A Case Of Exploding Mangoes Part 9

General Zia always felt a holy tingling in the marrow of his backbone when surrounded by people who were genuinely poor and needy. He could always tell the really desperate ones from the merely greedy. During the eleven years of his rule, he had handed out multimillion-dollar contracts for roads he knew would dissolve at the first hint of monsoon. He had sanctioned billion-rupee loans for factories he knew would produce nothing. He did these things because it was statecraft and he had to do it. He never got any pleasure out of it. But this ritual of handing over an envelope containing a couple of hundred rupees to a woman who didn't have a man to take care of her made him feel exalted. The grat.i.tude on these women's faces was heartfelt, the blessings they showered over him were genuine. General Zia believed that Allah couldn't ignore their pleas. He was sure their prayers were fast-tracked.

A television producer with an eye for detail walked up to the Information Minister and pointed to the banner that was to serve as the backdrop for the ceremony.

President's Rehabilitation Programme for Windows, it read.

The Information Minister knew from experience that a spelling error could ruin General Zia's day and his own career. General Zia photocopied the newspaper articles, even those praising him, and sent them back to the editors with a thank-you note and the typos circled in red. The Information Minister placed himself strategically in front of the banner and refused to budge during the entire ceremony. This was probably the first and the last time that the Information Minister was not seen in the official TV footage in his usual place and in his usual mood; he had always stood behind his boss with his neck straining above General Zia's shoulders and always grinned with such fervour that it seemed the nation's survival depended on his cheerful mood.

"Pray for Pakistan's prosperous future and my health," General Zia said to a seventy-five-year-old widow, a shrivelled apple of a woman, a deserving veteran of these ceremonies and hence the first one in the queue. "Pakistan is very prosperous," she said, waving the envelope in his face. Then she pinched his cheeks with both her hands. "And you are as healthy as a young ox. May Allah destroy all your enemies."

General Zia's teeth flashed, his moustache did a little twist and he put his right hand on his heart and patted the old woman's shoulder with his left. "I am what I am because of your prayers."

General Zia, occupied for the last few days with the security alert triggered by Jonah's verse, felt at peace for the first time in ages. He looked at the long queue of women with their heads covered, with eyes full of hope, and realised they were his saviour angels, his last line of defence.

Brigadier TM stood out of frame and bristled at the way these women were disobeying his instructions. But the camera was rolling and Brigadier TM had enough television manners to stay out of the picture, control his anger and focus on the end of the queue where a catfight seemed to be in progress.

Most of the women in the queue knew why it was taking the President so long to hand out a few hundred rupees. The President was in a talkative mood, enquiring after the health of each woman, patiently listening to their long-winded answers and asking them to pray for his health. The one hour and thirty minutes scheduled for the ceremony were about to run out and more than half the women were still waiting in the queue. The Information Minister thought of stepping forward and asking the President if, with his permission, he could distribute the rest of the envelopes, but then he remembered the misspelt word he was covering and decided to stay put. Brigadier TM looked at his watch, looked at the President chattering away with the women, and decided that the President's schedule was not his problem.

The First Lady wasn't getting the sisterly support she had expected from the other women in the queue. "Begums like her bring us a bad name," the woman in front of the First Lady whispered to the woman ahead of her, making sure that the First Lady could hear. "Look at all the gold this cow is wearing," the woman said, raising her voice. "Her husband probably died trying to keep her decked out in all that finery."

The First Lady pulled her dupatta even further over her head. She tightened it across her chest in a belated attempt to hide her necklace.

Then she realised that to these women she must appear a fraud, a rich begum pretending to be a widow coming to feed off the official charity.

"My husband is not dead," she said, raising her voice to the point where ten women in front of her could hear. The women turned round and looked at her. "But I have left him. And here, you can have these." She removed her earrings and unhooked her necklace and pressed them both into the reluctant hands of two women standing in front of her.

The whisper travelled along the queue that a woman at the back was distributing gold.

General Zia's right eye noticed the pandemonium at the back of the queue. With his left eye he sought out the Information Minister. He wanted to find out what was happening, but the minister was standing in front of the backdrop as if guarding the last bunker on a front line under attack.

An incredibly young woman, barely out of her twenties, shunned the envelope extended towards her by Zia, and instead removed the dupatta from her head and unfurled it like a banner before the camera.

Free Blind Zainab, it read.

