Part 1 (2/2)

Before leaving the cell he asked me if I had any questions. I asked him whether I'd be able to attend the silent drill rehearsal as we were preparing for the President's annual inspection. I requested 2nd OIC to inform Lieutenant Bannon that I could continue to work on my silent cadence in the cell. 2 OIC to inform Lieutenant Bannon that I could continue to work on my silent cadence in the cell. 2nd OIC made a joke about two marines and a bar of soap in a Fort Bragg bathroom. I didn't think I was supposed to laugh and I didn't. OIC made a joke about two marines and a bar of soap in a Fort Bragg bathroom. I didn't think I was supposed to laugh and I didn't.

I hereby declare that I saw Cadet Obaid last when he was lying in his bed reading a book of poetry in English the night before his disappearance. The book had a red cover and what looked like a lengthened shadow of a man. I don't remember the name of the book. After lights out I heard him sing an old Indian song in a low voice. I asked him to shut up. The last thing I remember before going to sleep is that he was still humming the same song.

I did not see him in the morning and I have described my day's activities accurately in this statement in the presence of the undersigned.

In closing I would like to state that in the days leading up to Cadet Obaid absenting himself without any plausible cause, I did not notice anything unusual about his conduct. Only three days before going AWOL he had received his fourth green strip for taking active part in After Dinner Literary Activities (ADLA). He had made plans to take me out at the weekend for ice cream and to watch Where Eagles Dare Where Eagles Dare. If he had any plans about absenting himself without any justifiable cause he never shared them with me or anyone else as far as I know.

I also wish to humbly request that my close arrest is uncalled for and if I cannot be allowed to return to my dorm I should be allowed to keep the command of my Silent Drill Squad because tomorrow's battles are won in today's practice.

Statement signed and witnessed by: Squadron Leader Karimullah, 2nd OIC, PAF Academy OIC, PAF Academy

Life is in Allah's hands but...

ONE.

There is something about these b.l.o.o.d.y squadron leaders that makes them think that if they lock you up in a cell, put their stinking mouth to your ear and shout something about your mother they can find all the answers. They are generally a sad lot, these leaders without any squadrons to lead. It's their own lack of leaders.h.i.+p qualities that stops them mid-career, nowhere for them to go except from one training inst.i.tute to another, permanent seconds in command to one commander or the other. You can tell them from their belts, loose and low, straining under the weight of their paunches. Or from their berets, so carefully positioned to hide that s.h.i.+ny bald patch. Schemes for part-time MBAs and a new life are trying hard to keep pace with missed promotions and pension plans.

Look at the arrangement of fruit salad on my tormentor's chest above the left pocket of his uniform s.h.i.+rt and you can read his whole biography. A faded paratrooper's badge is the only thing that he had to leave his barracks to earn. The medals in the first row just came and pinned themselves to his chest. He got them because he was there. The 40th Independence Day medal. The Squadron Anniversary medal. Today-I-did-not-j.e.r.k.-.o.f.f. medal. Then the second row, fruits of his own hard labour and leaders.h.i.+p. One for organising a squash tournament, another for the great battle that was tree-plantation week. The leader with his mouth to my ear and my mother on his mind has had a freebie to Mecca and is wearing a haj medal too. Independence Day medal. The Squadron Anniversary medal. Today-I-did-not-j.e.r.k.-.o.f.f. medal. Then the second row, fruits of his own hard labour and leaders.h.i.+p. One for organising a squash tournament, another for the great battle that was tree-plantation week. The leader with his mouth to my ear and my mother on his mind has had a freebie to Mecca and is wearing a haj medal too.

As Obaid used to say, ”G.o.d's glory. G.o.d's glory. For every monkey there is a houri.”

2nd OIC is wasting more of his already wasted life trying to break me down with his bad breath and his incessant shouting. Doesn't he know that I actually invented some of the bulls.h.i.+t that he is pouring into my ear? Hasn't he heard about the s.h.i.+gri treatment? Doesn't he know that I used to get invited to other squadrons in the middle of the night to make the new arrivals cry with my three-minute routine about their mothers? Does he really think that f.u.c.k-your-f.u.c.king mother, even when delivered at strength 5, still has any meaning when you are weeks away from the President's annual inspection and becoming a commissioned officer? OIC is wasting more of his already wasted life trying to break me down with his bad breath and his incessant shouting. Doesn't he know that I actually invented some of the bulls.h.i.+t that he is pouring into my ear? Hasn't he heard about the s.h.i.+gri treatment? Doesn't he know that I used to get invited to other squadrons in the middle of the night to make the new arrivals cry with my three-minute routine about their mothers? Does he really think that f.u.c.k-your-f.u.c.king mother, even when delivered at strength 5, still has any meaning when you are weeks away from the President's annual inspection and becoming a commissioned officer?

