“They gave you something to drink in Timergara?” the Captain asked. “And you’re still alive? Surprising,” he said with a smirk, returning to his file. “I’ve been instructed to asked a few questions,” the Captain said. “Are you allergic to anything?” he asked, pulling his ballpoint pen from his pocket and clicking the top.
“No,” Faheem said. “Can you…” he started to say but the Captain interrupted him.
“Any diseases or illnesses that require medication?” he asked.
“No,” Faheem answered. “Can I…”
“Do you have any heart related issues that we should know about?” the Captain said. His mouth curled up slightly. Faheem didn’t have any heart issues, but that look made his heart stop beating for a second or two.
“No,” Faheem answered again. “Look, I have…”
“Faheem,” the Captain interrupted again. “This will go much easier the sooner you understand that I am not here to answer your questions. I am doing the asking,” he said. “Are we clear on that?” Faheem nodded, understanding that he was in the position he put many others in.
“Now, that we have that clarified,” the Captain continued, flipping pages in the file looking for additional questions that he needed to ask. Finding none, he clicked his ballpoint again and slipped it into his pocket, before turning and moving back toward the door. He handed the file back to the havildar as he passed.
“Captain! Captain!” Faheem hollered. “I need to use the bathroom.”
The Captain’s shoes scuffed against the concrete floor as he stopped, looking up toward the sky for guidance. Faheem could see his shoulders lift and drop, as he took a deep breath before turning around slowly and pointing at the metal bucket in the corner. “I would move the other bucket further away. You don’t want to contaminate your drinking water,” he said with a snide smirk, scuffing the soles of his shoes as he started walking again. Faheem turned his head to look at the two buckets in his cell that he had passed multiple times in the past few hours.
This is my bathroom?
“Are you kidding me? The FC have better holding cells than these,” he howled at the Captain, who was just turning the corner out of the holding area. “This is bullshit!” No one was listening to his complaints. Or so he thought.
Two guards approached the cell as a third unlocked the door. They rushed in and grabbed Faheem, putting iron shackles around his feet and hands. “The Captain said to give you an outing,” one of the guards said to him, pushing him towards the door. “Move!”
As they walked him out, they would occasionally push and shove him to make him move faster. After walking about half a kilometer, they stopped outside the base farm. The stench of the animals and their filth was not something that the guards were accustomed to and they pulled handkerchiefs from their pockets to cover their noses. The guard grabbed Faheem’s arm and pushed him into the pen with the cattle.
“This is the luxury bathroom that you requested, Commander,” the guard snarled at him. “We hope it meets your exacting FC standards.”
“You want me to shit here?” Faheem asked, rushing back at the guard, only to be met with a baton squarely to the head, knocking him off balance.
“You have five minutes. Watch out for the bull,” he laughed, pointing to a steer in the corner eyeing Faheem as he stumbled away from the pen door. “He doesn’t like intruders.”
Faheem looked around the pen for a safe place to do his business. He finally spotted a place he thought would be safe enough, and squatted to relieve himself, trying to block out the stench of filth and animals that filled his nostrils. He swatted away each of the cows that came to investigate the intruder, until one decided that he was going to join Faheem and dropped part of a cow pie on his shoe, along with a quick spray of urine that landed on his kameez. Knocked off balance by the cow, he dropped his hand into another fresh cow pie to his right and disgust clouded his mind. Gathering himself together, he used the straw in the pen to wipe his hands and himself, and moved towards the door to the pen. The guards held their noses as he neared, commenting loudly, “Oh my God, you smell like shit! Did you roll around in it after you were done?” Another commented, “Maybe we should bathe…” but the rest of the sentence was lost in the thundering propellers of the two Hueys that passed overhead.
