2008 - A Case of Exploding Mangoes (6 page)

I can’t think of anything 2
nd
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. 2
nd
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.

“Is that a punishment or a reward?” Obaid used to ask. The only clear winner in this running feud between the medical establishment and our Commandant is God Himself. The mosque these days has more worshippers than ever before.

When our boys in white see the 2
nd
OIC approaching they scramble to collect their cards and coins and transform themselves from a bunch of one-rupee rummy-rascals to devout young men. 2
nd
OIC gives them an appreciative look as if merely by pretending to pray they have absolved themselves in his and Allah’s eyes. I don’t get it even when he picks up a copy of the Quran from the book racks along the wall in the main prayer hall, hands it over to me and stands there staring. I wait for his next command.

“Now put your right hand on it and tell me that you don’t know why Obaid went AWOL. Tell me you have no knowledge of his whereabouts.”

If I wasn’t in the mosque I could have told him where to go.

“I can’t swear, sir, not on the Quran,” I say.

“So you do know about this,” he says. “By refusing to swear you are admitting your guilt? Look, it’s just you and me and our Allah.” He puts his own right hand on the Quran. “Tell me the truth and I swear on the holy Quran I’ll get you out of this mess.”

“My father made me promise never to swear on the Quran, even if I was telling the truth. In fact, specially if I was telling the truth,” I say in a weary voice, my fingers numb around the velvet cover on the Quran.

“Your father never said a prayer in his life,” he says.

“You are right, sir, but he was a very spiritual man. He respected the sacred Quran and never involved it in worldly affairs,” I say, wondering how Colonel Shigri would have liked being described as a spiritual man.

The Colonel did go through a hectic spiritual phase during which he terminated his whisky sessions at midnight and spent the rest of his nights reciting the Quran. And he
did
tell me never to swear on the holy book. But his spiritual journey didn’t last long enough for anyone to know whether it was, in his own words, ‘a change or for a change’. His copy of the Quran was lying open on his study desk the morning he was found hanging from the ceiling fan by his own bed sheet.

Ceiling fan.

Bed sheet.

His eyes popping out of their sockets.

The Colonel weighed a bloody ton. Where were the laws of physics?

“Some people insist on digging their own grave.” 2
nd
OIC snatches the Quran from my hand and puts it back on the shelf.

“Sir, I really don’t know, but that doesn’t mean I can’t help you find out,” I say, trying desperately to inject my own element of surprise into the proceedings.

“Don’t f—,” he starts to say, but realises that he is in the mosque.

“Get out and fall in outside the mosque,” he shouts at the starch victims.

“I don’t know why the Commandant wants to involve ISI in this,” I say. “Because, sir, you know that Obaid is my friend and I want to find out as much as you do where he went and why,” I say, trampling over everything Sun Tzu has taught us trainee warriors.

“Shut your trap,” he barks. “I am not interested in your sentiments.”

He goes out and has a go at the cadets in white.

“You are turning God’s house into a bloody gambling den…”

One good thing about visiting the mosque is that sometimes it can calm even sinners like me. It is in His hands now, Colonel Shigri used to say in his spiritual phase.

Second night in the cell and I am already feeling at home. Dinner is served. I slip the first-termer a five-rupee note and busy myself with chicken curry, rice and cucumber salad. By the time I finish, the duty cadet is back with a bottle of Coke and two Gold Leaf cigarettes. I finish the bottle in two long gulps and light a Gold Leaf, saving the other one for later.

“You got any magazines?” I ask the duty cadet.

He disappears and returns with a year-old copy of
Reader’s Digest
. I was hoping he’d bring something less intellectual. But then prisoners can’t choose their own entertainment. The duty cadet leaves with the dinner tray, forgetting to take the matchbox from me.

One day this asshole is going to be court-martialled.

Stubbing out the Gold Leaf, I take off my shoes and belt and shirt and settle in for the night. I read ‘Humour in Uniform’ first. Nothing very funny. The only female pictures are in a black-and-white photo feature about Nancy and Ronald Reagan entitled ‘When They Were Young’. Even at twenty-eight she had the face of an old cat’s arse. The Academy censors have done a good job of obliterating her non-existent breasts with a black marker. Even in times as desperate as these I skip the photos and start reading the condensed version of
Escape from Colditz
.

I leave it halfway through and compare my situation with Lieutenant Anthony Rolt’s. It’s obvious to me that I am worse off. Even if I do make a hang-glider out of this foam mattress and some matchsticks, where the hell am I going to jump from?

I flick the pages in a last attempt to find inspiration. In ‘Life is Like That’ there is a five-line anecdote about someone called Sherry Sullivan who washed her car wearing an overall and her neighbour mistook her for her husband. The name does something and my armies are suddenly on the march. I avoid the hole in the mattress. These holes are like highway whores, filthy and tired.

My encounter with Sherry Sullivan ends in such violent throes of passion that the second Gold Leaf is forgotten and I enter a sleep so blissful that in my technicolour dreams the 2
nd
OIC is shining my boots and the Commandant is polishing my sword with the tip of his tongue. Captain Rolt’s hang-glider lands safely in Trafalgar Square.

The morning is even more glorious. I am woken by a waft of Old Spice. Loot Bannon is standing at the door. “Wakey-wakey, dear inmate.”

There are about one thousand and fifty things that I need to ask him. But he is in too cheerful a mood.

