Midnight's Children - Salman Rushdie [227]
Ayooba gurgles with amusement. “Vegetarians, I swear, yaar … how are they going to beat beefy types like us?” But Farooq is long and stringy.
Shaheed Dar whispers, “But what did he mean: man-dog?”
… Morning. In a hut with a blackboard, Brigadier Iskandar polishes knuckles on lapels while one Sgt.-Mjr. Najmuddin briefs new recruits. Question-and-answer format; Najmuddin provides both queries and replies. No interruptions are to be tolerated. While above the blackboard the garlanded portraits of President Yahya and Mutasim the Martyr stare sternly down. And through the (closed) windows, the persistent barking of dogs … Najmuddin’s inquiries and responses are also barked. What are you here for?—Training. In what field?—Pursuit-and-capture. How will you work?—In canine units of three persons and one dog. What unusual features?—Absence of officer personnel, necessity of taking own decisions, concomitant requirement for high Islamic sense of self-discipline and responsibility. Purpose of units?—To root out undesirable elements. Nature of such elements?—Sneaky, well-disguised, could-be-anyone. Known intentions of same?—To be abhorred: destruction of family life, murder of God, expropriation of landowners, abolition of film-censorship. To what ends?—Annihilation of the State, anarchy, foreign domination. Accentuating causes of concern?—Forthcoming elections; and subsequently, civilian rule. (Political prisoners have been are being freed. All types of hooligans are abroad.) Precise duties of units?—To obey unquestioningly; to seek unflaggingly; to arrest remorselessly. Mode of procedure?—Covert; efficient; quick. Legal basis of such detentions?—Defense of Pakistan Rules, permitting the pick-up of undesirables, who may be held incommunicado for a period of six months. Footnote: a renewable period of six months. Any questions?—No. Good. You are CUTIA Unit 22. She-dog badges will be sewn to lapels. The acronym CUTIA, of course, means bitch.
And the man-dog?
Cross-legged, blue-eyed, staring into space, he sits beneath a tree. Bodhi trees do not grow at this altitude; he makes do with a chinar. His nose: bulbous, cucumbery, tip blue with cold. And on his head a monk’s tonsure where once Mr. Zagallo’s hand. And a mutilated finger whose missing segment fell at Masha Miovic’s feet after Glandy Keith had slammed. And stains on his face like a map … “Ekkkhhthoo!” (He spits.)
His teeth are stained; betel-juice reddens his gums. A red stream of expectorated paan-fluid leaves his lips, to hit, with commendable accuracy, a beautifully-wrought silver spittoon, which sits before him on the ground. Ayooba Shaheed Farooq are staring in amazement. “Don’t try to get it away from him,” Sgt.-Mjr. Najmuddin indicates the spittoon, “It sends him wild.” Ayooba begins, “Sir sir I thought you said three persons and a—,” but Najmuddin barks, “No questions! Obedience without queries! This is your tracker; that’s that. Dismiss.”
At that time, Ayooba and Farooq were sixteen and a half years old. Shaheed (who had lied about his age) was perhaps a year younger. Because they were so young, and had not had time to acquire the type of memories which give men a firm hold on reality, such as memories of love or famine, the boy soldiers were highly susceptible to the influence of legends and gossip. Within twenty-four hours, in the course of mess-hall conversations with other CUTIA units, the man-dog had been fully mythologized … “From a really important family, man!”—“The idiot child, they put him in the Army to make a man of him!”—“Had a war accident in ’65, yaar, can’t won’t remember a thing about it!”—“Listen, I heard he was the brother of”—“No, man, that’s crazy, she is good, you know, so simple and holy, how would she leave her brother?”—“Anyway he refuses to talk about it.”—“I heard one terrible thing, she hated him, man, that’s why she!”—“No memory; not interested in people, lives like a dog!”—“But the tracking business is true all right! You see that nose on him?”—“Yah, man, he can follow any trail on earth!