The General's Stand (standard:drama, 5235 words)
Author: Bobby Zaman	Added: Feb 15 2002	Views/Reads: 3206/4302	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A deranged military general takes to the streets with plans of a takeover.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

No sir... 

Then what? 

Sir, reports very vague due to discontinuation of all forms of
communication.  These are eyewitness reports from local police 
stations... 

Those bootlicking eunuchs. 

Sir, one need not require seeing in print that we are facing full out
chaos. 

2 

General Mirza sipped his cup of tea with closed eyes, in full uniform,
sitting amidst his most intimate staff.  His living room faced the west 
and he liked the glow of the setting sun basking the room, and kept all 
lights off until it was fully dark outside.  He leaned back in his 
chair and swept a hand across his baldhead as if he were removing a 
veil. 

"It seems there's very little hope," said the General, "that these
incompetent hags will be able to bring any sanity back to this place." 

A unanimous rustling and shifting of position in their seats among the
staff. 

"By my guns, this is unacceptable gentlemen.  What example are we
setting to the rest of the world? Are we all going to wait till CNN 
makes a circus out of this and watch with our fingers in each others 
asses?" 

You incompetent lily-livered sissies! Look at yourselves cowering in
your pants, or are those petticoats you're wearing!" 

While the General spoke and reached in his pocket for his blood pressure
pills, another altercation broke out in the old part of town. 

"Gentlemen," said the General after swallowing the pills, "you're
staring at me with hollow eyes and pallid faces.  By my guns!" 

Two old time rivals, both hit men for two different factions, saw each
other after months of searching and hunting.  Gunfire ripped through 
the air.  A stray bullet hit the proprietor of a tea stall, an old 
grey-bearded fellow, who'd had the establishment there for fifty years. 
 An upturned kerosene lantern sparked a flame that went blazing, 
charring, and burning along an entire row of stalls and shops. 

"And I ask you," the Generals voice (and blood pressure) rising, "how
will you look at those eyes and faces in the mirror after failing all 
civil and moral duties? By my guns, answer me." 

Police bombed the site with tear gas while fire trucks sprayed gallons
of water over the inferno.  The two hit men had missed each other again 
and fled.  There'll be another time. 

"We have the power and the men, by my guns," the General continued, "but
it's a tragedy to see my best soldiers sit around like eunuchs and not 
be able to do anything while the country goes to the dogs, by my guns." 


Hours later the two hit men were found at an abandoned construction
site, executed with bullets through the backs of their skulls. 

Every dog had to have his day and the General was determined to have
his.  First it was involuntarily in the hands of aliens and Ayub Khan, 
then it was   Osmani and Zia during the war, and even Ershad had carved 
for himself a memorable, though scandalous, epithet in history. 

And you, General Haider Mirza, son of the Late Brigadier General Arshad
Mirza, will be revered as the savior of the nation from ruin and 
downfall.  We will be stronger than a thousand Roman Empires.  And 
those nincompoops fell because of a bunch of hags as well. 

"A police state is what this country has always needed.  It can't do
with anything else besides, by my guns."  The General stood up and 
began pacing back and forth like a wound up toy figurine.  "What we 
need is immediate action.  Not just warnings and curfews, they won't 
suffice anymore."  Then the General said, "Martial Law, by my guns." 

Hmpf! Look at their shriveling faces! 

A hush fell over the room.  Faces turned back and forth at each other,
while the General hovered over them like a matriarchal hawk.  
Frustration boiled inside him as he watched his dumbfounded staff cower 
at the sound of his last words.  And what if he were to take his gun 
and blast their brains right out of their skulls and rid the country of 
cowards? No, that wouldn't do.  He still needed a decent sized 
commanding hierarchy. 

The city was also tiring with the falling dusk, for it had been some
time since the sound of a police truck or marching troops had been 
heard.  Yet, no sense in taking a few hours of exhaustion to mean 
respite or restoration of order.  Darkness, night was just the cloak 
that was needed for a relapse. 