“Looks like your ride is here!” the guard hollered over the noise, grabbing Faheem by the arm and dragging him back to the cell. With the leg irons around his ankles, Faheem was unable to move as quickly as the guards demanded. They kicked and pushed him until finally, frustrated with the pace, clutched him firmly from the arms and legs to carry him back. There would be hell to pay if the transport officers found him out of his cell. The guards tossed him back minutes before the transport team came around the corner to collect him.
Five men, all dressed in black from head to toe, came into the holding area, looking menacing as they approached, eyes focused on the man in the cell. The Captain came around the corner a few seconds later with another man engaged in what looked like a casual conversation. Faheem’s heart raced. There are no uniforms… who are they handing me over to? Are they even Pakistani? As they approached, Faheem was able to make out bits of the discussion, and what he heard made the previous hours in Nowshera sound like a vacation.
“Is this him?” the man asked as they neared.
“This is who you asked for, sir,” the Captain replied, handing him the file.
“Why is he still dressed?”
“Did you not want him dressed?” the Captain asked.
The other officer flipped pages in the file, looking for something. Finding it, he slammed the file back into the Captain’s chest. “Read the file next time!”
The captain’s eyes dropped to the file as he pulled it away from his chest. It was there in bold, capital letters – NO CIVILIAN CLOTHING. How did I miss that?
“Apologies, sir,” the Captain said. “I missed it.”
The other officer stopped abruptly, biting his lip to contain the words that were fighting to escape. The Captain stopped wondering if he was about to get a dressing down in front of his soldiers and a prisoner. Instead, he reached over and ripped the file from his hands.
“That is why you are military police, Captain,” the officer said. “You don’t understand the obvious,” the officer smiled casually before continuing. “No matter… my boys enjoy helicopter rides — the prisoners, not so much,” he finished as he reached the door of Faheem’s cell.
“Sir, this is your prisoner,” the Captain said.
Major Umer stood at the cell door, gazing in at Faheem, almost examining the prisoner for any marks of abuse. “What the fuck is that smell?”
“Sir, he had an encounter with a cow while using the facilities,” the Captain replied with a smile.
The Major’s head jerked to look at Captain Abdul, “A cow?” he said with surprise. “You couldn’t find a bull for him to play with?” he said, smiling. “We’ll need to clean him up before transport, I don’t want that stench in my chopper.”
“Sir, you could just hang him out the side…” the Captain commented drawing a delighted laugh from the Major.
“No, he could fall,” the Major replied. “How would I explain that to my superiors?”
The Major turned his gaze back to Faheem, holding his hand out for the keys to unlock the door. The Captain motioned to the guard for the keys, who placed them in the Major’s hand. Without hesitation, the Major handed the keys to one of the transport officers asking, “Are the keys to the irons on that?” The guard nodded yes.
“Get him cleaned and dressed for transport,” the Major said, looking at one of the burly men that accompanied him. “I don’t want any shit in my chopper. Having to transport him is enough.”
The Major stepped back from the door and moved around to the side of the cell, his gaze not breaking from Faheem’s eyes the entire time. As he stopped on the right side, he nodded at the transport soldier, and with two words, struck th
e immense fear into Faheem. “Take him.”
As the men rushed in, Faheem tried to struggle from their grasp, but found it impossible to inside a 4x6 cell with six men in it. They drove him to the ground and while one man placed a knee on his chest to hold him in place, the others drew their knives and cut the clothing from his body. The man on his chest rose, clutching the irons on his wrist to pull Faheem up and chained him to the bars on the cell.
“Bring the hose! We have to wash the animal before we can transport him,” one of them yelled. With the pressure hose, they rinsed the shit from Faheem’s body along with a portion of his self-respect.
One of the men tossed orange overalls into the cell, yelling, “Get dressed! Quickly! You have wasted enough of our time,” as he unchained him from the metal bars. Faheem didn’t hesitate pulling on the overalls, hoping that it would restore some of the dignity he had lost to the pressure hose. It did not. Now he looked like a prisoner. As he stepped out of the cell, soaking like a wet dog, they slipped a black bag over his head and led him to the waiting choppers. He could only hope that his next destination would be better than this one. Hope was all he had left.