The theory used to be d.a.m.n simple: any good soldier learns to shut out the noise and de-link such expressions from their apparent meaning. I mean, when they say that thing about your mother, they have absolutely no intention-and I am certain no desire either-to do what they say they want to do with your mother. They say it because it comes out rapid-fire and sounds cool and requires absolutely no imagination. The last syllable of 'mother' reverberates in your head for a while as it is delivered with their lips glued to your ear. And that is just about that. They have not even seen your poor mother.

Anybody who breaks down at the sheer volume of this should stay in his little village and tend his father's goats or should study biology and become a doctor and then they can have all the b.l.o.o.d.y peace and quiet they want. Because as a soldier, noise is the first thing you learn to defend yourself against, and as an officer noise is the first weapon of attack you learn to use.

Unless you are in the Silent Drill Squad.

Look at the parade square during the morning drill and see who commands it. Who rules? There are more than one thousand of us, picked from a population of one hundred and thirty million, put through psychological and physical tests so strenuous that only one in a hundred applicants makes it, and when this cream of our nation, as we are constantly reminded we are, arrives here, who leads them? The one with the loudest voice, the one with the clearest throat, the one whose chest can expand to produce a command that stuns the morning crows and makes the most stubborn of cadets raise their knees to waist level and bring the world to a standstill as their heels land on the concrete.

Or at least that is what I believed before Lieutenant Bannon arrived with his theories about inner cadence, silent commands, and subsonic drill techniques. 'A drill with commands is just that-a drill,' Bannon is fond of saying. ”A drill without commands is an art. When you deliver a command at the top of your voice, only the boys in your squadron listen. But when your inner cadence whispers, the G.o.ds take notice.”

Not that Bannon believes in any G.o.d.

I wonder whether he'll visit me here. I wonder whether they will let him into this cell.

2nd OIC is exhausted from his business with my mother and I can see an appeal to my better sense on its way. I clench my stomach muscles against the impending 'cream of the nation' speech. I don't want to throw up. The cell is small and I have no idea how long I am going to be here. OIC is exhausted from his business with my mother and I can see an appeal to my better sense on its way. I clench my stomach muscles against the impending 'cream of the nation' speech. I don't want to throw up. The cell is small and I have no idea how long I am going to be here.

”You are the cream of our nation,” he says shaking his head. ”You have been the pride of our Academy. I have just recommended you for the sword of honour. You are going to receive it from the President of Pakistan. You have two choices: graduate with honour in four weeks or go out front-rolling to the sound of drums. Tomorrow. Clap. Clap. Tony Singh style.” He brings his hands together twice, like those Indian film extras in a qawwali chorus.

They did that to Tony Singh. Drummed the poor b.u.g.g.e.r out. I never figured out what the h.e.l.l Tony Singh was doing in the air force of the Islamic Republic anyway. Before meeting Tony Singh (or Sir Tony as we had to call him since he was six courses senior to us), the only Tony I knew was our neighbour's dog and the only Singh I had seen was in my history textbook, a one-eyed maharaja who ruled Punjab a couple of centuries ago. I thought the Part.i.tion took care of all the Tonys and the Singhs, but apparently some didn't get the message.

Tony Singh didn't get the message even when they found a transistor radio in his dorm and charged him with spying. Top of the Pops Top of the Pops was Sir Tony's defence. They reduced the charge to un-officer-like behaviour and drummed him out anyway. was Sir Tony's defence. They reduced the charge to un-officer-like behaviour and drummed him out anyway.

A lone drummer-a corporal who, after carrying the biggest drum in the Academy band all his life, had begun to look like one-led the way; keeping a thud, thud, thud-a-dud marching beat. More than one thousand of us lined both sides of Eagles Avenue that leads from the guardroom to the main gate.

At ease, came the command.

Tony Singh emerged from the guardroom, having spent a couple of nights in this very cell. His head was shaved, but he still wore his uniform. He stood tall and refused to look down or sideways.

Clap, came the command.

We started slowly. 2nd OIC removed Sir Tony's belt and the ranks from his shoulder flaps and then he took a step forward and whispered something into Sir Tony's ear. Sir Tony went down on his knees, put both his hands on the road and did a front roll without touching his shaved head on the ground. OIC removed Sir Tony's belt and the ranks from his shoulder flaps and then he took a step forward and whispered something into Sir Tony's ear. Sir Tony went down on his knees, put both his hands on the road and did a front roll without touching his shaved head on the ground.

