Mohammed Hanif - A Case of Exploding Mangoes

The power balance in the room suddenly shifted and the eight men, despite their different levels of affiliation to religion, diverse tastes in whisky and women, and various English accents, reached the same conclusion: General Akhtar had beaten them to it. They should have spoken these words. The rose-scented air in the meeting room suddenly felt stale. General Beg wiped his nose and put his handkerchief back in his pocket.

The conference moved on to the agenda, to the urgent matter of securing the country’s borders, finding legal cover for the coup and enlisting politicians who could be trusted to support the military regime. General Zia hinted at the nice things to come: “I need governors for the provinces, I need ministers to run the ministries. Who can I count on except the professionals gathered around this table?”

They got up and left the room reassured, but none forgot their Chief’s message. In the next eleven years, many of these generals would retire. Some would go on to govern provinces, others would be replaced by their juniors. Two things that weren’t even on the agenda survived every upheaval that followed. General Akhtar remained a general until the time he died, and all God’s names were slowly deleted from the national memory as if a wind had swept the land and blown them away. Innocuous, intimate names: Persian Khuda which had always been handy for ghazal poets as it rhymed with most of the operative verbs; Rab , which poor people invoked in their hour of distress; Maula , which Sufis shouted in their hashish sessions. Allah had given Himself ninety-nine names. His people had improvised many more. But all these names slowly started to disappear: from official stationery, from Friday sermons, from newspaper editorials, from mothers’ prayers, from greeting cards, from official memos, from the lips of television quiz-show hosts, from children’s storybooks, from lovers’ songs, from court orders, from telephone operators’ greetings, from habeas corpus applications, from inter-school debating competitions, from road inauguration speeches, from memorial services, from cricket players’ curses; even from beggars’ begging pleas.

In the name of God, God was exiled from the land and replaced by the one and only Allah who, General Zia convinced himself, spoke only through him. But today, eleven years later, Allah was sending him signs that all pointed to a place so dark, so final, that General Zia wished he could muster up some doubts about the Book. He knew if you didn’t have Jonah’s optimism, the belly of the whale was your final resting place.

As the imam started reciting the after-prayer prayer, it took General Zia a moment to realise that he was being subjected to Jonah’s story yet another time. It took him another moment to realise that the imam had never before recited this verse at morning prayers. He broke into violent sobs. The other worshippers continued with their prayers; they were used to General Zia crying during his prayers. They were never sure if it was due to the intensity of his devotion, the matters of state that occupied his mind or another tongue-lashing from the First Lady. Everyone pretended to ignore the presidential tears. General Zia turned his face to the left, turned his face to the right, blessed the entire world and grabbed General Akhtar’s hand. He began to speak but choked on his own words. General Akhtar squeezed General Zia’s hand and patted his back to calm him down. The words finally came out: “Can you please raise my security level?” General Akhtar nodded enthusiastically and squeezed his hand again with a boxer’s grip. General Zia snivelled, his left eye shed a tear, his right eye looked suspiciously towards the imam. “Raise it to level red please.”

“i don’t want Inter Services intelligence poking their nose in my business,” 2nd OIC mutters as he walks me back from the Commandant’s office to my cell. I want to say, “Amen, sir. Amen.” But one look at him and I decide to keep my mouth shut. He seems to be in an introspective mood. Every visit to the Commandant’s office saps the 2nd OIC of his leftover ambition. For a moment I pity him. I pity his crouched walk. I want to pat his belly straining against his uniform’s shirt buttons. I want to repair the worn-out heels of his shoes.

We have been studying The Art of War in our War Studies class and fragments of Sun Tzu are still fresh in my mind. Didn’t he say that if the enemy leaves a door open, don’t hesitate, rush in?

“Sir, I agree with you, it will be a disgrace for the Academy if the ISI has to be called in,” I say, sounding very concerned.

“And who the hell is responsible for this disgrace? Who is not cooperating with the inquiry?” He waves his investigation file in my face.

“I swear to God, sir—” I say and shut up because he looks into my eyes, takes a turn and instead of marching me back to the cell, starts walking towards the mosque.

Falcons Road, which leads to the mosque, is melting under my boots. My fellow cadets are either in their Character Building Class or strapped to their seats in cockpit simulators, practising emergency landings. And here I am, being frogmarched to Allah’s house. It’s not even time for prayer. And 2nd OIC, I know, is not the praying type. I am not godly either, but since the Commandant declared all five daily prayers compulsory and started a roll call, I have paid Him a few visits.

Obaid turned very pious for a few days, even got me a book from the library called Health, Wealth and Wisdom Through Prayer . He spent more and more of his time off in the mosque. His devotion ended the day a duty cadet caught him doing yoga between the prayers. One moment he was sitting there in lotus position, his thumbs and forefingers resting on his knees, trying to unlock his kundalini, and the next moment he was being charged with performing Hindu worship in a mosque. He was only let off when I threatened the duty cadet that he’d never again be invited to our video nights.

I can’t think of anything 2nd OIC can find in the mosque to add to his file.

Unless Allah has volunteered to stand witness against me.

The mosque is made from a series of old barracks converted into a low-ceilinged prayer hall with a plywood minaret stuck on top, a temporary arrangement, as the architectural model for Allah’s new abode is encased in a glass box next to the entrance to the mosque. It has a green dome with golden stripes and four minarets and little plastic figures worshipping in the compound. We stop at the mosque’s gate. 2nd OIC sits down to take his shoes off. I remain standing, not sure what is expected of me.

“You are coming in with me, Under Officer,” he says.

“My clothes are not clean, sir.” I trot out the same half-truth that I have used for months to avoid compulsory prayers.

“Don’t worry, we just need to talk.”

My stomach pulls a negative g. Sun Tzu knew his element of surprise, but he never wrote about what it felt like to be on the receiving end of it.

The mosque is empty at this time except for a few cadets dressed in white shalwar qameez and skullcaps and absorbed in what seems like a very intense game of cards. I don’t recognise their faces but I can tell from their clothes that they are the latest victims of the ongoing starch war. Our Commandant wants everyone to wear double-starched uniforms, even in June, which leads to regular outbreaks of rashes and ugly skin infections. There are always long lines of cadets at the sickbay, legs straining hard to avoid the razor-sharp creases of the trousers, hands trying to itch in impossible places. The Medical Squadron considers it a health hazard and has hit back with its own Standard Operating Procedures for Dealing with the Outbreak of an Epidemic. Anyone who gets a skin infection because of his starched uniform gets a prescription which says ‘no starched uniforms’. The Commandant won’t have any non-starched uniforms on active duty and he can’t really allow them to stay in their dorms, so they have all been ordered to spend their day in the mosque.