So what'll it be, my little monkeys? Men or mice? What, you think it'll
just be handed to you? Like some <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = 
"urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />Hollywood movie? You 
think you'll get on a cell phone in the nick of time and save the world 
from destruction and be a hero? 

"Immediate action, gentlemen," the General announced. 

"But," Majid querulously protested, "What would be this immediate course
of action?" 

Once again eyes and bodies shifted around, trying to avoid the
inevitable answer. 

"A coup?" Majid pronounced, his words making the rest of the staff
cringe with discomfort.  The General sighed slowly and resumed his 
seat. 

"What else is there?" said the General cautiously eyeing each man. 

"We've all seen what happens, eventually," said Majid. 

"Eventually, by my guns! Eventually..." 

And the General became so flustered that words failed him and his eyes
began to turn color.  Two more yellow pills later he took a deep breath 
and looked directly at Majid. 

"You would opt for treason over serving the country as you swore to?
That uniform you strut around, for whom? Whores at English Road?" The 
General leaned in, his face contorted like a raging bull. 

"You think that Pakistani diplomat should just go free?" asked the
General as if Majid was on trial.  "After what he said about the 
liberation war being a joke?" 

"But sir, he has been reprimanded," insisted Majid. 

You insolent whoreson traitor! 

"By my guns, and when did that happen? That hag just sat on her bloody
rump until Islamabad raised the first finger.  Muzaffar and his cronies 
are laughing at us, by my guns, laughing at the way we're burning 
ourselves into oblivion." 

The silent observers looked at each other as these words fell on them
like taunts, invisible fingers jabbing and tongues wagging. 

"What you call a reprimand," continued the General and cracking his
knuckles, "is nothing a but a show.  That bastard is probably now 
sitting in Gulshan Club sipping Black Label and laughing with those 
ass-licking businessmen that wine dine and give their daughters to him. 
And you know who is the real show? We are." 

In the dark room the General conducted court like an apparition, a
Mephistophelean figure mercilessly poking at the conscience of his 
circle of Fausts.  What'll it be gentlemen monkey boys whoreson 
traitors? Freedom or that blasted word the one that pisses on our faces 
like rabid street dwelling canines that vile slimy bile-ridden insult 
to humanity: anarchy? 

The General made no attempt to turn on a light, to say, perhaps, that
what was talking place here tonight must forever be left in the dark. 

Dumbfounded, outmaneuvered, Majid stared blankly at the General and back
at his fellow officers.  By some stroke of genius, or luck, General 
Haider Mirza had secured the faith of the rest, knowing throughout the 
dialogue that Majid would prove a tail-between-the-knees turncoat in 
the face of action. 

Lieutenant Kamran Majid: appalled at the prospect of an egomaniac taking
to the streets like some resurrected Hitler Shicklegruber metamorphosis 
of derangement with his troupe of wannabe Goebbels and Goerings 
dreaming of some utopian beer hall putsch and world domination.  
Service or servitude? Careful not to make any statements or even to 
pursue matters beyond what's already been said.  But this much is true 
that there was an honor code - who knows where it's lost now - that 
came with this job or was there? or has this always been a showcase for 
different forms of maniacs? And the rest, sitting here like ducks 
waiting for what? Deliverance? Yes they're in darkness, faces covered 
under lack of light, eyes ears noses lips behind a veil and their 
impotent silence betraying all, all, belief allegiance honor humanity. 

The staff of six officers stood up and saluted the General before they
left his home for the evening.  When he was alone again, General Mirza 
had his servant bring him a fresh cup of tea.  He sat and drank it in 
his dark living room thinking about the very first time his father had 
taken him for a walk through the tea gardens of Sylhet. 

The next morning the Prime Minister addressed the nation.  She expressed
her utmost and heartfelt grief over the senseless events of the past 
several weeks, but remained cautious to not accuse anyone for 
instigating any part of the insurrections.  In a speech deftly written 
and delicately worded, the leader of the nation touched on the long and 
trying history of the Bengali people, the struggles that they had to 
bear to have a land of their own, and the duties of every man, woman, 
and child to uphold tradition and honor heritage.  During the thirty 
minute discourse she looked up only twice, but never lost the attention 
of her listeners.  Homes, offices, shops, garages, restaurants, cafes, 
dorms, brothels paused all activities and turned to TV's and radios.  
For half an hour there were no lootings killings burnings or pillaging, 
the entire city listened, surrounded by the sanctimony of that old 
concept, peace. 

