Mohammed Hanif - A Case of Exploding Mangoes

“Take charge.” Sir Tony patted Obaid’s cheek and walked off, tightening his belt. We fell in behind him and Obaid marched us back to our dorm. It was only when he was in front of us, naked except for his briefs and oxfords, leading us into our dorm for his first night in the squadron, that I noticed that his briefs were also silk, too small and too tight, with little embroidered hearts on the waistband.

“Nice jeans,” I whispered from my bed after the lights-out bell on his first night in the dorm. Obaid was in the bed next to mine, his blanket was aglow as a tiny torch moved under it. I couldn’t decide if he was reading a book or inspecting his privates for any damage.

“My father makes them.” He switched off the torch and removed the blanket from his head. The way he uttered my father told me that he didn’t like him much.

“Your father owns Levi’s?”

“No, he just owns a factory. Exports. Hong Kong. Bangkok.”

“Must make a lot of money. Why didn’t you go into the family business?”

“I wanted to follow my dreams.”

Hell. Not one of those crazy civilians looking for martyrdom in all the wrong places?

“What dreams? Licking other people’s boots?”

“I want to fly.”

The boy had obviously spent too much time around his father’s warehouses spellchecking fake labels. I stayed silent for a while. Someone in the neighbouring dorm was sobbing, probably not getting used to all the F-words being poured into his ear about his mother whom he was definitely still missing.

Me? Spent my sixth birthday in a dorm like this one. Never had that problem.

“What does your dad do?” He turned his torch on and pointed it at me.

“Turn that thing off. You’ll get us into trouble,” I said. “He was in the army.”

“Retired?”

“No. He died.”

Obaid sat up in his bed and clutched his blanket to his chest.

“I’m sorry. What happened?”

“He was on a mission. Classified.”

Obaid was silent for a moment.

“Your father was a shaheed then. It’s an honour to be your roommate.”

I wondered whether I would prefer to have a father who was alive and manufacturing fake American brands or a legend hanging from a ceiling fan.

“And did you really dream about joining the armed forces?”

“No. Books. I like reading.”

“Does your father make books too?”

“No. He hates books. But it’s my hobby.”

The sobbing in the next dorm settled into a low whimper.

“Do you have a hobby?”

“I didn’t join the armed forces to collect stamps,” I said, pulling the blanket over my head.

I unlace my boots, roll off my socks, take a starched pair of khaki cotton trousers and a shirt from the hanger. My trousers stick to themselves like two pieces of cardboard glued together and make tearing sounds as my legs part them. I tuck my stiff shirt in with one hand and open the door with the other.

“Congratulations, Uncle 303, your prisoner hasn’t escaped.”

I look in the mirror. Three days without a shave and there are just a few scattered hairs on my chin. Like cactus thorns, Obaid used to say, sparse but prickly.

I take the razor from the drawer. A few dry strokes get rid of the thorns.

I never saw a hair on Colonel Shigri’s face. He was freshly shaved when they took him down from the ceiling fan.

I can see in the mirror that my guard, standing behind me, is smiling.

My Silent Drill Squad comes to attention as I arrive in the parade square. Bannon is not there. I can tell he is in his cool-dude phase, which normally entails lighting up a joint with his first cup of Nescafe Instant. I don’t have to wait for him. My boys are standing in three rows, eighteen of them, their right hands resting on the muzzles of their 03 rifles, bayonets naked and pointing towards the sky.

I start the dress inspection, a leisurely slow march, my left hand on the sword hilt, my distorted face reflected in the toes of their shoes. They are eighteen of the best: a smudged shoe or a crooked crease or a loose belt is not expected from this bunch, but you can’t really complete the inspection without picking on someone. As I approach the second to last person in the third row I mark my victim. I draw the sword with my right hand, turn round and before the guy can blink put the tip just above his belt, on his tummy, which had relaxed after my approving nod. The tummy is sucked in.

Not just by the boy at the tip of my sword — but there is an inaudible sucking-in of tummies all around; spines, already straight, stretch to their full potential. My sword makes an arch in the air, the tip finds the mouth of its scabbard and is pushed into its velvet interior. I start my march as the sword’s hilt clicks with the top of the scabbard. Not a word is exchanged. My eyes go on roving along the lines of still, stern faces and unblinking eyes.

Good boys, they are.

We can begin.

All the bullshit about the sound of silence is just that, bullshit. Silence is silence and our Silent Drill Squad has learned that by now. We have done this for one hundred and ten days, seven days a week. The ones with malfunctioning internal clocks, those in the habit of glancing sideways to get their cues, those counting silently to coordinate their manoeuvres and those twiddling their toes in their shoes to keep their blood circulation going, have all been eliminated.

Here, my wish is their command.

Bannon, who has appeared quietly during my inspection, comes to attention with an exaggerated bang of his boot on the concrete, a sign for me to start. I ignore the red ropes unfurling under his drooping eyelids, execute an about-turn and draw my sword; holding it in front of my chest, I bring the hilt level with my lips. Salute performed and accepted in silence, I turn back and march four steps towards the silent squad. As my heel lands at the fourth step, the squad comes to attention in unison.

Perfect start.

My sword goes back into the scabbard and as the hilt clicks into place there is a swish in the air. The rifles leave their left hands with bayonets up in the air, complete a circle above their heads and land safely in their right. Then both hands grip the rifles, hold them in front of their chests and bang the magazines thrice. My rifle orchestra plays for five minutes, rifles swoon and circle in the air. Their hands clapping the magazines are perfectly timed. Ten pounds of metal and wood moulds itself to my silent commands.

My inner cadence rules.

The squad divides itself into two, both flights march ten steps in opposite directions, come to a halt, turn back and, with easy elegance, dissolve into a single row.

Time to show the buggers how it’s done.

I stand three feet from the file leader. We are eyeball to eyeball. A single blink or a sideways glance can be fatal. The file leader brings his rifle to chest level and throws it at me. The rifle makes a semi-arch and my practised right hand receives it. One. Two. Three. My right hand throws it spiralling over my head and it lands in my left. For the next sixty seconds it leaps and dances over my head and around my shoulders. For onlookers, the G3 rifle is a blurred swirl of metal and wood, at one with me before it does a triple loop and lands in the file leader’s hand.

For the finale, the squad lines up in two rows again and I start my slow march down the middle, sword held straight in front of my chest. Every step I take is a command for both files to throw their rifle to the guy standing opposite them. It’s like walking through a calibrated assault of flying swords. Throw. Catch. You miss a beat and your bayonet can lodge itself in your partner’s eye. I am walking between a twenty-metre spiral of rifles circling in the air. It looks spectacular but is easy to achieve with three months of practice.