Money for Nothing and Your Chips for Free

(Formerly entitled Iqbaal and the Handcycle)

NOTE: The following story is out of order like a lot of the entries. I have to have more time to compile my notes on Pakistan... Rest assured it was a trip.

Iqbaal smiles invitingly from his seat on the handcycle. Handcycles are three-wheeled craft powered by hand cranks to either side of the driver's bench. A horizontal bar runs parallel and superior to the front wheel and extends back toward the driver for steering. I ask Iqbaal if I can give his three-wheeler a spin and he shrugs his shoulders as if to say, "Why not?" before disembarking to the side and crabwalking to the front to unlock the wheel. My intention was for him to remain put on the bike, but he fails to catch my meaning, so I take the handcycle for a couple of loops by myself to the side of the gathering crowd outside the cinema. An audience of fifty immediately materializes around me to see what's going on and just as rapidly disperses when it is discovered I don't know how to apply the cycle's break and am a menace to life and limb. Iqbaal cries out, "Up! Up!" which at first I interpret as a command for me to jettison the out-of-control conveyance and so I begin to stand up, which causes him to shout "Down! Down!" A stranger runs alongside and grabs the steering column and it is then I realize pulling up on it engages the front break. The spectactors reform around the handcycle once it is at rest. I get tangled up in the hand cranks during my dismount while Iqbaal ascends with seemingly too few moves. Dyoont, dyoop, dyoont and he has pivot-climbed back in place. Iqbaal is a small-framed, dark-skinned, high-cheeked young man with two withered legs being the fallout from a bout with polio at age six. An English speaker in the audience asks how much money I am going to give him.

"None," I reply, "I was just trying out the bike." I look to Iqbaal, "Did you want money?" He shrugs his shoulders and shakes his head no, while simultaneously looking expectant. The English speaker offers that I should give at least one hundred rupees, while another in the crowd suggests five hundred. I ignore their pleas and engage Iqbaal with some simple questions as to where he lives, what work he does, and so forth. A translator appears at my side to repeat my questions, often verbatim, in English.

"Where does your family live?" I ask.

"He is asking where your family lives," the translator chimes in.

"They live in small village in Bihar." Iqbaal answers.

"How long have you been in Delhi?"

"He is asking of you how much time you have been in Delhi. How many days?" the translator explains.

"One month. I stay outside masjid in Main Bazaar." Iqbaal requests my hotel address and announces that he will meet me the following morning at ten.

No Entry is a trivial Boney Kapoor (Anil's brother, not part of Raj's clan) offering showing at the Sheila cinema just five minutes from our hotel in the Pahar Ganj. Unfortunately, it is also the only offering at the single-screen theatre. Of the over one thousand people waiting to enter the theatre there are, at most, five of the fairer sex. One is a heavily-bangled, ravan-haired girl that looks to be in her late teens who flits from one group of boys to another in a drunken, twirling dance. I worry about her safety in the testosterone-flooded setting. She pauses in front of a trio of strangers to apply garish red lipstick and then with a clap and a shout is off again. She approaches me, and as best as I can decipher, asks for a ticket to the movie after informing me she is an undercover officer for the Mumbai CID. Her eyes are intense and desperate and her hair wild--a fully-animated character from ancient Indian folklore dropped unwittingly in a modern metropolis. I agree to treat her to the film thinking it will be a safe respite from her daily routine, be it detective work, or, much more likely, prostitution plied in the sullen alleys to either side of the theatre.

As we approach the ticket booth a middle-aged man on a scooter rolls by and the girl hauls off and punches him hard on the cheek, rattling the entire length of bangles on her arm. A direct hit. Incredibly the victim manages to keep his scooter upright and rolling forward and only looks back in shock, but continues on. "Kyaa kar rahe ho?" I ask dumbfounded. She says something that I understand to suggest that the man is a rival agent in another intelligence organization. Impulsively, she veers away from me to engage a group of five boys leaning against the fence that defines the perimeter of the theatre's property. I wait for a couple of minutes to see if she will come back for her ticket, but she seems to have completely forgotten my offer.

As John and I enter the theatre I look back one last time to see the secret agent slapping one of the five boys hard--SMACK. He doubles over in pain, holding his cheek while the rest of his companions scatter in laughter. It seems they won't retaliate and so I continue up the stairs to the AC balcony section.

The next morning at eight, as I am meditating prone in bed, the phone rings. John answers and goes down to the lobby. He comes back up in a couple of minutes and calls out, "Mark, Mark? Can you hear me?" I try to make it clear from my body posture that I am in meditation but John persists. "Can you hear me?" I lift a protesting hand. "The guy with the bike that you were talking to last night is here. It's all on you now." John descends again after five minutes and then joins me in meditating. At nine thirty the phone rings again and I answer.

"Sir, your friend is waiting," the receptionist informs me. I go down to the lobby where Iqbaal smiles eagerly upon seeing me. I am in no mood to reward his early arrival for what was a self-made and unconfirmed meeting to begin with. I point to my wrist and ask, "Kitne baje hain?"

"I know. I know. Sare nau baje hain," he says. "But I am here now."

"I'll come down at ten," I say.

"Okay, okay. No problem," he says with an enthusiasm that I find slightly annoying.

At ten I come back down and find Iqbaal waiting outside on his handcycle with the same smile I left him with at 9:30. I ask if he can scoot over on the seat and he begins to get down from the three wheeler. "No, no. Stay on. Just slide over. I will sit next to you." I contort myself to snake my way next to him. We crank the wheels in tandam drawing bemused stares from all quarters and make our way down the narrow, people-packed alleyways to the main bazaar and finally out to the main road.

