Mohammed Hanif - A Case of Exploding Mangoes

Ceaucescu spoke for about two minutes, jabbing his fingers, opening and closing the palms of his hands and finally reaching for the interpreter’s thigh. He found himself patting the leather folder.

“Believe only ten per cent of what your intelligence agencies tell you about public opinion. The key is that they should either love you or fear you; your decline starts the day they become indifferent to you.”

“How do I know if they are becoming indifferent?”

“Find out first-hand. Surprise them, go out to restaurants, show up at sports matches. Do you have football? Go to football matches, take a walk at night. Listen to what people have to say and then believe only ten per cent of what they say because when they are with you they will also lie. But after they have met you they are bound to love you and they will tell other people who will also love you.”

General Zia nodded eagerly while Ceaucescu spoke, and then invited him to be the chief guest at the National Day Parade, knowing full well that he would never come. He was getting up to leave when Ceaucescu shouted something to the interpreter. General Zia came back towards the interpreter, who had now opened her folder and spread it on her lap.

“Before you go to football matches, make sure that your team wins.”

General Zia tried to go to some of these public gatherings, but as soon as he left the VIP area and mingled with the people he would realise that he was amid a hired crowd; their flag-waving and slogans well rehearsed. Many of them just stiffened when he walked by and he could tell that they were soldiers in civvies. Sometimes they seemed scared of him, but then he would look at Brigadier TM by his side, using his elbows to keep the crowd at bay and he would immediately know that it wasn’t him they were scared of, they just didn’t want to be noticed by Brigadier TM. He went to some cricket matches and found out that people were more interested in the game and didn’t seem too bothered about loving him or fearing him.

There was only one thing left to do now that Brigadier TM wasn’t on his side; put Comrade Ceaucescu’s advice to the test. To go out of the Army House without his bodyguards.

Instead of retiring to his study after his night prayers, he went to the bedroom where the First Lady was sitting on a chair reading a story to their youngest daughter. He kissed his daughter’s head, sat down and waited for the First Lady to finish the story. His heart was beating fast at the prospect of the impending adventure. He looked at his wife and daughter as if he was departing for a far-off battle from which he might or might not return.

“Can I borrow a shawl?”

“Which one?”

He was hoping she would ask him why he needed it. He was hoping he would be able to tell at least one person before embarking on his mission but all she asked was, which one?

“The older the better,” the General said trying to sound mysterious. She went to the dressing room and brought him an old maroon shawl with a thin embroidered border. She still didn’t ask him why he needed it.

Feeling a bit let down even before the beginning of his adventure, General Zia hugged his daughter again and started to go out.

“Don’t get that shawl dirty,” said the First Lady. “It’s my mother’s.”

General Zia paused for a moment and thought maybe he should confide in her after all, but she picked up her book again and asked without looking at him. “Was it Caliph Omar who used to go out at night disguised as a common man to see if his subjects lived in peace?”

General Zia nodded his head. The First Lady really had a sense of history, he thought. He wouldn’t mind being remembered as Caliph Omar the Second.

“Was he the one who said that even if a dog sleeps hungry on the banks of Euphrates, he’ll never find salvation?”

“Yes,” General Zia said. His moustache did a little dance.

“He should see our Islamic republic now. Randy dogs are running this country.”

General Zia’s heart sank, his moustache drooped but he muttered the verse that had exhorted him to go forth into the world and with renewed determination stormed out of the room.

He asked his gardener if he could borrow his bicycle, and the gardener handed it to him without asking why he needed it. When he stepped out of his living quarters the two commandos posted at the door saluted and started to follow him. He told them to wait for him at their post. “I am going to exercise my legs.”

Then he wrapped the shawl tightly around his head and face, leaving his eyes and forehead uncovered. He climbed onto the bicycle and began to pedal. The bicycle was unsteady for the first few metres, it went left and it went right, but he found his balance and pedalled slowly, keeping to one side of the road.

As his bicycle approached the gate of the Army House, he started to have second thoughts. Maybe I should turn back. Maybe I should inform Brigadier TM and he can send some of his men in civvies who can follow me around. Then Brigadier TM’s flag-draped coffin flashed in front of his eyes and his bicycle wobbled. General Zia was still undecided when his bicycle arrived at the sentry post at the gate of the Army House and the gate opened. He slowed down, looked left and right, hoping someone would recognise him and ask him what the hell he thought he was doing. As his mind raced for an appropriate excuse, a voice shouted from the sentry box.

“Don’t feel like going home, old man? Scared of your woman?” He looked towards the sentry box, but didn’t see anyone. His feet pushed the pedals hard. The gate came down behind him. The thought that his disguise was working reinvigorated him. The doubts cleared, he lifted his bottom from the bicycle seat and pedalled harder, his eyes moistening with the effort and with emotion. He waited at the red light at the crossroads which led to Constitution Avenue, even though there was not a single vehicle in sight. The light stayed red for a long time and showed no sign of turning green. He looked left and right and then left again and turned on to Constitution Avenue.

The avenue was completely deserted, not a soul, not a vehicle.

An eight-lane road, it had not really been designed for traffic, which was thin in this part of town even during the day, but to accommodate the heavy artillery and tanks for the annual National Day Parade. The avenue, still wet from an afternoon shower, glistened yellow under the street lights. The hills surrounding it stood silent and sombre; General Zia rode slowly. His legs, unused to this movement, were beginning to ache. He first rode straight along the side of the road, then moved to the middle and started to zigzag. If someone saw him from the hills they would see an old man wrapped in a shawl, wobbling on his bike. They would have to conclude that the old man was probably very tired after working hard all day at the Army House.

When he had covered about half a mile without seeing a single person, a strange feeling began to set in: what if he was ruling a country without any inhabitants? What if it was a ghost country? What if there was really nobody out there? What if all the statistics from the census that said one hundred and thirty million people lived in the country, fifty-two per cent women, forty-eight per cent men, ninety-eight per cent Muslim, was all simply the work of his overefficient bureaucrats? What if everybody had migrated somewhere else and he was ruling a country where nobody lived except his army, his bureaucrats and his bodyguards? He was breathing hard and feeling quite amused at the bizarre conspiracy theories one can harbour if one is a commoner on a bicycle, when a bush on the roadside moved and a voice shouted at him: “Come here, old man. Riding around without a headlight? Do you think this road belongs to your father? Isn’t there enough lawlessness in this country?”