Mohammed Hanif - A Case of Exploding Mangoes

General Zia knew something was wrong when both his eyes remained focused on one of the buds from C13O which had still not blossomed, while the others were popping open and beginning to float. This one was still in free fall, hurtling towards the parade square, becoming bigger and bigger and bigger.

Brigadier TM, like many veteran paratroopers, tended to delay opening his parachute. He liked to wait a few seconds before pulling at his ripcord, enjoying the free fall that precedes the opening of the parachute’s canopy. He liked to feel his lungs bursting with air, the struggle to exhale, the momentary loss of control over his arms and legs. For a man who was beyond human weaknesses, one could say that this was his one vice: giving in to gravity to get a bit of a head rush for a few seconds. But Brigadier TM was also a professional who calculated risks and then eliminated them. While strapping up his parachute before embarking on this mission, he had noticed that the belt around his torso dug into his flesh. Brigadier TM was furious with himself. “Damn it, I am sitting around the Army House all day doing nothing. I am getting fat. I must do something about this.” Standing in the back door of the C13O moments before the jump, Brigadier TM looked down at the parade square, tiny formations of men in khaki and a small crowd of flag-waving civilians. Like a true professional, Brigadier TM resisted the temptation to ride the crisp air some more, formulated a weight-loss plan in his mind and pulled at his ripcord early. His body prepared itself for the upward jerk that would come as his canopy sprang open and filled with air. Nothing happened.

General Zia felt beads of perspiration running along his spine, and his itch seemed to be returning. He clenched his fists and looked towards General Akhtar. General Akhtar wasn’t looking up at the paratroopers. His eyes were searching the floats, which had been parked behind the artillery and armoured columns. In his head General Akhtar was silently rehearsing his eulogy for Brigadier TM; trying to choose between ‘ The finest man ever to jump from a plane ’ and ‘ The bravest man to walk this sacred soil ’.

Brigadier TM took a firm grip on his ripcord and pulled again. It seemed the ripcord had cut all its ties to the parachute, had lost its memory. As Brigadier TM spread his arms and legs outwards to steady his fall, he realised something that might have come as a relief under different circumstances: he hadn’t put on weight. He was carrying someone else’s parachute.

General Zia saw the man tumbling out of the sky towards him and thought that maybe he had misinterpreted the verse from the Quran. Maybe Jonah and his whale had nothing to do with it. Maybe this was how it was going to end: a man falling from the sky would crush him to bits in front of television cameras. He looked around for something to hide under. The marquee had been removed at the last minute, as the Information Minister wanted vista shots from a helicopter. “Look up,” he whispered furiously to General Akhtar, who was looking down at his shoes, having reached the conclusion that he shouldn’t mention the words jump and plane in his eulogy. Not in good taste. He pretended not to listen to General Zia’s gibberish and offered his strong-jawed profile to the TV cameras.

The crowd, transfixed by the man falling past the floating parachutes, arms and legs stretched parallel to the ground and heading for the presidential dais, started to wave their flags and cheer, thinking that this was the finale of the performance.

Even before he pulled the emergency cord on his parachute, Brigadier TM knew that it wouldn’t function. What really surprised him was that the hook that was supposed to activate his emergency parachute didn’t even budge. It stuck to his lower ribcage like a needy child. If the circumstances hadn’t been what they were, Brigadier TM would have raised his hands in front of his eyes and given them a taunting smile. The hands that could crack a neck with one blow, the hands that had once hunted a wild goat and skinned it without using a knife, were failing before a stubborn two-centimetre hook that could release the emergency parachute and save his life.

His lungs were bursting with air, his arms were feeling numb and he was trying to ignore the parade square with its colourful flags and stupid, noisy civilians. He put his thumb in the emergency parachute’s ripcord ring again, got a firm grip on his lower ribcage with his four fingers, screamed the loudest scream of his life, managing to exhale all the air out of his lungs — and pulled.

General Zia took a step back. He still hadn’t realised that the falling man coming at him was Brigadier TM. He shuffled back, trying to duck behind General Akhtar, who stood his ground, still not looking up. General Akhtar didn’t have to think any further about what to say in his eulogy. Brigadier TM wrote it himself as his body crashed into the white circle right in front of the dais.

“A professional who didn’t miss his target even in death .”

The paramedics who removed his smashed body from the white circle noticed that there was a big gash on Brigadier TM’s left lower ribcage. Then they saw his clenched right hand firmly holding onto a metal ring, a piece of khaki cloth ripped from his shirt and three of his own ribs.

We are drinking tea and discussing national security on the lawns of the Fort when the prisoners start to emerge from the passage that leads to the underground cells. A long line of shabby men with shaved heads, handcuffed, shackled and strung along a chain, shuffle out of the stairwell as Major Kiyani dissects the external and internal security threats facing the nation. He takes a handful of roasted almonds from a bowl and throws them into his open mouth one by one, between ticking off his strategic challenges. I glance towards the prisoners out of the corner of my eye because it would be impolite to turn round and look. I don’t want Major Kiyani to think that I don’t: care about national security.

The military establishment that runs the Fort has been at my service since my meeting with General Akhtar. I left a blindfolded prisoner. I have returned like a forgiven prince: statement signed and submitted, name cleared, honour restored, glory promised. If I am to believe Major Kiyani, we are just waiting for some paperwork before I am sent back to the Academy. My experience tells me that I shouldn’t believe him but it’s fun to watch him fawn over me, making sure that I am fed properly, that I stay in the best room at the Fort. He is a changed man. We are celebrating the beginning of this new relationship. Politeness and mutual respect are the order of the day.

“Hindus are cowards by nature and it’s understandable that they would stab us in the back, but we have learned to deal with that nation of lentil eaters. For every bomb blast that kills a few people in Karachi, we will hit back with a dozen blasts in Delhi, Bombay, Bangalore, you name it. If they use Taiwanese timers, we’ll send them remote-controlled RDX beauties.” Major Kiyani chews his almonds properly before throwing another one into his mouth. His aim is very good. “So they are not the threat. It’s the enemy within, our own Muslim brothers who call themselves Pakistanis but speak their language: they are the real threat. We have got to learn to deal with them.”

Under the late-afternoon sun the Fort looks like a very old king taking a siesta. The shadows of the crumbling arches of the Court for the Commons stretch across the lawns, the sunflowers are in full bloom and stand tall with their heads bent like turbaned courtiers waiting for their turn at court. In the underground interrogation centre someone is probably being thrashed with such abandon that the ceiling is getting a fresh splattering of blood. We are sitting in lawn chairs, in front of a table laden with fine china crockery and the best afternoon snacks that Lahore has to offer.