General Zia shuffled back, Brigadier TM rushed forward with his right hand ready to draw his gun. The television cameras cut to a close-up of the shouting woman.

"I am not a widow," she was shouting over and over again. "I don't want your money. I want you to immediately release that poor blind woman."

"We have set up special schools for the blind people. I have started a special fund for the special people," General Zia mumbled.

"I don't want your charity. I want justice for Zainab, blind Zainab. Is it her fault that she can't recognise her attackers?"

General Zia glanced back and his right eyebrow asked the Information Minister where the h.e.l.l he had got this widow. The Information Minister stood his ground; imagining the camera was taking his close-up, his mouth broke into a grin. He shook his head, and composed a picture caption for tomorrow's papers: The President sharing a light moment with the Information Minister The President sharing a light moment with the Information Minister.

Brigadier TM could stand disorder at one end of the queue, but now there were women wagging fingers and shouting at both ends, those furthest from him cursing the last woman in the queue and this one right in front of him defying presidential protocol. He took out his revolver and moved towards the cameraman.

"Stop filming."

"This is good, lively footage," the cameraman said, his eye still glued to the camera. Then he felt something hard poking his ribs and switched off the camera.

Brigadier TM had the protesting woman removed and the ceremony started again, this time without the television camera. General Zia's movements became mechanical, he barely looked at the women when they stepped forward to receive their envelopes. He even ignored their blessings. If his enemies had infiltrated his saviour angels, he was thinking, how could he trust anyone?

By the time the last woman in the queue stepped forward to receive her envelope, General Zia was already turning towards his Information Minister. He wanted to give him a piece of his mind. General Zia extended the envelope towards the woman without looking at her; the woman held his hand and pressed a small metallic ring into it. He only turned to look when he heard the sound of gla.s.s breaking.

His wife was standing there striking her gla.s.s-bangled wrists against each other, something that women only did when they heard the news of their husband's death.

Later she would listen patiently as General Zia blamed his enemies in the press, pleaded national interest and invoked their thirty-eight years together. He would say everything the First Lady had thought he would. She would agree to continue to do her ceremonial duties as the First Lady, she would appear at the state ceremonies and she would entertain other first ladies, but only after kicking him out of their bedroom.

But here at this moment, she only said one thing before walking off. "Add my name to that list of widows. You are dead for me."

THIRTEEN.

The soldier escorting me back from the torture chamber unties my hands, doesn't bother to remove my blindfold, holds my neck down with one hand, puts his boot on my b.u.t.tocks and shoves me into a room. I land face down, my tongue tastes sand. The door that shuts behind me is small. I am relieved to notice that I am not in the bathroom where I spent the night. I fumble with the rag covering my eyes, the knot is too tight. I yank it down and it hangs around my neck like a poor man's dog collar. My eyes blink and blink again but don't register anything. I open them wide, I narrow them. I don't see a thing. Have I gone completely blind? I stand still, scared to move my hands and feet, scared to find myself in a grave. I breathe, and the air smells of a duvet that has spent a night out in a monsoon, but it's better than last night's stench. Tentatively, I move my right hand, stretch out my arm. It doesn't touch anything. I stretch out my left hand; it flails in a vacuum. I stretch my arms to the front, to the back, I make a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree turn with my arms outstretched, they don't come in contact with anything. I keep my hand in front of me and walk, counting my steps. Ten steps and my hand sc.r.a.pes a brick surface. I run my hand over the slim, flat bricks that the Mughals used to build this fort. Conclusion: I am still in the Fort. I am in a part of the Fort which is not an extension built by the army. I move left. Twelve steps and I run into another specimen of Mughal masonry. I knock on the wall, and as I should have known, there is only the dead sound of my knuckles against a historical monument.

I am not in a grave. I have ample s.p.a.ce, I can breathe. I am in a luxury-sized dungeon. My eyes adjust to the dark, but they still can't see anything. The darkness just grows darker. It's the kind of darkness which is ancient, manufactured by the s.a.d.i.s.tic imagination of the Mughals. Those b.u.g.g.e.rs may have lost their empire but they knew how to build dungeons. I go down on my knees and embark on a crawling tour of my abode. The sand is real sand, beneath it the floor, endless cold slabs of stone. Anyone planning to dig a tunnel here would need to hire a mining company. In this monument to sixteenth-century architectural values, the only concession to modern times is a plastic bucket in a corner that I b.u.t.t my head against. It probably hasn't been used in a long time, but the stale smell that emanates from it makes it absolutely clear that I shouldn't expect any visits to a loo.

