Mohammed Hanif - A Case of Exploding Mangoes

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 passes 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.”

In my squadron, the boys are already lined up for the morning dress inspection. Eighty-six yawning faces are spooked to see me running so early in the morning. They come to attention like the creaking wheels of a plane forgotten on the tarmac for too long.

I stand in front of the formation and start jumping on the spot.

“Come on. Wake up,” I shout. “I disappear for a day and you turn into sissies. Where is the Fury Squadron spirit?”

Without any further command they join me, at first reluctantly, and then catching my rhythm they all start running on the spot. I go through the rows, keeping my hand level with their chests, and soon everyone is bringing their knees to touch my hand.

They are happy to have me back.

As if the buggers have a choice.

The police guard stands in a corner, still breathless from running and quite baffled at this enthusiastic reception for his prisoner.

“Right turn. Quick march,” I order. “See you on the square, boys.”

I run towards my dorm not looking back at the police guard. I want to see if he is as meek as he looks. What exactly does he want to guard me from anyway?

He follows me. The bugger follows me all the way into the room and stands close to the door, quite alert by now. I open my cupboard and glance towards Obaid’s bed from the corner of my eye. A crisp white sheet is folded over a grey blanket. It looks like a Hindu widow in mourning. I take a deep breath and survey my cupboard. Here’s all my life folded up, in neat little piles: uniform shirts on the left, trousers on the right, my Under Officer’s golden epaulettes at a right angle to the peaked cap, toothbrush in line with toothpaste tube and shaving cream balanced on its cap and parallel to shaving brush; all the exhibits of my everyday life are displayed according to the standard cupboard manual. I open the drawer to check what I already know. They have been through it. I glance at the sword hanging on the inside of the cupboard door. A green silk thread from its tasselled hilt is casually tied around the top of the scabbard; exactly the way I left it. I think about going towards Obaid’s bed. My guard looks at the bed too. I start to undress.

My hands move down the front of my shirt, opening the buttons while I quickly go through my options. I throw my shirt over my shoulder without looking back and pull the vest out of my trousers. The guard shuffles his feet, his fingers fidget around the ancient muzzle of his rifle. The bugger has no plans to move. Turning to him I yank down the zip on my fly, then move towards him with my fingers pulling down the waistband on my underwear.

“Uncle 303, you really want to see?”

He beats an embarrassed retreat out of the room, walking backwards.

I bolt the door and lunge towards Obaid’s bed. No point looking in the side table. They have taken everything. I turn the mattress around. They have obviously not thought that there can be other places in the mattress besides the obligatory hole. There is a zip on the side, I open it, slip my hand in. My fingers go back and forth, exploring the dead spongy surface of the foam mattress. I find an opening and slip my hand into the foam tunnel. My fingers touch a smooth piece of silk cloth and I pull it out.

Obaid’s hankie, rose-patterned. It smells of Poison and Obaid and there is a five-digit number on it. Obaid’s handwriting, all elegant dashes and curves.

As if they are going to let me near a phone. The only phone from where you can dial outside the Academy is in the sickbay. And my guard is knocking impatiently on the door.

Obaid had arrived two days after our training had commenced and always maintained that air of someone who is just a step behind in life. When I first saw him he was wearing fake Levi’s, a very shiny pair of oxford shoes and a black silk shirt with a logo on its pocket that read ‘Avanti’. His blow-dried, jet-black hair covered his ears. And if his city-boy civilian dress wasn’t enough to make him stand out amid a formation of khaki-clad jarheads, he was also wearing a rose-patterned handkerchief carefully folded and tucked under his collar. He removed the hankie from time to time to absorb the invisible droplets of sweat from his forehead. He stood with all his weight on one leg, right thumb tucked in his jeans pocket, left arm hanging aimlessly, ass cocked, and stared into the distance over the trees, as if expecting to see an aircraft taking off.

He should have kept his eyes on the door, from where soon-to-be-drummed-out Sir Tony emerged for our dress inspection. His starched khaki shirt was unbuttoned to his navel, his hands fumbling with the buckle of his belt. As he approached I thought he was buckling it, but he yanked it out and shouted, “ATTENTION.” I put my heels together, puffed my chest out, pulled my shoulders back, locked my arms at my sides and glanced towards Obaid. He shifted his weight onto his right foot and tucked his left thumb into his jeans pocket too, as if posing for a Levi’s ad. Sir Tony was the kind of sir who believed that authority was all about half-finished sentences and chewed-up words.

“Shun, bastards, shun,” he barked, charging at the squadron.

My spine stiffened even more. His belt whiplashed in front of my eyes, making me blink. I heard it strike Obaid’s cocked ass. So unexpected was the attack that Obaid could only whimper. His knees buckled and he fell on the ground, one hand taking the fall, the other trying feebly to protect his behind from further assault. It didn’t come.

Sir Tony gave him a full dress inspection. The rose-patterned hankie was the first item of clothing to come off. Sir Tony rolled it around his finger and smelled it. “Fake fucking Poison,” he said, showing off his knowledge of the perfume trade. Sir Tony shoved the hankie in Obaid’s mouth, extended his right leg and waved his shoe in Obaid’s face. Obaid understood the meaning of this gesture, but obviously the symbolism was lost on him.

He went down on his knees, took the hankie out of his mouth and tried to wipe Sir Tony’s right shoe, which was now level with his nose. Sir Tony stood with his hands on his hips looking around at the rest of us. We had already been at the mercy of his whims for two days and we knew that anyone who tried to glance towards him would be the next victim, so we stood and stared, stared and stood. Sir Tony gave him a slight kick in the chin and Obaid got the message. He put the hankie back in his mouth and started polishing the shoe, his face making little circles around the toe.

Both shoes polished to his satisfaction, Sir Tony busied himself with the rest of Obaid’s outfit. He spent a considerable time struggling to tear the pocket with the Avanti logo from Obaid’s shirt. It was silk; it wouldn’t come off. He ripped off all the buttons and removed the shirt. Obaid wasn’t wearing anything under it. Obaid hesitated when Sir Tony pointed towards his trousers but Sir Tony started fidgeting with his belt buckle and within seconds Obaid was standing there in only his briefs and white socks and shiny oxford shoes, the rose-patterned hankie still in his mouth. Sir Tony pulled the hankie out of his mouth and with a certain tenderness tied it around Obaid’s neck. Obaid was at attention now, trembling slightly, but he stood straight and stiff, his arms locked to his sides.