The b.u.g.g.e.r was trying to be c.o.c.ky even when his a.s.s was raised to the skies.

His journey was painfully slow. The drumbeat became unbearable after a while. Some cadets clapped more enthusiastically than others.

I glanced sideways and saw Obaid trying hard to control his tears.

”Sir, I swear to G.o.d I have no knowledge of Cadet Obaid's whereabouts,” I say, trying to tread the elusive line between grovelling and spitting in his face.

2nd OIC wants to get home. An evening of domestic cruelty and OIC wants to get home. An evening of domestic cruelty and Baywatch Baywatch beckons him. He waves my statement in front of me. ”You have one night to think this through. Tomorrow it goes to the Commandant and the only thing he hates more than his men disappearing is their clever-d.i.c.k collaborators. He is looking forward to the President's visit. We are all looking forward to the visit. Don't f.u.c.k it up.” beckons him. He waves my statement in front of me. ”You have one night to think this through. Tomorrow it goes to the Commandant and the only thing he hates more than his men disappearing is their clever-d.i.c.k collaborators. He is looking forward to the President's visit. We are all looking forward to the visit. Don't f.u.c.k it up.”

He turns to go. My upper body slumps. He puts one hand on the door handle and turns; my upper body comes back to attention. ”I saw your father once, and he was a soldier's b.l.o.o.d.y soldier. Look at yourself.” A leery grin appears on his lips. ”You mountain boys get lucky because you have no hair on your face.”

I salute him, using all my silent drill practice to contain the inner cadence, which is saying, ”f.u.c.k your mother too.”

I wonder for a moment what Obaid would do in this cell. The first thing that would have bothered him is the smell 2nd OIC has left behind. This burnt onions, home-made yogurt gone bad smell. The smell of suspicion, the smell of things not quite having gone according to plan. Because our Obaid, our Baby O, believes that there is nothing in the world that a splash of Poison on your wrist and an old melody can't take care of. OIC has left behind. This burnt onions, home-made yogurt gone bad smell. The smell of suspicion, the smell of things not quite having gone according to plan. Because our Obaid, our Baby O, believes that there is nothing in the world that a splash of Poison on your wrist and an old melody can't take care of.

He is innocent in a way that lonesome canaries are innocent, flitting from one branch to another, the tender flutter of their wings and a few millilitres of blood keeping them airborne against the gravity of this world that wants to pull everyone down to its rotting surface.

What chance would Obaid have with this 2nd OIC? Baby O, the whisperer of ancient couplets, the singer of golden oldies. How did he make it through the selection process? How did he manage to pa.s.s the Officer-Like Qualities Test? How did he lead his fellow candidates through the mock jungle survival scenarios? How did he bluff his way through the psychological profiles? OIC? Baby O, the whisperer of ancient couplets, the singer of golden oldies. How did he make it through the selection process? How did he manage to pa.s.s the Officer-Like Qualities Test? How did he lead his fellow candidates through the mock jungle survival scenarios? How did he bluff his way through the psychological profiles?

All they needed to do was pull down his pants and see his silk briefs with the little embroidered hearts on the waistband.

Where are you, Baby O?

Lieutenant Bannon saw us for the first time at the annual variety show doing our Dove and Hawk dance. This was before the Commandant replaced these variety shows with Quran Study Circles and After Dinner Literary Activities. As third-termers we had to do all the s.h.i.+tty fancy-dress numbers and seniors got to lip-sync to George Michael songs. We were miming to a very macho, revolutionary poem. I, the imperialist Eagle, swooped down on Obaid's Third World Dove; he fought back, and for the finale sat on my chest drawing blood from my neck with his cardboard beak.

Bannon came to meet us backstage as we were shedding our ridiculous feathers. ”Hooah, you zoomies should be in Hollywood!” His handshake was exaggerated and firm. ”Good show. Good show.” He turned towards Obaid, who was cleaning the brown boot polish from his cheeks with a hankie. ”You're just a kid without that warpaint,” Bannon said. ”What's your name?”

In the background, Sir Tony's 'Careless Whisper' was so out of tune that the speakers screeched in protest.

Under his crimson beret, Bannon's face was beaten leather, his eyes shallow green pools that had not seen a drop of rain in years.

”Obaid. Obaid-ul-llah.”

<script>