I sit with my back to the wall and shut my eyes, hoping the darkness will get less dark, the way it does in a cinema. I open them again. This place is no cinema. I can't even muster any imaginary shadows.

Minutes pa.s.s, hours pa.s.s. How should I know how long I have been here? If I stay still I'll lose my eyesight or parts of my brains and probably the use of my limbs. I jump up in panic. On your feet, Mr Shigri, get busy. I command myself to run. I run on the spot for a while, my body warms up. I keep my mouth shut and concentrate on breathing through my nose. Not a good choice of exercise, as I realise I am breathing in sand from the floor which has begun to fly in the air. I stop. I put my hands behind my neck and sit on my toes and start doing frantic squats. I do five hundred and without a pause jump in the air and land with my hands on the sand, body parallel to the ground. One hundred push-ups; a thin film of perspiration is covering my body, and an inner glow brings a smile to my face. As I sit back with my back to the wall I think that Obaid could probably write an article about this, send it to Reader's Digest Reader's Digest and fulfil his dream of getting one hundred dollars in the mail: 'Aerobics for Solitary Prisoners'. and fulfil his dream of getting one hundred dollars in the mail: 'Aerobics for Solitary Prisoners'.

I started my brief career as a swordsman by practising on a bed sheet. I hung the sheet over the curtain in my dorm and marked a circle roughly at the height where my target's face would be. I stood with my back to the bed sheet and tried to pierce it from all possible angles, from above my shoulder, with my left hand, with backhand swipes. After one hour the sheet was in shreds and the circle more or less intact, mocking my swordsmanship. The next day, as Obaid got ready to go out for the weekend, I pretended that I had a fever. Obaid came to my bed, put his hand on my forehead and nodded his head in mock concern. "It's probably just a headache," he said, pulling a face, disappointed at the prospect of having to watch The Guns of Navarone The Guns of Navarone without me. without me.

"I am not a city boy like you. I am from the mountains where only women get headaches," I said, irritated at my own lie. Obaid was mystified. "What do you know about women?" he taunted me, spraying his wrists with a sharp burst of Poison. "You don't even remember what your mother looked like." I pulled my bed sheet above my head and started to detach myself, bit by bit.

I locked the room as soon as he left and dressed up in uniform; boots, peaked cap, sword belt, scabbard, the whole works. From now on every rehearsal would be a full dress rehearsal. There was no point doing this by halves, it didn't make sense not to simulate the exact circ.u.mstances. I took out a white towel. Instead of a circle, this time I drew an oval shape with a pencil, then two small circles for eyes, an inverted seven for a nose. I took extra pleasure in drawing a broom of a moustache. I hung my creation over the curtain, put my right hand on the hilt of the sword and took five steps back. I came to attention, with my eyes fixed on the moustached face on the towel. I drew the sword and extended it towards the target. It flailed in the air inches away from the towel.

Five steps is the regulation distance between the parade commander and the guest of honour inspecting the parade and n.o.body can change that. I tried throwing the sword. It did pierce the chin but throwing the sword is not a possibility. You can't do that with a live target because if you miss, then you are left standing there empty-handed. Not that I could afford to miss. Not that I was going to be given a best-of-three-type chance.

I knew what the problem was. It wasn't the distance. It wasn't the fact that my target would be moving; the problem was the relationship between my hand as it wielded the sword and the sword itself. These were two different ent.i.ties. Through practice I could improve my hand-eye coordination, I could make them work together better but sadly that wasn't enough. My arm and the sword needed to become one. The muscles in my tendon had to merge with the molecules that made up the sword. I needed to wield it like it was an extension of my arm. As Bannon had pointed out again and again in our knife-throwing sessions, I needed to work on my sentiment du fer sentiment du fer.

It was time to look for the sentiment of steel within myself.

I took off my sword belt and lay down on the bed with my shoes on and stared and stared at the two small circles on the towel and did Total Detachment, an exercise of my own invention. It's a slow exercise and few have the mental stamina required to do it because it involves complete abandonment of your thoughts and total control of your muscles. I was able to master it during that holiday when Colonel Shigri sought forgiveness for his sins over the Quran during the day, then plotted his next foray into Afghanistan over Scotch in the evenings. I had a lot of time at my hands.