The General watched and listened with raised eyebrows and perked ears
all the twitches blinks hints innuendos in the Prime Minister's 
demeanor and in his hawk-like undivided attention to the TV gradually 
one by one consumed the remainder of the yellow blood pressure pills.  
At the end of the speech when he again needed a pill and tugging at his 
shirt pocket only found the empty container he yelled at his servant 
and dismissed him of his duties after slapping his face till the boy 
was bleeding from the nose and crying for his mother. 

3 

It was the ghost of the fiery voice, the phantom echo of a declaration
that seemed to be injecting the masses with the fire of unrest.  While 
some groups of demonstrators were cheering the nation's intolerance and 
denouncement of further slurs coming from the "western faction," others 
were outraged by the recent High Court rulings on the killers of 
Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujib.  Music to the ears of the Awami League, and 
out comes the Prime Minister to address the masses and advocate 
civility and understanding among the people.  And on the other end of 
the field the arms of the BNP reached out and grabbed each falling 
branch of the League, to use them to beat them out of the seat of 
government by the morning (or a date as close to that as possible) of 
the New Year.  More upturned buses burning in still smoking pile of 
their predecessor, police lathi charges, bodies falling from gunfire 
like chess pawns being knocked over by a laughing, ignorant infant, and 
the hellfire rampage of vandalism by student politicos, bandana clad 
Che Guevaras and Phoolan Devis. 

Five of the fifteen named conspirators of the Bangabandhu murder case
had been acquitted.  Not acceptable.  The crime was too heinous for the 
High Court to scoff at it so timidly.  The only satisfactory conclusion 
would be the death of each and every killer. 

The spirit of the beloved Bangabandhu is hovering over the streets and
alleyways of the city, getting a bird's-eye-view of the urban circus of 
death and destruction, watching with pale, haunted eyes and betrayed 
face, the aftermath of the shangram he had prophesied almost three 
decades ago.  Indeed, Independence Day was right around the corner, 
waiting patiently for a safe moment when it could greet the nation one 
more time with proud arms and smiling memories of freedom.  Where had 
the committees and organizers of the parades and festivities 
disappeared? All the time and effort they had put into decorating the 
city had been burned by the flames of defiance and mixed with the ashy 
ramparts of disorder and chaos.  Hopes of the youth to carry flags and 
sing the national anthem for the state functions also had to be 
postponed.  The day of freedom had to wait recognition until the nation 
had a chance to breathe and look in the mirror to see what was left of 
itself to celebrate. 

Young Haider Mirza held onto his father's callus-ridden hand and climbed
the pathway between the tea plants.  It was a little after dawn and the 
tea leaves were still glistening with mist, and all around, as far as 
his ten year old eyes could see, men and women with wicker baskets 
hanging from their shoulders like backpacks, were picking the leaves 
and throwing them over their heads into the baskets.  "Hold on tight, 
boy," his father's voice came down to Mirza followed by a cloud of 
mist.  "I can go," said Mirza.  His father looked down at him and 
smiled, his eyes gleaming with pride, and many years later, when his 
father had become bedridden from heart trouble and high cholesterol he 
told his newly enlisted military son that it was a father and son 
legacy in their family to walk together through the tea gardens at 
dawn.  "I was seven the day my father woke me up and said I had to go 
with him," said the senior Mirza, "I woke up bleary eyed and sleepy, 
and wanted to stay in bed.  But Father forced me to get up and took me 
to the top of one of the hills.  And I saw the most spectacular sight." 


