Cactus Country

Manohar Malgonkar

Description

Aslam Chisti, a young Pakistani officer, is faced with a difficult choice war explodes, tearing apart his country.... As tanks and soldiers prowl through East Pakistan, which is fighting to emerge as a sovereign nation: Bangladesh, Chisti who has been posted to the war zone, is taken prisoner by Bangladeshi guerrillas. To further complicate matters, the young officer falls in love with the enemy-the beautiful daughter of a Bengali princess in whose mansion Chisti is placed under house arrest....

In this novel Manohar Malgonkar gives us an enthralling tale of love, valour, manhood and the brutalities of war.

Sujets

• Romance historique
• Bangladesh
• 1971
• Partition
• Fiction
• Saga
• Obermodern-Zutzendorf
• India
• Romance
• War
• Pakistan
• Terrorism
• Modern history
• V. Manohar
• Historical
• Modern
• 20th Century

Informations

• Publié par: Roli Books
• Date de parution: 01 octobre 2010
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9789351940050
• Langue: English

Extrait

About the Book
Aslam Chisti, a young Pakistani officer, is faced with a difficult choice war explodes, tearing apart his country.... As tanks and soldiers prowl through East Pakistan, which is fighting to emerge as a sovereign nation: Bangladesh, Chisti who has been posted to the war zone, is taken prisoner by Bangladeshi guerrillas. To further complicate matters, the young officer falls in love with the enemy- the beautiful daughter of a Bengali princess in whose mansion Chisti is placed under house arrest....
In this novel Manohar Malgonkar gives us an enthralling tale of love, valour, manhood and the brutalities of war.
About the Author
Manohar Malgonkar (1913-2010) was born in a royal family, which had its roots in Goa. After graduating from Mumbai University, he served in the Maratha Light Infantry. A big-game hunter turned conservationist, civil servant, mine owner and farmer; he also stood for Parliament in the early seventies. The socio-historical milieu of those times, the build-up to independence and its aftermath, forms the backdrop of his works, which are full of action and adventure, reflective in some way of his own life. His works span all genres from novels to biographies to history books including A Bend in the Ganges (Roli Books) and Combat of Shadows (Roli Books).

ROLI BOOKS
This digital edition published in 2014
First published in 2010 by IndiaInk An Imprint of Roli Books Pvt. Ltd M-75, Greater Kailash- II Market New Delhi 110 048 Phone: ++91 (011) 40682000 Email: [e-mail] Website: www.rolibooks.com
Copyright © Manohar Malgonkar 1991 Copyright © This Roli Edition, 2010
All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic, mechanical, print reproduction, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of Roli Books. Any unauthorized distribution of this e-book may be considered a direct infringement of copyright and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
eISBN: 978-93-5194-005-0
All rights reserved. This e-book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated, without the publisher’s prior consent, in any form or cover other than that in which it is published.

This is an ‘as it happened’ account of the underdog eastern wing of Pakistan’s attempts to liberate itself and create a new nation – Bangladesh.
I dedicate this to the persons who inspired me in this epic struggle and to Shekh Mujib-ur-Rehman.
Contents
First Things First
In the Shadow of the Dog’s Grave
The Upstairs House
A Lesson in Music
Officers and Gentlemen
Bibi Miriam Calls Out
Spook Business
When Tomorrow is Today
Pigeons Flying
Noises in the Dark
Beautiful Weapons of War
‘What are Old Soldiers Made of?’
Coming Home
The Bicycle Shop
R-and-R
States of Morale
Gifts and Prayers
Morning Glory
Name, Rank and Number
Higher Authority
Codes of Conduct
Loose Cannon
Neutral Channels
Long-distance Call
A Third World
Acknowledgements
First Things First
T hey had timed it well, for play had not yet begun and the two captains, still in their blazers and street shoes, were walking in after the toss.
‘Asif never fails to win the toss on this ground,’ the tall one commented as they made for the staircase of the staff balcony.
Not that they were staff. They were privileged people, though today they’d have preferred to remain unrecognized. But this was too much to hope for at the Aitchison’s College cricket ground in Lahore which is held by its alumni to be the cradle of Pakistan’s cricket. For that matter, the pair could not have failed to attract notice even at the two Meccas of the game either, Lord’s in London and the MCG in Melbourne.
Both men, Hanif Abmad and Hafiz Butt, had superstar status in Pakistan because they figured prominently in the record book of cricket, Wisden’s .
And sure enough, someone must have seen them as they got out of their taxi for, at the entrance to the staff veranda, a portly gentleman in glasses and wearing the tie of some regiment was waiting to greet them. ‘I’m Latif Mulla,’ he introduced himself. ‘The PCC secretary. This is indeed an honour. I didn’t know that either of you gentlemen was in Lahore.’
Instead of answering, Hanif, the short one, beckoned to him to come closer and inquired: ‘Who won the toss?’
‘The OBs. Kramet.’
The two exchanged glances and Hafiz, the tall one, said, ‘I’m sure they’ll bat. So please hurry, Mr Mulla. We want a word with Sharif Nawaz before the Punjab team takes the field. Could you send someone – or, please, go yourself and call him? Don’t want to have him making a scene, do we?’
‘Certainly, Mr Hafiz.’
After the secretary of the Punjab Cricket Club had gone off to do their bidding, both men went and stood at the foot of the stairs to wait for Sharif Nawaz, Pakistan’s wonder seamer – he who could make the ball fly at ninety miles an hour. He came out scowling, because he, too, was in Wisden’s and not accustomed to being called to the back of the pavilion just as his side was about to take on the field. But when he saw Hafiz and Hanif, he waved and came up to them, beaming.
The two stood on both sides of the bowler and spoke in undertones. Sharif scowled and shook his head in protest, making it clear that he disapproved of whatever they were telling him to do. In the end he said aloud: ‘Make sure he’ll be wearing a helmet, then.’
‘That’s just it. Never wears one. It’s his boast.’
‘Hell, Hafiz-mian. I don’t want to bash his head or something and then have to face his father – put me before a firing squad, straight.’
‘Chhodo, yaar,’ Hafiz said placatingly, and produced the morning’s Lahore Times from his pocket. He opened it and held it before Sharif. ‘Gen Tarik Summons Commanders for Talks,’ said a three-column headline.
Hanif was saying, ‘General Tarik is too busy even to fart, man – didn’t you know we’re on the brink of war?’
‘Also, I’m sure he’ll understand – he played too, didn’t he?’
‘In India. Before the Partition.’
‘Look, yaar,’ Hanif said, ‘this is our one chance of taking a good look at Aslam – how he deals with the rough stuff such as John Snow will bowl’.
Sharif Nawaz’s expression changed and he gave them a hard stare. He said, ‘In that, case, OK.’ He waved a farewell greeting and went running back into the pavilion because the rest of his side was already out, and Mohasin Bari, the captain, was setting his field.