“Nice pad you got here,” he says.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” I say. “You found yourself a new Silent Drill Commander?” My attempt at sarcasm is ignored. I light up my second Gold Leaf.

“I see your supply lines are secure.” His turn to be witty.

“Did Obaid tell you anything?” I ask. My matter-of-fact voice surprises me. Gold Leaf on an empty stomach always turns me into a detached thinker.

I know what they call me and Obaid behind our backs.

Fort Bragg bitches.

Just because we are chummy with Bannon. Although Bannon is merely a drill instructor from Fort Bragg—only a lowly lieutenant—in the Academy’s food chain he is somewhere between a shark and a spotted leopard.

“Baby O is on the lam,” he says as if it’s breaking bloody news.

I take a last long puff from the cigarette, inhale a smouldering filter and break into a cough.

“I’m meeting El Comandante for my routine this afternoon. I should have some top info for you by then.” He is suddenly his distant Yankee self.

“And by the way, the Commandant wants you to carry on the good work with the Silent Drill Squad,” he says.

In my relief I decide to stick to philosophy.

“You know what Sun Tzu said? Wait your enemy out and you have won half the battle.”

“Did that old Chink really say that?”

“If he had spent a night in this cell jerking off to
Reader’s Digest
he would have reached the same conclusion.”

As I come down the stairs from the guardroom, surveying the world like only a paroled prisoner can, I confront the limits of my freedom. A middle-aged military police chap carrying an ancient Enfield 303 rifle is waiting for me.

“I have orders to keep you under close guard,” he says. I should have expected it; they are not going to let me roam freely. The only surprise is that Bannon conveniently forgot to tell me about this arrangement. Bannon’s memory has more holes than an overused short-range shooting target.

Let’s see how fast my guard can run.

There is enough time to get to the parade square. I can probably funeral-march to my dorm, have a leisurely bath and still make it in time for the parade, but I feel a sudden burst of energy and start moving at the double, my guard and his 303 rifle trying hard to keep pace with me. The morning breeze welcomes me and I am suddenly flying. The distance between me and my guard keeps increasing. A formation of new recruits passes me and they greet me at strength 5, with the enthusiasm of those starting a new life. “Buck up, boys. The country needs you,” I shout back.

I whistle at a pair of crows kissing on the telephone pole. Our old washerman carrying our laundry on his donkey cart is startled out of his slumber by my loud greeting: “Good morning, Uncle Starchy, go easy on the white stuff.”

In my squadron, the boys are already lined up for the morning dress inspection. Eighty-six yawning faces are spooked to see me running so early in the morning. They come to attention like the creaking wheels of a plane forgotten on the tarmac for too long.

I stand in front of the formation and start jumping on the spot.

“Come on. Wake up,” I shout. “I disappear for a day and you turn into sissies. Where is the Fury Squadron spirit?”

Without any further command they join me, at first reluctantly, and then catching my rhythm they all start running on the spot. I go through the rows, keeping my hand level with their chests, and soon everyone is bringing their knees to touch my hand.

They are happy to have me back.

As if the buggers have a choice.

The police guard stands in a corner, still breathless from running and quite baffled at this enthusiastic reception for his prisoner.

“Right turn. Quick march,” I order. “See you on the square, boys.”

I run towards my dorm not looking back at the police guard. I want to see if he is as meek as he looks. What exactly does he want to guard me from anyway?

He follows me. The bugger follows me all the way into the room and stands close to the door, quite alert by now. I open my cupboard and glance towards Obaid’s bed from the corner of my eye. A crisp white sheet is folded over a grey blanket. It looks like a Hindu widow in mourning. I take a deep breath and survey my cupboard. Here’s all my life folded up, in neat little piles: uniform shirts on the left, trousers on the right, my Under Officer’s golden epaulettes at a right angle to the peaked cap, toothbrush in line with toothpaste tube and shaving cream balanced on its cap and parallel to shaving brush; all the exhibits of my everyday life are displayed according to the standard cupboard manual. I open the drawer to check what I already know. They have been through it. I glance at the sword hanging on the inside of the cupboard door. A green silk thread from its tasselled hilt is casually tied around the top of the scabbard; exactly the way I left it. I think about going towards Obaid’s bed. My guard looks at the bed too. I start to undress.

My hands move down the front of my shirt, opening the buttons while I quickly go through my options. I throw my shirt over my shoulder without looking back and pull the vest out of my trousers. The guard shuffles his feet, his fingers fidget around the ancient muzzle of his rifle. The bugger has no plans to move. Turning to him I yank down the zip on my fly, then move towards him with my fingers pulling down the waistband on my underwear.

“Uncle 303, you really want to see?”

He beats an embarrassed retreat out of the room, walking backwards.

I bolt the door and lunge towards Obaid’s bed. No point looking in the side table. They have taken everything. I turn the mattress around. They have obviously not thought that there can be other places in the mattress besides the obligatory hole. There is a zip on the side, I open it, slip my hand in. My fingers go back and forth, exploring the dead spongy surface of the foam mattress. I find an opening and slip my hand into the foam tunnel. My fingers touch a smooth piece of silk cloth and I pull it out.

Obaid’s hankie, rose-patterned. It smells of Poison and Obaid and there is a five-digit number on it. Obaid’s handwriting, all elegant dashes and curves.