Starting with my scalp, Total Detachment works its way towards my toes. I contract, hold, and let go my muscles, knot by knot, while the rest of my body stays unaware; both antic.i.p.ation and longing are counterproductive.

It's not in the muscles. The sentiment of steel is all in the head. The sword should feel your will through the tips of your fingers.

Obaid was surprised to find me in uniform on his return. I ignored his account of The Guns of Navarone The Guns of Navarone, produced a black leather eyepatch cut out of my old drill boot and asked him to wear it. For once he didn't ask me any questions, nor did he make any show-off-Shigri jokes. He didn't say a word when I drew the curtains and switched all the lights off one by one.

He did speak up when he heard the buckle of my sword belt click. "I hope you know what you are doing." I switched the table lamp on, took out a bottle of white boot polish and dipped the tip of my sword in it. Obaid kept looking at me as if I was growing horns right in front of him but he had the good sense not to speak. "OK, Baby O. You can move all you want but if you want to keep using both your eyes stay as still as you can. And yes I know what I am doing. Save your lecture for later."

I flicked the table lamp off. I walked towards Obaid and stood very close to him, I could smell cardamom on his breath. That was his idea of good oral hygiene and he always carried a few green pods in his pocket. I marched backwards. One, two, three, four, five steps. I put my right hand on the sword hilt, held the scabbard straight and steady with my left. In the darkness the sword caught the moonlight filtering from the slit in a curtain and it glinted for a moment. That's how it would happen on the day, if there are no clouds, I thought. But what I thought was irrelevant. The command had communicated itself from my mind to the tendons in my forearm and the dead molecules in the sword metal were alive and my will was the tip of the sword that found the middle of the leather patch. I put the sword back in the scabbard and asked Obaid to turn on the light. When Obaid turned around after flicking the light switch, I saw the little white dot in the middle of the black eyepatch on his right eye. My shoulder muscles sagged with satisfaction. Obaid came and stood in front of me, flipped his eyepatch and extended his tongue, offering me the half-chewed cardamom sh.e.l.l: a green fly on the red velvety tip of his tongue. I took it and put it in my mouth, savouring its sweet smell. The bitter seeds had already been eaten by him.

He came forward and put his hands on my shoulders. I stiffened. He put his lips close to my ear and said, "How can you be so sure?"

"It's in the blood," I say, taking out a white hankie from my pocket to polish the tip of the sword. "If you ever found your father swinging from a ceiling fan, you would know."

"We know someone who can find out," he said with his chin on my shoulder. I could feel the heat from his cheek.

"I don't trust him. And what am I going to say? 'Officer Bannon, can you use your connections to shed light on the circ.u.mstances of the tragic demise of a certain Colonel Shigri who might or might not have worked for the CIA, and who might or might not have killed himself?'"

"You have to start somewhere."

I wiped the tip of the sword vigorously one last time before putting it in the scabbard.

"I am not starting anything. I am looking for an ending here."

He brought his lips to my ear again and whispered, "Sometimes there is a blind spot right under your gaze." His cardamom breath raged like the waves of a sweet sea in my ears.

I must have dozed off because when I wake up, the shock of being in the dark is new and someone is trying to prod the back of my head with what seems to be a brick. My initial reaction is that the pitch dark is trick-f.u.c.king my brains and I am inventing imaginary company. I close my eyes again and put the back of my head on the same spot on the wall and again it gets a little push from the brick. I turn around and trace the outline of the brick with my fingers. It is protruding half an inch from the wall. As I am tracing its outline, with a heart that desperately wants to believe in miracles, the brick moves again. It's being pushed from the other side. I put my hand on it and gently push it back. This time, it's pushed towards me more forcefully. The brick is now jutting halfway out from the wall. I hold onto it and gently ease it out of the wall, hoping for the cell to be flooded with light, with bird-song. Nothing happens. It's still as dark as the Mughals intended it to be. I squeeze my hand into the gap, my fingers touch another brick. I prod at it and the brick moves, I give it a little push, it disappears. Still not even a flicker of light. I can feel human breath held at the other end, then gently released. I hear a giggle, a well-formed, deliberate, throaty man's giggle.

The giggle stops and a whisper comes through the hole in the wall; a casual whisper as if we are two courtiers in the Court for the Commons in the Fort, waiting for Akbar the Great to arrive.

"Are you hurting?"

The voice asks me this as if enquiring about the temperature in my cell.

