| March 25, 2007 | Sunday | Rabi-ul-Awwal 5, 1428 |
|
‘Straaaaawberry jam’
WHILST watching the March 23 armed forces parade, listening to an army major bawling out an interminable and totally incomprehensible string of drill orders, I was reminded of my friend Captain Asghar Ali Jilani, who had the distinction of graduating with the first batch of gentlemen cadets from the Pakistan Military Academy in February 1950 (PMA-1). He once recounted to me the following anecdote (he died last year).
PMA-1 had the good fortune to have not only an experienced commandant from the old British Indian Army (Brigadier Francis Ingall, 6th Lancers, affectionately known as ‘Bingall’) but a regimental sergeant major from the British army Brigade of Guards. His mastery of drill was complete and his orders were snappy, albeit also incomprehensible to the un-tuned ear. He drilled his cadets to such perfection that one day, months down the line, each and every order he roared out to his cadets consisted not of the usual two words, but of the two words ‘straaaaawberry jam’. It worked and the drill was completed in a matchless manner — such was the automatic proficiency he had instilled into the young men. All the guidance they needed to perform their intricate smart movements was any old two words delivered in an immaculate martial style.
Now, we take a step backwards. To appreciate what happened on the fateful morning of March 9 we will have to know who said what to whom, who heard what was ordered, and who acted in accordance with what they heard, or acted in accordance with what they thought they had heard and understood. This will be difficult. What President General Pervez Musharraf and his prime minister actually said before they went off to pray and who heard or misheard (wilfully or otherwise) is never likely to be accurately revealed.
I lay claim to some experience of dealing with the military mind. Twenty days after he assumed power, on July 25 1977, I was summoned by President General Ziaul Haq to his office at General Headquarters, Rawalpindi. I had been informed by his military secretary that he was an exceptionally busy man and that 20 minutes had been allocated to me — from 1500 hours to 1520 hours. Zia was running late and it was not until 1600 hours that I was ushered into his presence. It was 2020 hours by the time he stopped talking and released me.
Zia was wearing his military uniform, Lt-General Khalid Mahmud Arif, his trusted aide, was in attendance, sitting by my side. Amongs the furniture and fittings in his office were several prayer rugs and his tennis gear draped over a chair. Our conversation was interrupted twice when he knelt to pray. He, however, forfeited his game of tennis.
Despite my protestations that there was no way I could last as a government man, Zia insisted that I be his man to advise him on the affairs of ports and shipping. I reluctantly was persuaded into agreeing to be a ‘dollar a year man’.
The preliminaries having been sorted out, I flew back to Karachi the next morning to start on my advisory job. My office was situated high up in the Pakistan National Shipping Corporation building. The first day was spent meeting and greeting — the usual ‘hula-gula’. The next morning I was out in the port area and when I returned in the afternoon I found my office locked, and was informed by the military officer guarding it that my staff had been sent home. All I was told when it came to the reason was that the orders of the Commander 5 Corps were to ‘secure’ my office and that the operation had been successfully completed.
Sighting my house servant Habib on the scene, I asked him what he was doing there. He had been sent by my very dear late wife with my lunch, which she herself had prepared and packed in her grandfather’s tiffin basket, which was now locked in my office. Habib was still hanging around as he did not want to return home alone and face my wife’s wrath which he would have done had he returned minus the basket.
Now to the tiffin basket : it was made of Malacca cane, specially fitted out by Asprey’s with china and silver to suit the requirements of grandfather Nadirshaw Eduljee Dinshaw (NED) and was ventilated to suit ‘Indian summers’. It was an exceptional scientifically manufactured piece of work which had come to my house along with my wife.
I asked the young officer to kindly return to me the basket. He consulted his written orders, and regretted that he could not. ‘Orders are orders.’. Nothing, repeat nothing, was to be allowed into or taken out of the office once it had been ‘secured’. It was suggested that I consult Commander 5 Corps. I did. He too was helpless. ‘Orders are orders.’ He suggested that I meet Zia who, in any case, wanted to see me. (The basket remained incarcerated until freed by my old friend, sorely missed, Admiral Syed Muhammad Ahsan.)
Off I went to ‘Pindi. It turned out that the problem was the admirals. Zia being a general was able to ‘settle’ the admirals’ misgivings and I was duly reinstated.
Chief Justice Iftikhar Muhammad Chaudhry must realise that orders are orders. He was kept at Musharraf’s camp office, his motorcade was intercepted when he finally left, and he and his home were ‘secured’ — orders being orders.
While this was being written yesterday morning, that good judge, Rana Bhagwandas, was sworn in, at the Supreme Court in Karachi, as the acting chief justice of Pakistan. Judge Bhagwandas does not pray five times a day, but he does fear his God with whom he communicates, in his own manner, frequently.
arfc@cyber.net.pk