* * *
The secretary had a habit of arriving an hour before he did to sort, file and deliver all the memos from the previous day’s activities. The memos were the Prime Minister’s source of information to the meetings and calls, briefing him on salient points from each government functionary. Most Prime Ministers didn’t bother to read the actual memos themselves, farming them out to associates and advisors to prepare summaries in the interest of time. That had been the practice in Azam Shah’s Prime Minister house, but wouldn’t be carried forward into Ahsan Chaudhry’s. The new Prime Minister was not interested in underlings reading confidential information no matter how long they had served the party or him.
So it was the secretary’s morning ritual, over a strong cup of Earl Grey tea, to sort all the memos under the Prime Minister’s categorization system. While serving as Interior Minister, Chaudhry spent the majority of his time reading position papers from aides with no actionable information or guidance, so he implemented a system. For the outsider to the office, the folders looked no different than the standard Government of Pakistan emblazoned manila folders, but inside each folder was a colored paper clip attached to the front page that alerted Chaudhry to the importance, or lack thereof, of the information contained within. Only he and the secretary knew the system and when the files were returned to the outer office, the clips were gone. That was their little secret, one of many that could never see the light of day.
When the Prime Minister arrived at his office that morning, Hina was waiting in the lobby to receive him, as she did every morning, with his updated schedule for the day. Hina had joined Chaudhry at the tender age of twenty-two when he was a young Member of Parliament in the Punjab Assembly. It seemed like a lifetime ago, she thought to herself, recounting the fifteen years and three children that had followed him all the way to the Prime Minister House. The Prime Minister’s security detail entered first, followed by Prime Minister Ahsan Chaudhry.
“Good morning, Prime Minister,” Hina said with a smile.
“Good morning, Hina,” the Prime Minister replied jovially. “How does the morning look?”
“Back to back meetings from ten onwards,” she said, checking her watch. “Just enough time for a cup of coffee and a quick review of the memos,” she said handing him the schedule to review. For Chaudhry, Hina was more like his personal assistant, overseeing all the affairs that he could not be bothered with remembering. As a result, she was also given her own administrative team that took care of all the tasks that Chaudhry passed on to her, unless otherwise specified. They walked together to his office.
Chaudhry glanced through the color-coded schedule, looking for important names and those that could be pushed to make room for more essential tasks. On today’s schedule, he noticed a few that didn’t need to be there.
“Hina, can you move the Commerce Minister and Petroleum Ministers to tomorrow?” he said, taking the pen from her hand to circle the two names. “I want more time with the Speaker and the leader of the opposition to discuss new legislation.”
“Yes, Prime Minister,” she said, pulling another pen from her pad to make identical circles and a notation. “Would you like the Interior Minister in the noon meeting?”
The Prime Minister returned his attention to the schedule, looking for the noon meeting. There was a simple notation blocking off two hours on his schedule, personal time. Chaudhry had implemented this phrase to keep the records clean of meetings with influentials in case someone leaked the schedule, which happened on a daily basis in Azam Shah’s term. It has yet to be repeated in mine even with all the curiosity from every corner of Islamabad.
“Have him join towards the end.” Chaudhry replied. “There are some things that I want to consider privately before briefing him.”
“I’ll have him informed, sir,” she said, scribbling another notation on her copy.
The security detail opened the door to the Prime Minister’s office as he approached. His echoing footsteps deadened as he stepped onto the plush carpeting in the outer office. The outer office was a lavishly decorated, expansive room with the seal of the government woven into the carpet below. This was Amna’s, the receptionist and gatekeeper to the Prime Minister’s private office, domain. Amna was a hard taskmaster for the administrative team that operated under her command. Amna herself was there to receive visitors, direct them to the waiting area and make sure that their needs and questions were addressed before meeting the Prime Minister. For anyone entering, she was a stone wall that kept the day’s schedule on track, not allowing anyone to interrupt without Hina’s direct approval. They all rose as the Prime Minister passed through to the doorway framed with two flags, Pakistan and the Prime Minister’s office. His detail pushed open the doors to his private office.