"No," I say. I don't know why I sound so emphatic but I do. "Not at all. Are you?"

The giggle returns. Some nut they put in here and forgot, I tell myself.

"Keep your brick safe. You will put it back when I tell you to. You can tell them anything about me but not about this."

"Who are you?" I ask without bothering to put my face near the hole. My voice echoes in the dungeon and the darkness suddenly comes alive, a womb full of possibilities.

"Calm down," he whispers back intensely. "Speak in the hole."

"What are you here for? What's your name?" I whisper, with half my face in the hole.

"I am not so stupid that I'd give you my name. This place is full of spies."

I wait for him to say more. I shift my position and put my ear in the hole. I wait. He speaks after a long pause. "But I can tell you why I am here."

I keep quiet and wait for him to read me his charge sheet, but he stays quiet, perhaps needing encouragement from me.

"I'm listening," I say.

"For killing General Zia," he says.

b.l.o.o.d.y civilians, I want to shout in his face. Major Kiyani has done it deliberately, thrown me into a king-sized grave and given me a crazy civilian for a neighbour and created a channel of communication. This is probably his idea of torture for people from good families.

"Really?" I say with the famous Shigri sneer. "You didn't do a very good job of it. I spoke to him two days ago and he sounded very alive to me."

For a civilian his response is very measured.

"So are you his personal guest? What did you do to deserve this honour?"

"I am from the armed forces. There's been a misunderstanding."

I can tell he is impressed because he is quiet for a long time.

"You're not lying?" he says, his voice half-question, half-bewilderment.

"I am still in uniform," I say, stating the fact but it sounds like an attempt to rea.s.sure myself.

"Put your face in front of the hole, I want to see you."

I put my face in the hole and whisper excitedly. "You got a light?" If he has got a light, he might have a cigarette as well.

I am stunned when the spit hits my eye, too stunned even to respond in kind. By the time I come up with "What the f.u.c.k?", he has shoved the brick back in the hole and I am left rubbing my eye and feeling like an idiot, spat on by someone whose name I don't know, whose face I haven't seen.

What did I say? I get up in anger and start to pace up and down the room, my feet already know when to stop and turn. I try to remember my last words to him. All I told him was that I am still wearing my uniform. I thought civilians loved our uniforms. There are songs on the radio, and dramas on television and special editions of newspapers celebrating this uniform. There are hundreds of thousands of ladies out there waiting to hand their phone number to someone in uniform. My civilian neighbour is probably suffering from an extreme case of jealousy.

How the h.e.l.l am I supposed to know about civilians or what they think? All I know about them is from television or newspapers. On Pakistan National Television they are always singing our praises. The only newspaper that we get in the Academy is the Pakistan Times Pakistan Times which on any given day has a dozen pictures of General Zia, and the only civilians who figure in it are the ones lining up to pay their respects to him. They never tell you about the nutters who want to spit at you. which on any given day has a dozen pictures of General Zia, and the only civilians who figure in it are the ones lining up to pay their respects to him. They never tell you about the nutters who want to spit at you.

I hear the brick sc.r.a.pe against the other bricks. I hear the low whistle from the hole in the wall. I think of replacing my own brick in the wall and turning my loneliness into solitude, as Obaid used to say. But my neighbour is in a communicative mood. I put my ear on the side of the hole, making sure that no part of my face is in his line of attack.

"Are you going to apologise?" he whispers, obviously taunting me.

"For what?" I ask casually, without putting my face to the hole in the wall, without bothering to lower my voice.

"Shh. You'll get us killed," he says furiously. "You guys put me here."

"Who are we guys?"

"The khakis. The army people."

"But I am from the air force," I say, trying to create a wedge between the nation's firmly united armed forces.

"What's the difference? You guys have wings? You guys have b.a.l.l.s?"

I decide to ignore his jibes and try to have a proper conversation with him. I want to give him a chance to prove that he is not a complete civilian nutcase before I slam the brick in his face.

"How long have you been here?"

"Since two days before you people hanged Prime Minister Bhutto."

I ignore his attempt to implicate me in crimes that I have clearly not committed. "What did you do?"

"Have you heard of the All Pakistan Sweepers Union?" I can tell from the pride in his voice that he expects me to know it, but I don't, because I have no interest in the politics of this profession, if cleaning the gutters can be called a profession at all.

"Of course. The body that represents the janitors."