Tariq Rahman

It was miserable in the first term at the Pakistan Military Academy. It was. They made us stand in the snow in underwears at night and I was given a cold shower and frong-jumps too. The battalion-sergeant major was a sadist. He made me hop around catching my ankles till I fell down and my legs ached like hell. But the cadets of my platoon were idiots. Each one of them broke the orders once and lo and behold we were all up to our neck in the soup. When I was the senior gentleman cadet—the ‘bloody SGC’ as I was termed—I made them fall-in ten minutes before time. It’s idiotic to be late I made them double around as the seniors told me. Why should a chap be lousy when the staffs and the seniors are all around to nab him by the neck and do the dirty on him. So during my days the sergeant was pleased and the CSM ragged us only twice.

“You bloody Jitter,” said my cadet corporal to me, “you will be a good soldier”

“Yes sir,” I shouted as he liked us to do.

The fellow beamed on me and omitted to make me front-roll when he left.

Tajassur, on the contrary, was such a fool that the whole army spat on its hands and got down to the onerous task of making a soldier out of him. He didn’t care. He let the cadets get late and stood like a statue who has had its behind kicked. He chatted around from room to room and didn’t do his class work. He let us walk if he could help it. Naturally, whenever we were caught, Tajassur was the one who never heard the last of it. He gave away some of the articles of his FSMO and was the first one to be on restrictions. But he always walked around casually and smiled. It was foolish. The funniest thing was that he was my room-mate. It gave me creeps to see him sleeping in the morning when I was almost in my shirt for the PT or the drill. He was a sub-human creature and knew no discipline.

Yet Tajassur had soft baby-looks and large black eyes. If one talked to him he smiled and spoke nicely. The seniors called him a sissy and said he was fit to be a heroine in a Filipino movie. He often had one or two sadistic senior slave-drivers who delighted in punishing him or feeding him on sweets in the canteen. It was awful to be his room-mate. The seniors came into our room just to enjoy themselves by punishing him or talking to him—he was witty. “Hey you heroine,: one would say, “have you got firl-friends?”

“No sir,” Tajassur would reply standing to attention.

“Why, you bloody goof?”

“I don’t know sir.”

“Get on your hands down, idiot,” and Tajassur would fall to the ground on his hands and feet.

“And you too, you priceless imbecile.”

So I, cursing the bastards, went into the same position. And the ragging would go on at my expense. Had Tajassur been less popular nobody would have bothered us so much.

I was good in drill and P.T. and Tajassur was lousy at both. Yet he managed to pass. In the map reading the platoon mates often did his work. They enlarged the map for him and even found the grid reference of his own position. In exchange all the fellow did was only tell them jokes. And in spite of his innocent looks Tajassur knew jokes which could send the angels running after the chaste houris in paradise. I like jokes but I detest stupidity. Of what use are jokes when the officiers are just around the corner. All these immature things did make Tajassur popular but at the expense of his marks and position.

He was a cadet platoon commander once and, at the end of the exercise, he brought us back in a truck. It was a big risk. We were supposed to have walked back 20 miles and there was a competition with the other paltoons. And yet this grinning baby brought us back on this truck. Natually we reached before midnight. So what does he do? He takes us to a hotel of all things and there makes us dance all night and eat and drink and have a rollicking good time. O boy. It was fun; but he could have been withdrawn if anyone had noticed. Well, we reached the Academy gates and were told that we were third. Tajassur seemed so tired that the cadet sergeant sent us to rest after the rifle cleaning the fraud!

He passed out twentieth in the course. And, I bet, it was all because of his wonderful oral expression in English and wit. He read his lesson half an hour before the model discussion and gave cogent arguments. Besides, he was liked by our immature platoon-mates and they thought he was a good sort. He had given his water-bottle to thirsty people who had been foolish enough to have wasted their supply in the exercise. He had cheerfully carried the light machine-gun—the most goddamnest pain in the arse—in the ‘initiative exercise’. He had a smile for most of us and, in the Academy, chaps are nit-wits enough to get impressed by these kind of trivialities.

