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THE FINAL WAR
Anindya Basu on Smashwords
The Final War
Copyright © 2012 by Anindya Basu
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THE FINAL WAR
Count From 0 To 100. Forwards Or Backwards?
That’s The Million-Dollar Question.
New Delhi: 26th January 2050
There will not be an India-Pakistan War ever again.
It was not as if.
India and Pakistan had shed. Their long, bitter, protracted enmity.
Chosen to live. As peacefully, harmoniously co-existing neighbours.
It was because. India had ceased to exist.
Pakistan had won. The Final War. With India.
Decisively and overwhelmingly.
Instead of the tri-coloured Indian flag.
The green flag with the crescented moon.
Was flying high from the top of Red Fort.
On the day that was designated to be celebrated as India’s 101st Republic Day.
On the day India’s Prime Minister was supposed to unfurl the tri-coloured Indian flag from the top of Red Fort.
In fact. The Pakistani flag was flying all over.
The country. That was once called.
India. Bharatvarsha. Hindustan.
From now on. The whole country.
Would be known to the world. As Pakistan.
Incidentally. The country that was previously known as Bangladesh.
Had refused to be left out of the grand re-union party.
And had quietly coalesced into. What was now Pakistan.
The Holy Islamic Republic of Pakistan.
What’s The Tally? Bang!
General Asif Ali Mirza was going over his address to the nation. The Holy Islamic Republic of Pakistan. Approved by and delivered by Maulvi Iqbal Masud himself a short while ago.
His eyes were mechanically moving through the hastily written hand-notes. But his thoughts lay elsewhere. He could still clearly remember the day. His father had died in Afghanistan, fighting for the Taliban, against the USA.
Nooruddin Mirza might have died a few days earlier. But the news reached his family that day. Asif, his younger brother and sister, their mother. Living in a run-down house in a congested slum area.
The Imam of the local mosque showering praises on Nooruddin, before a congregation. With Asif, his tearful mother and the two frightened younger children, being given pride of place.
A true hero. A martyr for Islam. God’s beloved. Has gone straight to Heaven. An idol for all true Muslim men. Thundering the Imam.
A local businessman announcing Rs. 10,000 as his contribution to the setting up of a Nooruddin Memorial. For, has he not brought infinite glory to our little town? Others followed suit.
The Imam saying to Asif. “Remember my son. You are a martyr’s son. Your father died for Islam. Never ever forget that.”
Asif had never ever forgotten.
General Asif Ali Mirza was 5 years old at that time.
Dream. Sweet Dreams. Sweet Realities. Bitter Shame.
“President Asif. President Asif. Wake up. Wake up.”
President Asif Ali Mirza woke up from his daydreams. Sweet dreams. It was Masud. Maulvi Iqbal Masud. His left brain. His right hand. His middle penis.
“Remember. You are going on air. 30 minutes from now. Try to stay awake.”
“Sorry, Maulvi Sahib. Some old memories…”
“You won’t be sorry once the speech is over. I have lined up some lush young Hindu girls. Waiting for you, in trepidation, in anticipation, for emancipation, for liberation. Specially selected by me. Fine specimens. Juicy, succulent, tender. Like spicy beef steaks.”
Asif’s tongue moistened, muscles tightened, spine shivered. In anticipation of bliss, joy, plenty, abundance.
That Masud was sometimes impossible. Still he must be commended, recommended for knowing exactly what Asif wanted, enjoyed, what gave Asif pleasure, fun, what satisfied Asif’s thirst, hunger.
In bed Asif preferred females in the age group of 10 – 15. Flowers just opening their petals, smiling at the sun, glistening with dew drops, about to bloom forth into colours. It gave Asif huge pleasure to tear off the petals of the crying flowers one by one.
Masud suggested to Asif that there was no hurry to convert to Islam, neither the 32 crore unaffected or mildly affected Hindus left standing nor the 12 crore Hindus down with the mysterious paralytic disease —
Together they made up a total of 44 crore Hindus who had refused to convert to Islam, in a land that was once called India; that land now contained 287 crore Muslims, including 25 crore ex-Hindus who had fearfully converted to Islam over the last 10 days; out of the 25 crore, 9 crore had converted from their beds —
First let Muslim men and women enjoy to their heart’s content the pleasures of copulation with members of a specially selected group containing young Hindu girls and women, and good-looking, able-bodied young Hindu boys and men. Then start converting the rest of the Hindu population. As for the members of the select group. They would nearly become Muslims after copulation with Muslims. Their case could be taken up much later at a leisurely pace.
Masud’s eyes and lips suddenly twitched. And face and nose wore a frown. A worried Asif saw Masud staring at his food and wine palate. “Don’t drink too much or gulp down too much food. Or, there may be a recurrence of that shameful incident.”
“Don’t worry, Maulvi Sahib. I’ve learnt my lesson well. There will not be. Any more such occurrence.”
“Well then, goodbye for the time being, President Asif.”
“Goodbye, Maulvi Sahib.”
McFool Don’t You Snigger Any More
It was really a shameful incident as Masud had said. And the sniggers of that Henry McPherson. Asif was not the President then.
The American President Henry McPherson had invited to Christmas dinner a special dignitary. The Army Chief of Pakistan, Asif Ali Mirza. Besides the two there were a few aides from either side —
The dinner starting well. But then Asif starting to drink like a hosepipe. And gulping his food like a garbage excavator. The poor Mohajir boy had had no indulgences during his poverty stricken childhood. And later in life when lady luck had started smiling on him, Asif, to make up for his depraved childhood, had had much more than his fair share of food and wine at any gathering. But this time he was going too far. Gone. Gone. Gone. Not able to control his bowels, bladder, throat any longer. And then the unthinkable happening. General Asif Ali Mirza making a mess of himself, right in front of President Henry McPherson.