Ahsan Chaudhry had spent many hours in this same office, both as an advisor to Azam Shah and as Interior Minister for the government, making his move more comfortable than for others who occupied his seat. That comfort hadn’t stopped him from pausing in the doorway every morning for the past two months of his government to admire the surroundings. Unlike the outer office, the Prime Minister’s private office was more ceremonial where guests and heads of state were entertained when privacy was required. He still felt uncomfortable looking at the wall of treasures that had been left behind from Azam Shah’s state visits. He hoped to replace each item there with his own treasures, so that he could return these to the former Prime Minister’s family at the right time. Towards the back of the room sat a large, hand-carved oak desk, behind it a credenza that showcased photographs of his family. As he moved around the desk, he looked at Hina to close the door, lifting the bowl of mangos from the center panel to reveal a hidden safe. He applied his thumb to the biometric reader and heard the safe click open. Inside the safe were all of the nation’s secrets, available to only three people – the President, the Prime Minister and the Chief of Army Staff. He remembered signing the official secrets act before his thumb was coded to open the safe as a requirement for anyone who sat in the Prime Minister’s chair.
He pulled a couple of files from the safe related to the meetings of the day to familiarize himself with past actions and alliances. There was a knock at the door, and the PM slid a daily newspaper on top of the confidential files. The tea boy entered the office carrying a tray with coffee and biscuits.
“Good morning, Prime Minister sahib,” Bacha said in his broken English. He was one of the causalities of Pakistan’s public educational system, not educated enough to sound educated, but motivated enough to earn a middle class living. There were times over the past two weeks when Chaudhry spent time talking to him, mostly to understand his background and family. Chaudhry himself was an educational elitist having studied at Aitchison and then Harvard.
Bacha placed the coffee and biscuits on the desk. The ma
n started to walk away when the Prime Minister called his name, as he did many mornings at teatime.
“Bacha,” Chaudhry said.
“Gee, janab,” he said turning around to face him.
“I was told that it’s your daughter’s birthday today,” Chaudhry said, remembering the note that Hina had placed on his schedule. Bacha’s broken English didn’t seem to register the Prime Minister’s comment, causing Hina to translate into the native Urdu for him. He smiled when he understood. “How old is she today?” the Prime Minister asked, waiting again for Hina to translate.
Bacha’s flattery at the Prime Minister’s question quickly turned to embarrassment, recalling that he would need to give him a treat of some kind, as was tradition in Pakistan. He hesitated for a second, trying to frame the words correctly, “Prime Minister sahib, she is the… paanch saal today,” he said now even more embarrassed that he had forgotten five in English. “Gharwalay bohot khush hain,” he said with a smile.
Chaudhry smiled, laughing a bit at the foolishness of the boy, “Gharwalay? Keya app khush nahin hain?” he asked. Bacha smiled and nodded before dropping his head, remembering that he was in the Prime Minister’s office. “Hina has a gift… tohfa… for your beti,” he continued. “Tell her saalgira mubarak from me.”
Bacha’s embarrassment disappeared and a smile covered his face from ear to ear. In the nearly two years of working for Azam Shah, he had not once remembered a birthday or wedding, but Chaudhry did. “Thank you Prime Minister gee. Thank you.”
Amna swept into the room behind Bacha during the conversation, handing a note to Hina before turning to exit, grabbing Bacha by the sleeve to guide him out with her. Chaudhry could hear her scolding Bacha behind the closed door, “Mubarak bol diya. Aur kiya chahiye?” He chuckled as Hina passed the note to him. Picking up his reading glassed, he quickly scanned the contents, looking at Hina, “Show them in.”
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