But just before our passing out, things were against him. He was a Bingo, you see. He belonged to Dacca itself and East Pakistan had begun kicking up one hell of row to get separated from West Pakistan. We called him a ‘Bingo’ and a ‘traitor’ and Sheikh Mujibur Rehman’s ADC. I went a step further and called him the ‘Marshaland minion’. I told him, he would be the minion of old Mujib and since all his land was marshaland so—the title!

But Tajassur kept quiet about these things. He was quite a kid and kids can’t get serious about politics and such like grown-up things. So came the D-Day and we passed out. Tajassur had got many badges of rank, cap and stuff even from juniors. I thought it a shame to accept things from juniors and said so. He smiled sheepishly and told me that presents could not be denied. I told him he would bring shame to the army by being so unprincipled.

“I have my own principles, Safeer,” he replied gravely.

“And what damned lousy Bingo principles may those be sweetie,” I taunted. I was getting angry.

“Look, Safeer. They are not reasoned out. I just do what makes me happy and what makes people happy. And ‘Bingo’ has nothing to do with it.”

“Happy,” I cried. “That’s a fatheaded thing to say and I will let you know it is. The sergeant would excuse us drill to make us happy. The soliders should not kill the rebel Mukti Bahinis to make them happy. And girls should get laid in order to please grinning morons. Happy—oh now you know that’s ungentlemanly and unofficer-like.”

“I am not much of an officer,” he rejoined.

“So much the worse for the army,” I replied.

Just then our bearer came in and Tajassur started telling him what to do with his shoes once he left. The bearer goggled like a fish and seemed to relish the idea of laying his vile paws on those good shoes, coats and shirts.

I went into the infantry and so did Tajassur. We got our regiments in the main dining-hall of the battalion mess. Whenever someone was assigned to Headquarters Eastern Command a sibilant half-deriding sound came from the cadets. The adjutant was terribly annoyed and threatened us with restrictions but the sound still didn’t stop entirely.

“Sher Nawaz Khan,” called the adjutant, “36 Cavalry, Kharian Cantt.”

We all clapped. Sher got red in the face and sat down.

“Mohammad Adil Siddiqui, Daedaulus’s Horse. Report to Multan Cantt.”

This time the clapping was thunderous. Daedalus’s was a much-coveted armoured regiment with aristocratic traditions.

“Ali Ahmed,” continued the adjutant, 20 Baluch – Quetta.” Applause greeted him also.

“Safeer Ahmed – 15 Punjab, report to HQ Eastern Command.”

I sat down amidst a low hissing  and the fellow on my right laughed mirthlessly. Then some people clapped. The adjustant went red in the face. “What’s wrong with you buggers. Are you all yellow. I’ll kick the whole lot out of here if I hear that damned hissing.” Then he went on with the names.

Some people congratulated me on getting the infantry. It was my choice.

“Tajassur Ullah,” said the adjutant with a smile. The applause was thundering as he stood up shyly. He was blushing, the sissy. “For the course favourite the GHQ decrees-report to HQ Eastern Command-15Punjab.”

The hall went wild. There was loud hissing mixed with clapping. The adjutant looked down and fumbled with the papers. I thought everyone made a fool of himself because Tajassur was treated like a baby not like a grown-up man. I would have been ashamed to be in his shoes. But he sat down cheerfully and thanked the people around him with a bright smile.

We got only three days to report to the stations of duty. On the plane I met some of my coursemates. The rank of 2/lieutenant was new on our shoulders. It was fun to wear it. Very few people have the honour of being class-I officers of the government at the age of 19 or 20. We were among such lucky ones and I felt proud of myself and happy.

When we reached the unit there was an atmosphere of tension and hurry. The adjutant was a certain Capt. Maqsood Hussain. He told me to look sharp in my battle dress and to be 15 minutes early for all parades. Tajassur also reported late that evening and Capt. Maqsood ragged him a great deal for grinning like an ape. He seemed to be a strict adjutant. In the evening we went to the mess on bikes.