The grass on the pitch looked a vivid green because of a shower the previous evening. ‘Wouldn’t care to have Sharfee bowling at you on that, would you,’ the short one, Hanif, commented.
‘The first hour’ll be bloody tricky, till the dew dries up,’ Hafiz agreed. ‘Now what could the secretary-bloke want, you think?’
Mr Mulla came up, and Hanif asked him: ‘Come to join us?’
‘Well, no. I’ve things to see to. And also I’m sure you’d like to be left to yourselves to watch the game and be able to consult freely. I just wanted to know if you’d lunch with the staff. They’d appreciate it.’
‘Certainly, Mr Mulla, and thanks a lot, because today we’d much rather keep away from either team. And, oh yes, can you raise a couple of pairs of binoculars for us, you think? Neither of us has brought ours.’
‘Of course, Hafiz-saab, For the moment, take mine. I’ll go and get you another pair.’ He handed his binoculars to Hafiz and went off in search of another pair.

Out in the field, Sharif Nawaz opened the bowling. The two watched the first over in a professional silence. As the field was changing, they realized that someone was standing behind their chairs: Asif Kramet, the captain of the Old Boys team, and also in the running for Pakistan’s captaincy for the summer tour of England, had come to see them.
‘So you won the toss again,’ Hanif said.
‘Never lose them.’
‘Just remember to go on winning them in England,’ Hafiz said.
‘Sure, sure, if I go as Captain, that is. What I came up for was to ask you both to have lunch with the OBs – they will be thrilled.’
‘Sorry, yaar, not with either team today. Anyhow, the staff wants us to have lunch with them.’
‘Oh,’ Asif said. ‘Oh. At least you’ll get a good lunch. I was wondering what both the selectors were doing in this neck of the woods. Now I understand. But who, if one might ask?’
‘One might not. But one might help.’
‘Any time, bhaijaan,’ Asif answered. He was one of the caste, and could be familiar – address the two as bhaijaan, brothers.
‘Look, we’re hoping to catch the evening flight to Karachi, but only if we’re finished with the business here. So do us a favour. Promote Aslam Chisti to bat at one down.
Asif raised his eyebrows and nodded approvingly. ‘So that’s why? Oh, good. I can tell you he’s a real find. But not at one down, dammit; not for Sharfee’s opening spell; not with the bloody grass a foot high. Look!’
‘Too many nots.’
‘Here’s another. Not if you really want to study his form. He’s a stroke player. He’ll go even for Sharfee’s cannon-balls.’
‘Come on, yaar.’
‘So you’re thinking of him for England?’
‘Whatever gave you the idea?’
‘But hurry up, Asif,’ Hanif urged. ‘Your opener there is no Ken Barrington – not going to last long.
‘OK, OK,’ Asif promised, grinning. ‘And if we’re balling up Aslam’s chances by putting him up in the batting order, be it on your heads. Or is that what you want to prove, that he’s no damn good?’
‘Chhodo, yaar,’ Hanif told him. ‘All we want to see is how he deals with the real fast ones. But if you don’t go and change the batting order quickly, we may not have that chance – the way your openers are fumbling.’
After Asif was out of