Well, it must be admitted President Henry McPherson was decent enough in hushing things up. But Asif never able to forget the sniggering looks and taunting smiles that, that McPherson giving him, whenever, wherever the two happening to meet. Asif further recounting. Even after that day, that incident, McPherson doubling his agony by pouring ice-cold water over his hot, aggressive penis erecting against India at the UN —
Well now, he had gone one up on that fool McPherson. How he would like to see the face of that McPherson now.
After Asif’s army had started to run over India, McPherson had threatened to invade Pakistan. He had to beat a hasty retreat when Asif’s long, trusting friend President Guao Zing of China had threatened to nuke any country that dared to invade China’s long-time ally Pakistan. Which was surprising since China was not supposed to have any nuclear weapons or for that matter any country other than the USA and Russia.
A good man close to my heart, that Guao Zing. Asif suddenly started smiling at the thought of McPherson’s supposed discomfiture at Guao Zing’s threat.
Asif’s smile session was interrupted by an apparition. It was the Maulvi. “Oh Asif, I couldn’t… Some real good news. Britain and China have scuttled calls for an emergency Security Council meeting. They have also said they would oppose any future moves trying to corner Pakistan, which has acted nobly and honourably and whose sole motive was to save the sub-continent from total anarchy and bloody communal riots. Well President, I think we should raise a toast to our good friends Guao Zing and Tommy Witherspoon.”
As their glasses clinked, Asif fondly thought of Prime Minister Tommy Witherspoon of Britain. A man with whose tastes, a lot of his own were similar. Especially in the subjects of sexual lust and lusty sexual appetite.
A Primer On Appetites. Not That Appetising.
Tommy Witherspoon came from typical English middle-class stock. His forefathers had made it good in India during British colonial rule. Little Tommy, sitting on his grandfather’s lap, had heard tales of British bravery and the Indian Maharajas’ opulence. Little Tommy had decided that when he grew up he would imitate the lifestyle of those magnificent Maharajas. Asif had satisfied one of Tommy’s long-standing ambitions when he had gone on a state visit to Pakistan. He had allowed the British Prime Minister the use of his luxurious villa, built with an eye to satisfy his own carnal needs. Asif had watched with glee on his close circuit TV —
Tommy in his birthday-suit, coming down the stairs. With naked Pakistani beauties on either side, showering him with rose petals. The same group of women, excepting two, guiding Tommy into the scented water. Where they started massaging him with various coloured extracts and perfumed ointments. Tommy out of the water. The two woman standing, drying him, with their long black perfumed lustrous hairs —
After getting dressed up, Tommy had gone straight to Asif, embraced him and promised that from then on Britain and Pakistan would become inseparable friends on the world stage.
Guao Zing’s case was radically different. The only son of poor over-worked factory workers, at the age of 8, Guao had lost his mother, a victim of China’s monstrously cruel labour conditions. His father had lost his zeal for living and found himself out of work for long periods of time. 8-year-old Guao, urged on by a near empty stomach, had become streetwise. He had soon found out the water bodies and garbage dumps where Chinese couples dumped their newborn infants, in fear of violating dictatorial China’s one couple – one child policy. Guao had become adept at fishing newborn babies out of water bodies and extracting them from garbage dumps —
In the wee hours of the morning, Guao taking back bodies of newborn babies, wrapped in plastic. Reaching home. His eagerly waiting father sitting on the doorsteps. His father skinning the babies. Roasting one of the freshly skinned babies. One baby sufficient for a day. Little Guao and his father, feasting on the tiny babies ravenously, with tearing fingers and gobbling mouths —
Even after their condition had improved, and even after Guao had managed to enter one of the military schools, he could not forget for his life, the taste of tender, roasted baby flesh. At first when Asif had learned of Guao’s cannibalistic tendencies he had shuddered. But later shrugged it off as Guao’s personal taste. In fact, he had hit upon a novel way to secure Guao’s friendship. A newly self-crowned President of Pakistan had hosted his Chinese counterpart in a private lunch —
Guao astonished. When served a whole baby roast, marinated in a Pakistani spice mix. As he was carving up the roast, forcing large portions inside his mouth, tears of joy were dropping from the squinted eyes of a delighted Guao. Asif offering Guao’s Chinese chefs the recipe of this special roast. Asif promising to send a monthly consignment of ten frozen and skinned babies to Guao every month —
Guao had been beside himself with joy. Immediately after finishing his lunch, he had got up and embraced Asif. Afterwards, besides making the customary noises about friendship and co-operation, he had made an offer of a very strategic deal. Guao’s deal, which Asif had accepted readily, was instrumental to Asif’s success. China had given Pakistan a blanket guarantee of a nuclear protection umbrella, which had surprised Asif, since China or for that matter any other country other than USA and Russia was not supposed to have nuclear weapons. Asif had chosen to keep quiet. He had taken Guao’s words seriously, knowing Guao Zing was not a man given to empty boasts.
Asif would have been surprised much more if he had known Guao would have offered that strategic deal anyway, even without that special offering. Actually, Tommy too would have made that promise anyway, even without that special arrangement. A short-statured, lightly-built woman in her early thirties, had made sure of that during her secret meetings with Tommy in London and Guao in Beijing.
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