Ten-year-old Haider pulled his hand away from his father's and darted
past him up the hill.  He stuck out one hand and brushed his palms over 
the tops of the tea plants as he ran, and the short shrubs rustled, and 
he brought his dew-wet hands to his face and smeared the cool water 
across his forehead and cheeks.  At a point where his still-too-young 
legs exhausted and began to cramp with pain Haider stopped and looked 
back to see how far back his father was, he turned around to feel that 
he might well have been standing on top of the world.  The sun had come 
up from behind one of the hills, shining brilliantly, promising another 
hot June day.  And below laid in lush green was the giant carpet of the 
tea plants going on for miles on end, as far as the naked eyes could 
see.  Haider smiled and waved at his father, who began clapping at his 
son's feat of reaching the top of the hill before him.  Minutes later 
father joined son.  "All that land in front of you, boy, that's your 
roots.  Don't ever forget that."  Forty years later, sitting in his 
living room and drinking tea that came from those very plants, Haider 
Mirza planned a takeover, in his mind.  He had no further doubts.  
Anything could happen in the midst of these dog days.  And before the 
guns of the underworld came to the surface to claim whatever sense of 
government and order was still left, Mirza was ready to establish 
control in the land that held his father's last words and his own 
roots. 

But what is life without its everlasting slew of conflicts.  Majid, the
lieutenant who had already spoken out once, was trying, prophetically, 
to warn the rest of the staff of the impending plans of the General.  
"Please don't get me wrong gentlemen," Majid explained, "I maybe many 
years junior and a subordinate of the General, but this is insanity.  
Martial Law?" But the staff ignored the young lieutenant's words and 
shook their heads.  "So, you're saying you're ready to bring out tanks 
and soldier's for an all out coup? Destroy whatever's left of the 
country? You're willing to do that?" Lieutenant Majid looked around the 
room at his colleagues' empty faces and found no response or support.  
"All right then, gentlemen, do as you please.  I want no part of it."  
Majid headed for the door.  Lieutenant Dev spoke up: 

"You could face a Court Martial for this."  Majid stopped in his tracks
and turned around.  His eyes had enlarged in his face to the point 
where they seemed as though they were ready to spring out of their 
sockets.  A freeze fell over the room as Dev's statement rang in each 
man's ears. 

"A Court Martial for refusing to give in to craziness?" 

"Be careful with the language you use, Lieutenant," Dev warned. 

"Since you have said so yourself, let me affirm it for you further.  I
refuse to have any part in this madness.  Report me as you wish.  I am 
Bangladeshi, and I have a morsel of love left for my country.  If that 
is so difficult for you to understand, then I apologize.  Goodbye, 
gentlemen."  Majid saluted them and walked out.  Needless to say, 
within moments General Haider Mirza's phone rang, and Dev relayed to 
the General the incident that had just taken place.  To the surprise of 
Dev the General burst out into a hearty laughter after hearing the 
tale.  "By my guns, I guess that takes care of the bad elements that 
could have mucked the whole process.  Now we can proceed without 
delay."  Now, it must be kept in mind that most of this happened upon 
speculation.  Diagrams of a military coup had only formulated inside 
the mind of General Haider Mirza.  At the meeting with his staff he had 
only mentioned Martial Law as a means to an end.  There was no 
declaration of actually initiating one.  Majid's clairvoyant instinct 
took him a step further, and by some vision or internal revelation he 
had felt the inevitability of the General's words becoming reality.  
And hearing the word "proceed" issue from the General's mouth with such 
authority and finality, Dev couldn't help but acknowledge a knot of 
nerves tightening in his chest.  He hung up the phone and turned to the 
staff.  "It seems the General was and is very serious about his plans.  
We should be ready for anything."  The five men looked toward the door 
through which Majid had stormed out, as though they were facing a 
leftover part of his phantom form that was wagging a finger at them, "I 
told you so." 

