2008 - A Case of Exploding Mangoes (24 page)

“It was dark but they had torches. There were three of them. There might have been another one outside the door. They smelled of car petrol, their hands were soft so they weren’t peasants. They tied my hands, they hit me when I asked them to let me go in their mothers’, sisters’ names. They were animals.”

“But I like it here,” she told the jailer. “My cell mate is due to give birth in two weeks. I have other friends here. I want to live here.”

Then she thought about what she had just said.

“I want to die here.”

“The orders have come from the President,” the jailer said, using a tone that she had never used with Zainab before, making it clear that it was final, even more final than her death sentence. Zainab also smelled fear in her voice and wondered whether the jailer would be punished as well.

And that thought, her having to leave her friends behind, and the idea that the jailer who gave her the sunglasses might be punished, overwhelmed Zainab for an instant and she did something that she had never done before. Blind Zainab who had listened in silence when a lecherous judge sentenced her to death, she who had not given her tormentors the satisfaction of a scream, she who had spent her life thanking God and forgiving His men for what they did to her: Zainab screamed and Zainab cursed.

“May worms eat the innards of the person who is taking me away from my home. May his children not see his face in death.”

The jailer felt relieved. She was irritated by Zainab’s reckless fortitude. She didn’t want her to go quietly.

It is a well-known fact that curses are the last resort of frustrated mothers and useless weapons for people who do not even have the courage or vocabulary to come up with proper invective for their enemies. It is also a well-known fact that most curses don’t work. The only way they can work is if a crow hears a curse from someone who has fed him to a full stomach and then carries it to the person who has been cursed. Crows, notoriously gluttonous, never feel as if their stomachs are full. They are also wayward creatures, their movement can never be predicted. They never bother carrying anything anywhere. Zainab didn’t even notice when the crow, having checked the ground for any leftover bits of bread, flapped its wings languidly and took off. When he was high above the jail, from where he could see other groups of sparrows doing their silly dance in front of the prisoners, he felt a western current in the air above him. He flew up, stopped napping his wings and two days later crossed the border into India where the wheat season starts early and the electric poles are safer.

Zainab
packed her two pairs of clothes and waited for her own journey to begin. She was handcuffed and put in the back of a jeep. She noticed that there were no guards with her. Where was a handcuffed blind woman going to go? She prayed for an easy birth for her cell mate and forgot all about whom she had cursed and why.

The crow tucked his wings under his body and let the current carry him.

Crows may not have a conscience but their memory lasts for ninety years.

It was after the jeep carrying her stopped and didn’t move and nobody came to tell her to get off that
Zainab
thought she had arrived at the place she was being carried to. She took her clothes bundle, moved aside the canvas curtain and got off the jeep. She smelled a lot of smoke and a lot of men and for a moment she thought they had sent her to a men’s jail. She heard a passing siren and she kept walking, hoping to be led to a cell to live the rest of her life. The people who surrounded her were impatient. In jails people know how to stay still. After walking a few yards and avoiding stepping on anyone’s feet, she held the arm of a man who seemed still and patient and asked: “Where am I supposed to live?”

The man pressed a soggy two-rupee note in her hand and told her to wait like everyone else.

“I am not a beggar,” she said, but the man had already walked off.

A hand gripped her arm firmly. “Where do you think you are going, old woman? We are taking you to the Fort. The press won’t be able to bother you there.”

I
wake up to my neighbour’s desperate whispers echoing in my cell. “Comrade. Comrade.” My fists are clenched and sand sticks to my sweaty palms. “Comrade.”

It takes me a moment to orient myself, another to recognise the source of these whispers. By the time I rub my palms against the back of my trousers and move towards the hole in the wall I am thinking that it seems I have been accepted back into the struggle.

“Yes, comrade,” I say with the flourish of a veteran communist.

His voice is raspy and full of excitement.

“Can you smell a woman?” he says.

“I can smell them from a mile away, Comrade Secretary General. Specially if they smell nice.”

“No,” he whispers agitatedly. “Can you smell a woman here?”

