. The brigadiers and the generals have lined up in front of the mess entrance and their commandos have taken up positions on the roof of the surrounding buildings. The bandmaster is getting impatient with his men, his stick dances in the air, apparently asking them to play the same tune over and over again. He throws the stick in the air, catches it and gives me a triumphant look.

  General Zia, it seems, is on his way.

  I hear the wailing of the sirens before I see the two men on white Yamahas. They are wearing white helmets and ride parallel to each other. General Zia’s convoy is probably behind them but all I can see is spiral after dancing spiral of sand; the storm seems to be chasing these motorcyclists. Oblivious to the whirlwinds that follow in their wake, they drive right up to the entrance of the garrison mess and execute a perfect split, both driving off in opposite directions, their sirens strangled in the middle of a high note.

  The convoy of jeeps emerges slowly from the sand that is coming towards us in angry waves. First to arrive are open-topped jeeps with blaring sirens. The howling of the wind and the sirens compete with each other, the sirens dying down as the jeeps reach the entrance of the garrison mess. They deliver their gunmen and move to the car park. Behind the jeeps come two convertible black limousines; the commandos in them belong to a different breed. Wearing b
attle fatigues and crimson berets, they are not just sitting there cradling their guns; their Uzis are pointing outside, targeting us, the band, the swirling columns of sand. Behind them come three black Mercedes with tinted windows: the first one is flying a US and a Pakistani flag, the second one has a flag that carries the logos of all three armed forces and the third one a Pakistani flag on one side and the Chief of the Army’s on the other. Through the tinted glass of the third Mercedes I catch a glimpse of big white teeth, a jet-black moustache and a hand that is waving to columns of sand dancing on the concrete. A matter of habit maybe, I tell myself, clutching the hilt of my sword. Suddenly it doesn’t feel hot. Hell, it doesn’t even feel like metal. It seems like an extension of my own hand. My own blood is flowing into the metal blade.

  There is a moment of confusion at the entrance to the garrison mess. A white-turbaned waiter opens the door and for a second I suspect that the sandstorm might have convinced the General to cancel the drill, but the door closes again. I see a batch of commandos rushing towards us, followed by the three generals.

  I have no business with the sidekicks.

  The bandmaster’s stick goes up in the air and the band starts to play a film song: the weather has got other ideas today, the weather has got something else in its heart. You have got to hand it to the bandmaster, I tell myself, the man knows his seasonal tunes. General Zia also seems to appreciate his taste in music. Instead of marching towards my squad, General Zia turns towards the band. The bandmaster’s stick does frantic somersaults in the air before coming down and bringing the music to a stop.

  General Zia pats the bandmaster on the shoulder while the other two stand back. His hands play an imaginary bagpipe, the bandmaster grins as if he has found the bagpipe player he always wanted on his team, the feather in his beret quivers with excitement, like the crown of a rooster who has just won the village beauty contest.

  They are walking towards me now. General Beg, with his Top Gun Ray-Bans, on Zia’s right side and General Akhtar two steps behind them. General Akhtar hits his baton on his leg with every step that he takes. He looks through me, betraying no recollection of our meeting over a dish of roasted quails. All I see of General Zia is a blur of big white teeth and a moustache so black that it looks fake. The hilt of my sword goes to my lips for the first salute and my squad comes to attention in unison. General Zia stands exactly five steps away from me, out of the reach of my sword. It’s the regulation distance between the parade commander and the guy inspecting the parade. He returns me a limp-handed salute and then, violating all parade decorum, leans back and whispers so that the other two generals can hear him. “When a son continues his father’s good work, I become certain that Allah hasn’t lost all hope in us sinners.”

  “Permission to start the drill, sir?” I shout at strength 5. And suddenly, as if in respect for our drill display, the storm subsides; the wind quiets down to an occasional hiss, the sand particles, fine and scattered, are still flying in the air. In that moment, between me asking for permission and him nodding in approval, I take my first proper look at him. Instead of General Zia, he looks like his impersonator. He is much shorter than he appears on television, fatter than he seems in his official portraits. It looks like he is wearing a borrowed uniform. Everything from his peaked cap to the crossed sash across his chest is slightly ill-fitting, strangling his upper torso. There is a prominent grey mark on his forehead, probably the result of his five daily prayers. His sunken eyes are sending out mixed messages, one looking at me benevolently, the other looking beyond me at my squad with suspicion. There is a stillness about him as if he had all the time in the world for me. He opens his mouth and all I can think is that those teeth are not real.

  “Please,” he says. “In the name of Allah.”