An old bearer served us soft drinks and we sat listening to the conversation. Then the C.O came and everyone stood up. He was a middle-aged man with a balding head, bushy eye-brows and a very serious grim face.

“Let me introduce 2/Lt Safeer to you sir,” said Capt. Maqsood presenting me first since I was senior by number to Tajassur.

“How do you do,” said the C.O. “ What was your passingout number?”

“Fifth, sir,” I replied.

“Good. The Punjab Regiment likes bright youngsters. Good.”

Then Tajassur was presented. The clown smiled even at the commandant though the colonel was as serious as church as he took his paw in his big hand.

“And what is your passing-out number?”

“Twentieth, sir,” he replied.

“Well, well. Work hard in the regiment. Your professional life begins here,” said the C.O. I could see that I had given a good first impression.

The C.O. talked to the senior officers and we kept listening. Nobody addressed us again. Then the supper was announced and we moved to the table. The C.O. began talking about history.

“I admire the courage of John Nicholson and Sir Hugh Rose in 1857,” he said.

“Yes sir, the battle account is inspiring,” said Major Dost Muhammad, the Second-in-Command.

“Sir the Vietcong too are brave,” said Maj. Azhar Khan, one of the Company Commanders.

“Yes, Yes, that is wonderful,” replied the C.O. “Though they are short-statured people. They don’t seem to be a martial race.”

“I think there are no martial races,”—Tajassur’s voice startled me. Everyone turned to look at him. The adjutant was scowling darkly. Everyone seemed to have been struck by a bolt from the blue.

“People are forced to fight when they are exploited and transgressed against.: and bravery is good only if its is used in a just cause. If it is used to oppress it is evil.” There was a pin-drop silence in the room. The C.O looked as if he would have a fit. His face was red with anger. He didn’t reply at all. Then the silence reigned in an ominous way and the meal came to an end. The C.O. left for his room and the adjutant took us aside. He struck a cigarette and slowly turned to Tajassur.

“How dare you,” he hissed between cleanched teeth. “Talk so insolently to the C.O.”

“But I merely expressed my opinion, sir,” said Tajassur with genuine surprise.

“But your damned idiotic opinion you bloody tit of a second lieutenant. Don’t you dare utter a squeak when your seniors are talking O.K. Do I make myself clear.”

“Yes sir.”

The adjutant kept glaring at us. We kept standing at attention. Tajassur looked down.

“Seven days orderly officer duty for you Tajassur. You will check the guard and report to me thrice every night.” “Yes sir,” said Tajassur in a muffled voice. Captain Maqsood turned and stalked off. His boots crunched the loose shingles. Tajassur stood completely humiliated. They had petted him and spoiled him at PMA. I always had told him athat the army was no place for suave young juniors who didn’t know how to respect seniors. Now he was crying.

O God! I couldn’t believe it. He had tears in his eyes. “Don’t be a sissy Tajassur,” I said to him. It was most exasperating to see him disgracing our course like that. A most effeminate thing to do. He didn’t reply me. When I reached the room I found him asleep.

Soon enough Tajassur was in everybody’s bad books. He got late for parades. He was too chummy with the other ranks and addressed the non-commissioned officers as if they were officers. He had, strangely so, no respect for the seniors. He contradicted them and thrust his opinion as if he knew more than all those who had put in so much service. Everyone told me that PMA was not training even the regular courses well. Even I was given long lectures when he did something wrong. As I had expected, Tajassur was a very poor specimen of an officer.

Then one day the C.O. called a conference and apprised us of the enemy situation. The Mukti Bahini, i.e., rebet Bingo troops—had started playing havoc with our supply line. Since January Sheikh Mujeeb had become even more absurdly adamant about his “six points”. I never knew what the damned six points were but anything coming from a loony like Mujeeb must have been crap. Tajassur kept sitting like a stooge throughout the conference. That evening we were supposed to crack down on a village where the bastards were in hiding. I was in the room when Tajassur came in. He wasn’t smiling. In fact he had become glum. “Hwy Safeer ready, he said amiably. “Yeah what about you” “O.K.”