I take a deep breath and smell the stench of my own teeth, which haven’t been brushed for I don’t know how many days.

“Did you smell it? She is close, very close.”

“As close as your revolution?”

“This is not the time to make jokes. We need to stick together. I think it might be the cell next to yours.”

“This is the Fort. What could a woman possibly do to end up here?”

“You don’t know these people. They are capable of anything. She is definitely in the cell next to you. Talk to her.”

“I am in no mood for female company, Secretary General. I don’t like women on an empty stomach. You talk to her.”

“The bourgeoisie protect their own even in prison. Why couldn’t they have put her in the cell beside mine? You get chicken to eat and a woman as a neighbour and what do I get? An army deserter as a neighbour and stinking food.”

“I am not a deserter,” I explain. “I am still in uniform.” There is the silence of two hungry men in the dark.

“You know what you could do, comrade…” His whisper is suddenly full of genuine longing and his breathing is heavy.

“I am with you, comrade,” I say.

“You can find the brick in the wall with her cell. You can talk to her. You can ask her to put her tit in the hole and then you can touch it.”

“And what makes you think she’ll do it?”

“Tell her you are in the army.”

I hear steps in the corridor; they stop in front of my dungeon. I put the brick in the hole and sit down with my back against the wall.

There is a knock on the door. Who knocks on a prisoner’s door? They probably want to see whether I am dead or alive. I try to stand up without making any sound- My knees tremble, I put a hand on the wall for support, try to moisten my chapped lips with my tongue and say in a faint but firm voice: “Yes.”

The door opens with a creak, the light is dull and faded and the sharp smell of home-made jasmine perfume overwhelms me. The man wielding a pair of handcuffs is not wearing a uniform but I can tell from his civilian hairstyle that he is one of Major Kiyani’s men. No point asking him what his orders are. After starving me in this black hole for eternity they have decided to formally arrest me. Life is not about to get better. I wish Secretary General could see me in handcuffs. He would be proud. The soldier takes his time with my blindfold, adjusting it over my eyebrows and nose, blocking out any stray rays of light, making sure I can breathe. Even from behind my blindfold I feel a surge of bright white sunlight as I am led up the stairs and into the cloister between the Court for the Commons and the Palace of Mirrors. The air in the Fort smells of grass, freshly cut and watered. I wish I could scratch the back of my neck.

The jeep goes through a crowded bazaar. I smell cakes and cow dung and raw mangoes. I hear the hawkers hawking and traffic police constables whistling at buses and buses honking back, a duet that is melody to my ears after days and nights of the dungeon’s silence. The jeep comes out on a leafy avenue, the air is full of floating pollen, the traffic is orderly, the cars sound new and stop at traffic signals. The trees along the road smell like sunburnt eucalyptus. The jeep stops at a place smelling of metal polish and army boots. A gate opens and the jeep moves forward slowly. In the distance I can hear the rumble of an aircraft preparing to take off. And then the very familiar smell of aircraft fuel, and the sound of idling propellers.

They want to fly me back to the Academy with honour because they have found no evidence against me.

Or they want to throw me out of the plane because they have found no evidence and don’t need it.

I read in
Reader’s Digest
that in some Latin American country that is what the army was doing: taking prisoners up in a plane and then throwing them from an altitude of twenty thousand feet, over the sea. Handcuffed.

I flex my arms as a hand grips my shoulder and leads me up a ladder. Anyone trying to throw me off this plane would come with me. I am not going alone.

I can tell as soon as I step off the ladder and into the plane that I am in a Hercules C13O. Why do they need a whole C13O to transport a single person? A C13O is like a huge flying truck, it can take twenty thousand kilograms, the combined weight of an armoured jeep and a tank, and still have space left for their crews. Its backdoor ramp is like the gate of a town house, a vehicle can pass through it, dozens of paratroopers can jump. Or somebody can be thrown out. The man holding my shoulder asks me to sit in a webbed seat, fastens my nylon seat belt, asks me if I’d prefer my hands behind me or in front. In front, of course, you moron. My hands are free for a moment. No time for heroics.