There cannot be any other way to tell of the General's attempt at a
takeover of the government, but to put it in plain and simple words.  
It was pathetic, a joke so ludicrous that schoolyard brawls between 
little boys had more of an effect on their peers than did General 
Haider Mirza's attempt at becoming a national icon.  And it all 
happened in the span of a day.  The morning after his conversation with 
Lieutenant Dev, General Mirza woke up with a Herculean vigor for 
violence.  He got out of bed at five and called all five members of his 
staff to be at his residence in half an hour.  When the sleepy-eyed men 
showed up he briefed them on the days plans.  The men listened to the 
General's deranged words as if they were in a fantastic dream, where 
ridiculous things were allowed to happen.  General Mirza was soldier, 
politician, historian, and philanthropist, all in one, that momentous 
morning.  For one hour he hankered on the incompetence of the 
"bitch-in-charge," and the "other slut" that was laying eggs of more 
destruction in her lair.  He meditated on the glory days of the last 
military regime during which he had done his utmost service to the 
nation and earned his position, and berated the film industry, 
"because, by my guns, they are one of the chief reasons why whores 
entered the sacred rooms of the president's home.  It was a conspiracy, 
they got him liquored-up, drugged him, waved their genitals in his face 
and when the time came went back to their pimp journalists and ruined 
the country."  The General's ambitious plan included making Bangladesh 
a landlocked mass, blocking the sea-ports and barring the mouths of the 
Bay of Bengal, "so infiltrators cannot smuggle poison into the land.  
And traitors cannot sell the land to international thieves and pimps."  
At the end of his talk he faced his staff and looked deeply into their 
eyes.  "And finally, we must publicly castrate these goondas and 
hooligans that have taken over as if they owned the streets." 

Ego: Foolish Pride: General Haider Mirza set about to execute his
revolution with two tanks, one-hundred foot soldiers, and a staff that 
never accumulated any more personnel than the five men he had remaining 
since Majid had stepped away from his position.  The General followed 
the tanks in an Army jeep flanked on all sides by armed military 
policemen, and his staff.  The battalion went up and down every major 
street and avenue, with the major holding a loudspeaker to his mouth 
and cackling warnings and instructions to the baffled citizens to 
remain calm and go back to their homes, for by the next morning, 
promised the General, order would be restored in the city and the 
people would have a new and competent leader for the new millennium.  
Rickshawpullers, street vendors, pedestrians, urchins, and prostitutes 
watched and listened in amazement as the General's train paraded up and 
down and around the already-too-confused city.  The police didn't know 
what to do.  They stayed home and saw glimpses of the show on the 
evening news.  And, this is just too ironic, the Prime Minister never 
got one word about the whole incident.  As it happened, the General's 
little outburst was not even scoffing at, there was already enough 
madness on people's plates to digest, than to take a helping of some 
more before they could digest the first enormous helping.  The General 
had hoped for mass resistance to his campaign, but received not even a 
yell of protest.  Nothing was issued from the tanks, and the bullets in 
the weapons of the foot soldiers remained intact.  By late afternoon 
General Mirza was so infuriated and offended that he began cursing and 
slandering the unmoved inhabitants of the city.  "By my guns, you 
bastard mongrels, castrated whoresons, curled up under your mother's 
and wife's vaginas, shame on you! Come out like men! I'll drag your 
faces through the excrement you have piled on the streets of this great 
nation! You filthy, ass-sucking, animal defilers! You voted for the 
bitch, now you will pay the price with your testicles and breasts! Get 
out here!" The General's harangue fell on deaf ears.  He sounded more 
like a modern day self-proclaimed holy man than a soldier with an 
agenda, and there were more than enough of those quacks walking around 
than to have another one dressed up in official garb and vomit his 
theories with the help of tanks and guns. 

At eight in the evening, morale had sunk away from the hearts of the
soldiers, and the General's staff surrounded him in the jeep like 
zombies.  The foot soldiers were hungry and dehydrated, the weapons had 
weakened their muscles, so even if they did have a sudden riot in their 
hands, they would have to defend themselves with very little fuel in 
their systems.  The General barked orders like a raving rabid hound.  
He threatened any deserters with Court-Martial for treason.  At one 
point Dev tried to talk some sense to the General, at which point Mirza 
turned on him with blazing eyes and slapped him across the face giving 
him a bloody lip.  Dev remained silent from there on, and never touched 
his wound, letting the blood dribble down his chin, fleck his uniform, 
and harden into crusty flakes over his day-old stubble.  The rest of 
the staff followed Dev's example and buttoned their lips. 