  I take one, two steps back, execute an about turn and as my right foot lands on the concrete, my squad comes to attention. Good start. My sword flashes in the air and finds its home in the scabbard. The hilt touches the mouth of the scabbard; my squad splits in two, marches ten steps in opposite directions and comes to a halt. I am in the middle of two rows when they turn round and march nine steps and stop. The file leaders on both sides extend their arms and throw the G3 rifles at me. My anticipating hands grab the rifles with a practised ease. I rotate them like spinning tops for exactly thirty turns and they go back to the safe and secure grip of the file leaders. The whole squad throws its rifles up in the air, with their bayonets pointing towards the sky, and catches them behind their shoulders.

  I pull out my sword for the final inspection. My head is cleared of all distractions; I see everything with the dead bulging eyes of Colonel Shigri. I march towards General Zia with the sword parallel to my upper body. Halt. My squad divides itself into two files behind me. My sword hilt goes to my lips and comes down outwards. My arm is parallel to my body, the tip of my sword pointing to the ground between our feet. General Zia salutes. “Silent Squad. Ready for inspection, sir.”

  His left foot is hesitant but my left foot has already taken the first step for a slow march and he has no choice but to follow. Here we are at last, shoulder to shoulder, my sword stretched in front, his arms at his sides, slow-marching in step, about to enter the silent zone. Forty-five years of military service and he still doesn’t have any control over his movements. If it weren’t for my nimble footwork we’d be out of step. The Silent Squad is split in two files facing each other, eyeballs locked, rifles at the ready. I see his head jerk back involuntarily as the first set of rifles make a loop across our path. But now that he is in the middle of the tunnel formed by flying rifles he has no option but to move in step with me.

  The most heavily protected man in the country is in a circle of whirling bayonets and inches away from the hungry, poisoned tip of my sword.

  He has realised that in order to go through this he needs to keep looking ahead but he can’t seem to help himself; I can feel his one eye glancing towards me. It’s a genuine miracle that my boys haven’t mistimed their throws and pierced our faces with their bayonets. The last pair is ready with their rifles poised when I wink at the boy on my left. I would never know but I can guess that exactly at the same moment General Zia’s roving right eye makes contact with the boy standing on our right. They both miss a beat, the same bloody beat, and then throw their rifles. The bayonets flash through the air as the rifles complete half a circle and instead of gliding across each other clash in mid-air, making a momentary X as if posing to be photographed for a rifle regiment’s badge. Shigri to the rescue then: my boot kicks General Zia in his shins, and as he stumbles backwards my left hand breaks his fall and my righ: hand goes to work; nothing spectacular, nothing that anyone would notice, just a gentle nudge with the tip of my sword on the back of his flailing hand, drawing a single drop of blood. It couldn’t have hurt more than a mosquito bite. The reaction from the spectators—rushing jackboots, cocked rifles, commandos striking poses and the duty doctor shouting instructions at paramedics—is exaggerated, but not unexpected.

  “If Allah wants to protect someone, nobody can harm them,” he says after the duty doctor has cleaned up the drop of blood and declared his wound a minor scratch. I try not to look at the commandos posted on the mess rooftop and shake my head in agreement. He produces a pocket watch out of his uniform shirt pocket and looks towards General Akhtar, who, it seems, is not reacting very well to the heat. Monster-shaped sweat patches are beginning to appear on his uniform. “What do you think, Akhtar, shouldn’t we pray before lunch?” He puts his arm around my shoulder and starts walking towards the mess without looking at General Akhtar. I notice that General Akhtar wants to say something. His mouth opens but no words come out and he follows us, almost dragging his feet. The American Ambassador steps forward. “What a coincidence, Mr President. I have to attend prayers too. There is a church five miles from here and an orphanage that I am supposed to visit…”

  “Oh. Of course. But you are coming back with us. I am not leaving you in this desert
. And since Brother Akhtar is here, let’s finalise this tank business on our flight back.”

  “I’ll be here before take-off,” says Arnold Raphel. As he walks off towards the car park, a familiar face greets him. Bannon is wearing a suit and gives me a formal nod and waves his hand as if he remembers my face but has forgotten my name. I am glad he didn’t show up during the drill. I needed my concentration. A team of commandos rushes off to accompany them.

  A waiter wearing a white turban opens the door of the mess and ushers us into a world where the air is sand-free and chilled, where large glass cabinets hold tank models and tennis trophies, where the white walls are covered with paintings of turbaned horsemen chasing spotted deer. The garrison commander leads us towards a big white hall, muttering apologies that the new garrison mosque is still under construction. General Akhtar falls in step with me. I try to quicken my pace, hoping to avoid the inevitable arm around my shoulder. He puts his arm around my shoulder. “That was very well done.” He sounds disappointed. Then he leans towards my ear and whispers, “I told them to let you go, you know it was a mistake. By the way, you really know how to control that sword. It could have gone anywhere. Your father never knew when to stop.”

  “It all comes with practice.” I give a pause and then say loudly, “Sir.”

  He takes his arm off my shoulder abruptly as if he doesn’t want to be seen with me any more. Obaid might have told them about my sword practice but nobody in the whole world knows about Uncle Starchy’s nectar.