He sat down and started playing with my watch. It annoyed me. Goodness, wasn’t he grown up enough to stop fooling with other peoples’ things. It made a man sick to have such a kiddish roomate.

“Stop playing with it,” said I,

“What does it matter,” he replied,” what does anything matter.”

“What matters now partner is that we better roast your Bingo friends alive?” I said wearily.

“Why?”

“Why? What the hell do your mean why. Because they are Pakistan’s enemies. Because they want to divide our country. Because they are Indian agents and anti-Pakistan. That’s what we are being paid for.

The C.O. orders us and we go. That’s loyalty.”

“But where is your conscience?”

“My conscience tells me to rid Pakistan of its enemies”

“Listen Safeer,” he said sitting on my bed. “This is propaganda.”

Pakistan was not created to be a slave colony. Bengal was treated as a colony by the C.S.P. officers. The army officers made fun of our men and beat them. “Everyone took our wealth…” as usual his voice became choked with gushy tears. He clenched his hand.” And now that we have risen against this exploitation, this tyranny, they are telling the army to shoot our people. The army has entered villages before and shot our innocent people. They’ve raped our girls. It’s monstrous and unjust. “Can’t you feel it Safeer,” he caught my hands and his lips twiched and trembled.

“Can’t you see that this lovely lusht-green land is under hobnailed boots.

“Can’t you hear the foul orders of hate-filled fat men in Islamabad who are sending poor innocent boys to kill people they have never even met before. Come on Safeer where’s your conscience…”

I shook him off. He was mad. I had never seen him so passionate. I was a little scared of him. these Bengalis were a treacherous race. Batmen had been known to have murdered their officers. This vile race knew of no loyalty nor even unit spirit. Nothing noble appealed to their conscience.

“Go to sleep. Go to sleep. Don’t talk like that or you’ll be caught you fool,” I muttered. In the evening the news shook everybody. 2/Lt. Tajassur had deliberately become a deserter. They called his absence desertion straightway because his pistol was missing too and it was well known that Bingos took to their heels to join the enemy treacherously. I was surprised. He was too much of a sissy, I thought, to have dared to run away. It is risky after all.

We did roast the traitors in that village. First the troops surrounded it and then the machine-guns blazed away. The vermin came out and ever so happily the crackshots took them on. It must have taught them a lesson not to hide the traitors anymore. They took prisoners too who were handed on to the Intelligence Units. These Intelligence chaps knew how to get the truth out of stubborn Bingos for sure.

Days passed and I became a responsible subaltern. In March I did so well that I got recommended for the Commander-in-Chief’s commendation letter. The GOC, Eastern Command shook hands with me. In the Unit the C.O. called me ‘hot-rod Commando’ and was very proud of me. Major Ali Ahmed was an expert in bringing in Bingos as a net brings in fish. We would shoot them slowly one by one. It improved my target practice a good deal. The bastards cried for pity and whimpered like dogs. I think this is a race of slaves. They look up at a person as if he were a god and  then they are so treacherous that they stab you in the back. We used to kill them whenever we got news that our brethren had been killed anywhere. It didn’t compensate for our losses, but it made one take out one’s anger at someone. Some officers delighted in torturing the Bingos to extract information from them. In the beginning I thought it was excessive but soon enough I found out that these stubborn people didn’t talk as long as you treated them humanely. Besides everything is fair once your national integrity is at stake.

One day we were ordered to clear a village of the Muktees. I was incharge of a platoon and we moved off at first-light on jeeps. It was very early dawn when we struck. The scene was rather like some Second World War movie film’s, except that brown-skinned people ran out like chikkens with the heads cut off. The Bingos are such cowards infront of soldiers I thought as I turned the machine-guns on the main exit. The rush of the women stopped as many rolled in blood and confusion. Then hell broke loose. Our Jeeps were hit by bullets and they swooshed and whistled past my ears. I heard the Company Commander yell the order to retreat. I jumped into a tree. But I managed to rush off behind another jeep and got bogged down into their blasted flooded paddy fields. Frightful shapes advanced towards me and I was hauled out of the jeep. The pistol was yawnked out of my hands and I was given a blow on the head which made everything go dark infront of me.