Finally at nine o' clock the Chief of Police dispatched a crew of ten
officers, with himself as the leader, to follow the General's troop and 
stop them for negotiations.  After following the train for twenty 
minutes they were successful in making them come to a halt.  Chief 
Nuruddin Shah approached the General's jeep.  "Ah, by my guns, I see 
the bitch has sent her spineless mutts to interfere," was the General's 
greeting for the Chief. 

"Good evening, General," Chief Shah saluted, "It's time to stop this
charade and go home."  General Mirza steeped down from the jeep and 
faced Chief Shah. 

"You are interfering with affairs of the state.  You can lose your job,
you know that?" the General threatened. 

"That's as it may be, sir.  But you are disturbing the peace of the city
and trying to incite rebellion."  General Mirza's cheeks flushed with 
rage, his eyes bulged with anger and disbelief.  "You dare to question 
my authority, by my guns, you two paisa licker of the Prime Minister's 
excrement! I'll have you prison by tomorrow morning!" The police 
officers came down from the wagon and surrounded Chief Shah. 

"I piss on your dogs, by my guns, you hooligan-harboring bastards! You
think you can scare me into a hole?" General Mirza shrieked.  "Men, get 
your weapons ready, by my guns, we will have a showdown here tonight."  
The flustered General looked back at his troop.  They were standing 
motionless.  His staff was frozen like statues, only their eyes were 
moving side to side to see what the other was doing.  "I gave an you an 
order!" the General growled, tears forming in his eyes, his limbs 
shaking with impotent rage, and the humiliation of being openly defied 
by his subject in front of the Chief of Police of all people making a 
deep fracture in his heart that would cause his death later that night. 
 The tired, totally disheartened, and defeated soldiers, one by one, as 
if commanded by an invisible force far superior than the General, laid 
their weapons on the ground and surrendered.  They formed a single file 
line, standing shoulder to shoulder, and awaited their fate.  The staff 
never left their places from the jeep, knowing very well, no 
demonstration of any kind would change the fact that they had come 
under the spell of a madman, a self-appointed wannabe Fuhrer, who 
couldn't effectively command a battalion of one-hundred-five men, let 
alone become supreme leader of a nation overnight. 

Police officers collected the weapons from the ground and stacked them
in the back of the wagon.  "You will not arrest me today, by my guns," 
General Mirza proclaimed. 

"I am not here to arrest you sir.  I am here to make you understand that
this is ludicrous," said Chief Shah.  Laughter rang out from the 
General's mouth into the night air.  "By my guns, you two paisa 
policeman will make me understand?" Then General Haider Mirza turned 
around and addressed his mutinous battalion.  "You sorry bunch of 
homosexuals.  You issue of a thousand fathers and whore mothers, I 
curse you and your existence," his voice was breaking into sobs of 
failure and shame, "I hope you die of rotted genitals and there's no 
one to bring you a cup of water on your deathbed.  You nincompoops and 
lame excuses for men.  None of you deserve a country or life itself.  
You will all die in the shame of your own excrement, each and every one 
of you."  The General turned back to the Chief of Police, "Against my 
own wishes, and having been deserted by a pack of womanish rascals, I 
am yours to do with as you wish." 

"The only thing I'm here to do General is to escort you home safely and
make sure peace is restored to the city streets." 

"Hah! Peace!" the General snorted and instead of laughter, a choked sob
expelled out of his mouth.  He was followed by Chief Shah back to the 
police wagon, and the foot soldiers and military policemen piled into 
the back along with their weapons.  Six officers were instructed to 
escort the staff back to their respective residences.  On the ride back 
the General spoke once, "What a beautiful and horrible land we pledge 
allegiance to."  Before going to bed that night General Mirza had a cup 
of tea and thought about that day when he was ten years old and looked 
at the spectacular sight of his roots.  He dreamed of his father, and 
died in his sleep from the fracture of betrayal in his heart. 


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