Bloodthirsty witches are wrestling.
“Horseshoe.”
A pair of baby pigs stare at me.
“Yoda in the mirror.”
The last picture is as clear as the painter of these sick pictures could make them; a pair of testicles placed on a block of pink ice.
“Mangoes,” I say. “Or some fruit. Maybe on ice.”
I sit and stare into the empty cup of tea while the doctor records his last observations feverishly on his notepad.
He is definitely in a hurry. He throws his pictures, papers, pencil in his briefcase, wishes me luck—“Good luck, young man”—and is already standing at the door, adjusting his beret; another Medical Corps insignia, another pair of snakes with their tongues out.
“Sir, why were you sent—?”
“Remember, young man, our motto is To do or die. Never ask.”
“Sir. Medical Corps’ motto is to To serve humanity without —”
“Look, young man, I have to catch a flight to Islamabad. They want the results back immediately. They are probably trying to find out if you know what you have been doing. Do you?”
“I haven’t done anything.”
“That answer doesn’t figure in this questionnaire so I can’t really include it in my assessment. You can tell him that.”
He signals to the soldier who brought me from the bathroom and who has suddenly appeared in the doorway.
“Good luck. It seems you are from a good family.”
The soldier doesn’t blindfold me. He walks me into a room that is trying very hard to look like a torture chamber. A barber’s chair with rubber straps on its armrests is connected to amateurish-looking electrical devices. An assortment of canes, leather whips and scythes are arranged on a table along with a glass jar of chilli powder. Nylon ropes hang from a hook on a wall and a pair of old tyres is connected to the ceiling with metal chains, probably to hang the prisoners upside down. The only new item is a white Philips iron, unplugged. A torture chamber that doubles as a laundry room, I wonder. It all seems decorative, a bit like an abandoned theatre set. But then I look up at the ceiling, see splashes of dried blood and, looking around again, realise that all the paraphernalia is functional. I still can’t figure out how the hell they managed to splash someone’s blood onto the ceiling.
“Sir, please take off your uniform,” the soldier says respectfully.
I guess I am about to find out.
“Why?” I say, trying to muster up some officer-like dignity.
“I want to make sure there are no marks on your body.”
I take off my shirt, slowly. He takes it from me and puts it on a hanger. My boots are put aside. He folds my trousers carefully. I spread my hands, challenging him to come and do whatever it is that he needs to do. He points to my underwear.
I oblige.
He goes around me. I stand upright, hands folded at the back, not fiddling, not scratching. If he wants to see me naked, he’ll not get the satisfaction of looking at a coy pansy.
I am waiting for the interrogation to start but he doesn’t seem to have any questions.
“Sir, please stand in a corner and don’t touch anything.” He plugs the iron into a socket before leaving the room.
Even professional torturers must procrastinate sometimes, I tell myself. Or maybe it’s some kind of do-it-yourself torture system; you stand and stare at these instruments and imagine how your various body parts would respond to them. I try not to think about the amber light on the iron. Major Kiyani did say no marks.
He returns with the yellow-green file and a new-found interest in my family.
“Are you related to the late Colonel Shigri?”
I take a deep breath and nod.
“I came to his funeral. You probably don’t remember me.”
I search his face for any clues to his intentions.
“I hope you’ll forgive me, sir. I am only doing my duty.”
I nod my head again as if I have already forgiven him. He seems like someone who wants to help but doesn’t want to be misunderstood.
“You know he built this place. On two weeks’ notice. I was the construction supervisor.”
“I thought Mughals built this place.”
A torture chamber is not exactly the right place to discuss the achievements of your ancestors.
“No, sir, this extension, the offices, the barracks and all this stuff underground. He ordered the construction.”
Nice work, Dad.
The file in his hand is marked ‘Confidential’ and carries my air force number. I wonder what it says about me. About Obaid? About us?
“Did he order this as well? Did he use to…?” I wave my hand towards the barber’s chair and chains hanging from the ceiling.
“The Colonel was only doing his duty.” He shuts the file and clasps it to his chest under his folded arms. I knew Dad was running the logistics of guerrilla war in Afghanistan for General Zia. I knew he was liaising between the Americans who were funding the war and the ISI, which was responsible for distributing these funds to the mujahideen. But he never told me his duty involved building and managing facilities like this one.
“We are all doing our duty,” I whisper and lunge towards the table besides the barber’s chair, where I pick up a scythe and hold it to my neck. The metal is cold but it doesn’t seem that it can cut anything.
“Don’t move. If you move you’ll find lots of marks on my body.”
He unfolds his hands, still not sure what I want from him.
“Give me that file.”
He clutches the file with one hand and extends his arm towards me. “Sir, don’t be foolish.”
“For five minutes. Nobody will know.” The threat in my voice is overshadowed by the implicit reassurance.
He moves hesitantly towards me, clutching the file to his side. He probably has no experience of being blackmailed by naked prisoners.
“This is the least you can do after all my father did for you,” I urge him.
I have no idea what Dad might have done for him. But he did say he had attended the funeral.
“Five minutes.” He looks towards the door and scratches the half-moon scar on his cheek, which has suddenly turned red.
I nod energetically and extend my hand towards him, offering him the scythe as a sign of my peaceful intentions.
He takes the scythe with one hand and gives me the file. His hand trembles.
The preliminary report filed by Major Kiyani…
I flip over the cover page. The first report is my own statement. I turn the page and something falls out. I pick up a Polaroid picture from the floor. The picture is fuzzy; a mangled propeller, a smashed canopy, a wing ripped from the fuselage. It all adds up to a crashed MF17. The picture has a date at the bottom; it shows the day Obaid went AWOL. My eyes blur for a moment. I put the picture back in the file. Another form, another statement with Bannon’s signature. “Paper profile: Under Officer Shigri.” Words like bright officer, personal loss, secretive behaviour flash in front of my eyes before I hear footsteps approaching the room.
“Later,” says the soldier. He grabs the file from me and before I can anticipate his next move, lifts me up by my waist, shoves my head into the tyre and pulls a metal chain. I find myself hanging halfway between the floor and the ceiling.
Major Kiyani’s voice is hoarse and he is not pleased to see me swinging calmly in the air, my torso balanced on the tyre.
“I said no marks.” Major Kiyani walks below me in a circle. Dunhill smoke wafts into my nostrils and I inhale it eagerly. “I didn’t say, start a picnic here.”
Then he picks up the Philips iron and stands close to my head, his gelled hair and burly eyebrows level with my face. He brings the tip of the iron close to my left eyebrow. My eyes squeeze shut in panic. I smell burning hair and jerk my head backwards.