Brigadier TM looked at the Founder’s portrait with admiration; he didn’t mind civilians if they were properly dressed and behaved like civilians. “Look at this guy.” He took a step towards the portrait. “He was a civilian and he wore civilian clothes and he said civilian things, but at heart he was a soldier.” TM didn’t mind saluting this guy, out of sheer patriotism, the kind of patriotism that only a decorated soldier can feel; he took a step backwards and saluted. As his foot landed on the carpet, his hand made an arc in the air and his open palm reached his eyebrow, the frame tilted. It tilted ever so slightly, but Brigadier TM’s alert eyes noticed the tilt and he suddenly looked around. He felt embarrassed and shy, like a child who has disturbed an immaculate ikebana arrangement at a rich cousin’s house. Brigadier TM moved forward, held the frame by its corners with both his hands, took a step back to see if it was level and then with a shudder let the frame go. His right hand reached for his holster and stopped. The Founder had winked at him from behind his monocle. He could swear he had seen his left eye move.
“I have done that myself sometimes.”
When TM heard General Zia’s voice, he turned round and saluted, this time less aggressively, shifting his feet slightly to cover the frame so that Zia couldn’t see the tilt in it.
Without his uniform and presidential paraphernalia, General Zia seemed to have shrunk. His silk gown floated about him. His moustache, always waxed and twirled, drooped over his upper lip.
He was sucking it nervously. His hair, always oiled and parted down the middle, was in a state of disarray, like a parade squad on tea break.
“He was the only true leader we have ever had,” General Zia said and stopped as if expecting Brigadier TM to correct him.
Brigadier TM was still in shock. He didn’t believe in superstitions. He didn’t believe in coincidences. He knew that if your gun was oiled and safety catch unlocked, it would shoot. He knew if your wind-speed calculations were accurate and you knew how to control your descent, your parachute would land you where you wanted to land. He knew if you mentioned a prisoner’s daughter’s name after keeping him awake for three days, he would talk. Brigadier TM had no experience of monocle-wearing dead men in gilt-edged frames blinking back to his salutes.
“This portrait is not security-cleared, sir. General Akhtar should not have violated Code Red.”
“Dear son, I can live with the rumours in the American rags but do I have to be scared of pictures gifted to me by my own intelligence chief? Is General Akhtar under suspicion now? Are you saying I am not safe even in my own drawing room?” General Zia paused for a moment, then added, “Or do you not like the man in the picture?”
“He was a civilian, sir, but he got us this country.”
General Zia thrust his hands in the pockets of his gown to hide his irritation; Brigadier TM had no sense of history. “Well, if you compare him to that banya Gandhi, or that fornicator Nehru, yes, of course he was a great leader. But since then there have been others who in their own humble way…” General Zia looked at TM’s blank face, realised that he wasn’t going to get any compliments from him and decided to change the subject.
“Son, I feel like a prisoner in this house. These ISI people are stupid. They know how to fight the Russians, by jingo they’ve got their spies spread across half the world, but they can’t figure out who is trying to assassinate their own President.”
One thing that Brigadier TM never did was snitch on his brothers in uniform, even if they chose not to wear their uniforms. He also tried to change the topic, came up with a proposal and immediately regretted it.
“Why don’t you go for an Umra, sir?”
General Zia went to Mecca at least ten times a year and Brigadier TM had to accompany him. He knew General Zia felt very safe there, but he also knew that General Zia behaved like a twelve-year-old having a bad birthday. He threw tantrums, he cried, he smashed his head against the black marble wall of the Khana Kaaba, he sprinted around it as if he was in some kind of competitive run, not on a pilgrimage.
“Do you think Jinnah would go on a pilgrimage under these circumstances?”
Brigadier TM felt the Founder’s eye blink at the back of his head. He wanted to point out that Jinnah had never gone on a pilgrimage to Mecca. He wanted to say that even if he had found the time to get away for some spiritual replenishment, the Founder would have probably headed for a pub in west London. TM stood at attention, ignoring Zia’s question. He wriggled his toes in his boots; he wasn’t sure if his head was getting the blood circulation it needed.
“Did Jinnah ever have to make these decisions?” General Zia made a last desperate attempt to educate Brigadier TM about the vestiges of history. “Did Jinnah ever have to fight the Russians in the morning and convince the Americans in the evening that it is a fight still worth fighting? Was he ever a prisoner in his own Army House?”
“Yes, sir.” Brigadier TM shouted and brought his heels together.
“I think I need to be in the country.”
Brigadier TM felt relieved. He didn’t want to go to Mecca. He didn’t want to be in that empty, black marble room again.
Brigadier TM felt alive when there was action or at least the promise of it. You are twenty thousand feet above the ground, free-falling, you adjust your posture, you let your body ride the air currents, you dive, you lose a thousand feet, you do a somersault, you spread your arms and legs, you pull your ripcord and suddenly the world is real, a patch of concrete in front of the presidential dais, or thick bush behind the enemy lines.
He had felt the same sense of anticipation as he walked behind General Zia and entered the Khana Kaaba’s compound on his first visit. He was offered a white robe, one like the ones everyone else was wearing, but he took one look at the Saudi policemen escorting them and refused. He was in the House of God but that didn’t mean that he should forget his duty. They asked General Zia if they should let his security chief in, dressed in his battle fatigues, but Zia was crying violently and nodding his head constantly. The Saudi police couldn’t really tell if he approved or not. General Zia snivelled and buried his head in his white robe and started to pray loudly as they walked towards the black room at the centre of the compound. Brigadier TM looked around for any potential threats. The worshippers were few and scattered and prone; in their various states of worship they looked like logs thrown about randomly. The light was stage bright but cool. Brigadier TM liked well-lit places. The centre of his attention was the black marble, low-ceilinged cubicle draped in black silk. He didn’t expect any security risks here. The room had been there for more than fourteen hundred years but he had to take precautions as he knew it was being opened specially for General Zia. The rest of the pilgrims had to make do with touching its outer walls and kissing the gold-embroidered black silk that adorned its walls.