When I regained consciousness I was in a little dark room. There was a window but, blast their treacherous brains, they had barred it with steel bars. I went around it once. Twice. This didn’t happen. Officers of the Pakistan Army couldn’t abe caught like this by the Bingos. As I sat down trying to think some way out of it all, the door opened and a small mean-looking Bingo beckoned me to follow him. I did and was brought to a room in which a number of ragged illclothed men were sitting on cots. One of them was in uniform and he was sitting on a chair.

“Lieutenant Safeer of the 15the Punjab,” he said in English, “I am Major Saif-ur-Rehman of the Bangladesh Army” he replied getting up to shake my hand. I was stunned. There was no bloody Bangladesh and no damned Bangladesh Army I was about to burst out. But then I remembered where I was and kept my mouth shut.

“Yes” I said

“Yes,” sir, Lieutenant,” replied the Major fmiling impishly. I wanted to bash his ugly black Bingo mug in. But I had to be tactful.

“Yes sir,” I said

“That’s better,” he replied.

The other Bingos shouted. Their faces were angry. They looked like animals. I had never seen men like that. Their animal faces scared me. This was not like war against a civilised army. These apes knew no Geneva Convention nor did they know what an officer was. But this Major was more of a fellow officer. At least he knew these things.

He must have been in the Academy.

“You will be tried,” said the Major

“What for sir,” I asked him

“For killing innocent civilians. For butchering exactly twenty two women, ninetten children and seven men of Bangladesh.”

“I did my duty.”

“Which code of morals asks you to kill people at the orders of an unscrupulous government.”

At this the people raised a shout. They seemed to be under standing what was going on. I found out why this was so. An interpreter kept up a constant chatter conveying what was going on to the avid audience. My heart sank within me. It was terrible. Those people were mad.” I am defending my country against Indian insurgents and rebels. When the people hide them we have to take action. Thats’ all,” I replied. “And why do they hide them?” the major’s eyes were hard and glittering.” Have you ever tried to get out of your propaganda and use your mind and eyes. They hide them because they love them. Because they are their own people. Because they hate you. That’s why they kill you when you stray out of your lttle fortresses. But one day all your fortresses will vanish and we will be free—then you will be pushed out into the Bay of Bengal and the lotus will be out of your reach. You are colonists, like the French in Algeria and the Belgians in the Congo. Had you been as sensible as the British you would have withdrawn gracefully. But no. You’ll get innocent youths fresh from PMA and open-mouthed recruits butchered first before your generals see any sense. You will have to be pushed out. You won’t go.” The room jeered at me. Their voice rose to a hysterical crescendo and the walls reverberated. Their voice had a ravenous hunger in it and the hope of life seemed to fuse in me. The bodies were brown and lean and naked, yet they were not in a cage where I could shoot them. They were not being kicked or raped. They were not pleading. There was a maniacal confidence in their eyes. They were not slaves it seemed. And looking around felt my feet go cold. My throat was parched and I felt very weak. My heart was beating like mad.

“You will be shot in the morning” said the Major. I was taken back to my room. Its walls closed upon me and seemed to move physically. The light showed a star in the sky and I looked at it. The thought came and struck me like a blow in boxing—I wouldn’t see it again. I wouldn’t feel the wind on my face too. How wonderful was the mess with the waiter bringing Coca-Cola for you. How lovely the feel of the beer as it makes one light-limed and heavy-lidded. And never would I feel that rising intoxication. Nor even would the black sky have silver stars again. I turned around and the hard damp ground resisted me. The soft skin of the girls was no more. I remembered the evenings of PMA when we sat on the terrace of the cafetaria and looked at the green vally. Tajassur often treated me. He was so lively and soft-spoken. And tomorrow I would be dead. Waht was the use of it all. I would die and Bengal would live on. I don’t know how many would die and then something would happen. But who was in the right?…And was there a right at all? I didn’t know anything. I didn’t want to think. It was agony to be alive.