I smell the animals before I hear their muffled bleating and the sound of their tiny, nervous feet on the metal floor of the cabin. They smell like freshly bathed goats but their bleating sounds oddly strangled. I wriggle in my seat and want to announce that I am on the wrong flight. The back gate creaks shut, the propellers pick up speed and suddenly the cabin is full of the pungent smell of animal piss. As the aircraft’s nose lifts off the runway, the smell becomes even stronger. The animals are obviously not used to flying.

Distracted by the din of the aircraft and stench of the animals, I jump from my seat when a hand tousles my hair and a rasping voice says, “You shouldn’t have done it, sir.”

“What?” I say, genuinely baffled.

“Whatever you did. They wouldn’t put handcuffs on you if you hadn’t done anything.”

Fuck off, I want to say. I stay silent.

“Do you want me to remove your blindfold?”

“Are you sure?” I say, suddenly very courteous.

“They didn’t say anything about you. And we are airborne, what can you possibly see?”

He tries to move the blindfold above my eyes and his fat fingers linger on my cheeks more than they push the cloth. I bend my head offering him the knot at the back of my head. His attempts to untie the knot are exaggerated. His fingers are straying onto my neck, my shoulders. Then he puts his teeth on the knot and I can feel his slobbering lips at the back of my neck, inches below where he should be directing his efforts. He comes closer and I can feel his cock poking my shoulder. For a moment I think of bringing my handcuffed hands up and strangling his cock with the chain between my handcuffs.

You might be going to your death, but there is always someone else there pursuing their own agenda.

I am adjusting my hands for the right angle of attack when his teeth get into the knot in the right place; one hard jab of his cock in my armpit and my blindfold is off.

He is sweating after all the hard work. His loadmaster’s overalls are olive green and oil-stained and they rise like a little tent over his crotch.
Fayyaz
, his nameplate shamelessly announces. I stare at his face without blinking as if remembering his pathetic features. He shuffles back to his seat across the cabin.

Between us on the floor are nine mountain lambs in various stages of misery, shivering under their tight little woolly curls. Their hind legs are tied with rope so that they can’t move. Some are sprawled on the floor of the cabin, others are on their knees. One of them has thrown up and is struggling to breathe with his face on the floor, others are huddling together. Under their meshed muzzles, their faces are perplexed question marks.

Since when did the Pakistan Air Force start dealing in livestock? I want to ask Fayyaz, but he is only a fat horny loadmaster.

“Where are they going?” I ask.

“Same place we art going,” he says with a coy smile.

“Which is where?”

“I am not allowed to tell you,” he says, looking at the lambs as if they might hear the destination and not like it.

“Have you ever been to the Lahore Fort?” I ask him casually.

“No. But I have seen it on TV.” He is puzzled.

“No, Loadmaster Fayyaz.” I chew his name before spitting it out. “There is another fort under that fort they show on the television. It’s for the collaborators, the likes of you.” I start looking at the lambs again.

“They are going for the party,” he says with his hands folded in his lap. It seems he has got a handle on his runaway lust. “They can get the finest goat meat in Islamabad, but they want Afghani lambs. I doubt whether these will survive till the fourth of July.”

“The Americans are having a party?”

“It’s their Independence Day. We have been bringing food from all over the country for the past week. It must be a big party.”

I close my eyes and wonder whether Bannon is going.

The lambs have just begun to get used to the din of the aircraft and the fluctuating cabin pressure when the aircraft starts to descend steeply. They retch and bleat under their muzzles. The one with his face on the floor gets up and raises his front legs in an attempted capriole but stumbles and falls into his own piss.

“I need to put your blindfold back on,” the loadmaster says, in a voice full of expectations. I beckon him towards me with my cuffed hands and give him a murderous look. He is a man of the world. He gets the message and puts my blindfold back without touching a single hair on my body.

The back door opens as soon as the aircraft comes to a standstill. I can hear the lambs sliding down the ramp, their first and last flight probably already a nightmare in the past. Another hand on my shoulder and I am led down a ladder. The air outside smells of hot concrete, burning landing gear and evaporating air fuel.