Mohammed Hanif - A Case of Exploding Mangoes

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.”

“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.