I didn’t know what time it was when I heard a knock. I was going to abuse the man so much that he would run away. It was bursting in me like a tidal wave. All the dirty words of Urdu, Punjabi and English were coming to my lips. I hated these Bengali Bastards. I hated them all. I hated the army. I hated…” Safeer, Safeer” came a low soft voice. “Yes,” I replied. It was a familiar voice. My ears were strained out for its melody. There was hope in its music. I liked that voice at that moment. I was Tajassur. I put my arms around his neck and almost stifled him. He was trembling. I too was trembling. I kissed him on the cheeks.

“Come with me,” he said in a low voice.

We stole out like shadows. The Bangali soldiers saluted him. He wore a Captain’s rank and the same uniform I had seen on the Major. There was a jeep outside and in it we sped away from that loathsome house. We didn’t talk. He took me to a house where a woman with soft eyes like Tajassur’s gave me food. A girl brought me rice and cooked fish. I was excellent and I enjoyed it.

“This is my family Safeer,” said Tajassur “You’ll have to stay here till I can send you back to where you belong.”

“But Tajassur why don’t you send me soon. Now in fact.”

“Its’ impossible,” he smiled. “Actually, this area is now under the joint command of the Indian and the Bangladesh Army. The Pakistan Army is surrendering.”

“No!”

“Yes Safeer,” he said and his voice was gentle and tired. “The war is coming to an end.”

I lived there for three days and that soft-spoken family wafted me to states of mind I have never known before. A langurous peace filled my up as I drank milk and ate my rice. Tajassur’s sister Amina had a charming langour in her eyes which made me eat my rice ever so softly. There was no hurry, no protocol and no friction. They had soft, cute, childlike smiles. They spoke a bit of Urdu and Amina knew a little English too. There was a English too. There was a warmth in their house which made me melt. It was lovely.

So when Tajassur came to take me to Dacca I was feeling sad at the parting. His mother put a talisman around my neck and his sister gave me chocolates, money and—a lovely smile! He took me out tenderly to a jeep. And I was about to get in when the defening burst of a machine-gun rocked us violently out of it. We stretched out on the ground and I saw Pakistani Commandos enter the house. Tajassur leapt up like lightning but before he could shoot, he was bayoneted. I saw the bayonet go into his stomach and with a cry he fell back and the blood ran all over his belly and legs. The commandos were in the house. I got up forgetting caution. “Hay wait wat I am Lieutenant Safeer of 15 Punjab” I shouted like a madman. “Thank God you are safe,” said an officer embracing me. “We’ll have to get away to Dacca. They’ve surrendered.”

I heard the meaningless words. What was surrender? It was all meaningless. There were commando soldiers. And inside the house were Amina and Tajassur’s mother. And Tajassur lay dead in a puddle of blood and his guts had come out and sprawled on his thighs like snakes. And he looked so boyish and lovely and young.

“What are they doing sir, your soldiers,” I cried shaking the Captain.

“Lets,” go in and see” he said clamly, loading his stengun again.

We went in. the world broke into mad patterns, Amina was naked, raped—dead? Stabbed! And Tajassur’s mother was wild. She tore her hair. She flung things all around. She was frantic. I couldn’t meet her eyes. I couldn’t stand her grief. She was living in the agony of death. Her husband had died much earlier. I took the Captains’ sten-gun and shot her—to end her agony with pity in my heart. She looked at me as if unable to believe the depth of himan ingratitude. Then she fell down dead. I emptied the sten-gun on the ground. On the mud of free Bangladesh.

“Bloody Bingos,” commented the Captain of the SSG.

“Lets’ go,” sir,” I said. I felt like crying.

And we sat in the jeep and went away. Nothing mattered anymore. Tajassur and his mother were no longer alive to accuse me. Bangladesh was free and the Pakistan Army had surrendered.

(Written 1973; published  in The Legacy (pp. 110-114).)