On the open road we are able to crank a fair amount of velocity out of the three wheeler and I am inspired by the self-generated breeze to sing the signature tune from Sholay, "Yeh Dosti" (This Friendship). Iqbaal joins in causing the passing traffic to veer wildly while rubbernecking to keep the unlikely pair in sight. I steer us toward a quiet side street and am surprised to find an upscale tea shop tucked between tenements and stop to investigate the possiblilty of getting us some breakfast. Iqbaal remains sitting in the three-wheeler. "What are you waiting for?" I call back to him. He looks left and right before pointing to himself in disbelief. Moi? I keep motioning for his to join and eventually he gets down from the handcycle and waddles up to the door. A human torso on duck legs.

"Do you serve breakfast?" I ask the smallish woman who greets us at the door.

"We are the finest tea shop in India," she explains.

"Oh, we were only to looking to get some simple food for breakfast. Do you know of a place close to here we could go to?" I ask.

"You just sit and we can get you breakfast," she says, "In the meantime you can try any of our teas which you will discover are the finest brewed anywhere. Jennifer Lopez orders only our tea, and many other of your celebrities have provided testimonials."

"But, I am from Kashmir."

"Oh."

I am wary of getting taken in a chai swindle after meeting with Les a few days earlier and having him relate the saga of the Chinese tea scam. On his first day in China he was approached by a college student who invited him for a cup of the finest tea the world had to offer. He took Les to a beautiful tea house where a cup of tea was served and, no doubt about it, it was good. Then the bill was presented and it was bad. Five hundred dollars bad. Les ended up paying after sizing up the employees as mafioso and deciding he didn't want to land up in a lonely cell with a very large communist in a very large communist country.

It is hard to imagine the diminuative Delhite that stands in front of me in such an intimidating context and so I stay on, curious to see what will happen. "Here let me show you about us," she says, "Here is our catalog. And, as you can see, here is Jennifer Lopez who will only drink our tea." She flips the page quickly to one featuring innumerable logos--evidently corporate endorsements of their brew.

"I do not know who this Jennifer Lopez is, but I am intrigued by her addiction to your product," I say.

"No, no. Nothing like that. It is just that ours is the finest tea, so many famous people will choose ours only. We have our own factory and the highest quality control standards."

"I'm not famous and I lost my factory to my ex, but I am beginning to understand why I should buy your tea--even if I don't have any money with me today."

"That's no problem. What would you like for breakfast?"

"Vegan crepes with fresh strawberry jam and tofu scrambler."

"What?"

"A couple of samosa." I turn to Iqbaal who looks uncomfortable in the posh shop, "What would you like?"

"Kuch nahin."

"What? Why not? Aren't you hungry?" I ask. He shakes his head no. "You should have a little something at least," I urge. The saleswoman pulls me to the side.

"We also do this type of work with people with no arms or legs," she confides, "Sometimes we will see them outside and just take some tea and biscuits to them." Somehow she makes the exercise in charity sound like the scattering of bread crumbs to rooftop pigeons. A mental image appears: a crowd of limbless loafers, idly nosing about in the dirt outside her door, waiting for their morning tea – the world's finest. I am tempted to point our that Iqbaal does, in fact, have legs, albeit shriveled and floppy. The saleswoman turns to Iqbaal and tells him in Hindi in no uncertain terms to eat something with me.

Three rounds of tea are served to accompany tasteless triangular sandwiches coated with an unidentifiable spread. The sasmosa never materializes. The tea is delicious and expensive, but not of the $500 variety. I cop every pecuniary plea at my disposal before I am able to extricate myself and Iqbaal from the tea shop and its frustrated proprietor.

Iqbaal and I crank our way to the Yogoda Satsanga Society temple and I do my best to explain to him that I will be sitting for twenty minutes. He crawls after me into the meditation hall and reclines near the back. After my twenty minutes I find him staring at me with a satisfied smile. Next stop is a back-road masjid where I am instructed in washing feet, face and ears before performing namaz. The masjid's operator plies me for tips on getting a visa for America. Just as I tell him that the best bet is to marry an American his wife emerges from a back room and veils upon seeing me. Iqbaal has already made his way back to the bike and motions for me impatiently.

I treat Iqbaal to lunch at Nirula's where he fixates on the price of each food item. It is only later in the meal that I realize he is laying the groundwork to justify hitting me up for a hefty loan. "My family in much trouble. Five sisters and no house, no food. Everything gone in fire. I come to Delhi from Bihar to make money for them. But much trouble." I sympathize with woes but council him to just enjoy the meal for now. He continues to look troubled as he pokes at his veg burger and fries. "You will help me?"

"I am only eating with a friend."

"You think I lie."

"Not at all. I am just eating now though. Do you like your food?"

"You will help me?"

"I will try to be a friend, but I want to be a real friend."

"I need just 20,000 rupees."

"I really would like to help, but I don't think giving a big chunk of money will help in the long run. We need to find you some sort of sustainable income, or the need for another big chunk of money will just come again after a little time." Iqbaal eyes me worriedly.

"I don't understand. You think I tell lie? You not give money? You not help me?"

"I'm not saying that. Money would be easy to give, but I don't think it would helpful in the long run. Maybe if we think together we can come up with some things to do that could really help in a lasting way. For one thing I can help you learn how to speak better English. I could meet with you every day and we could practice speaking. If you can speak English it will be much easier for you to find a good job."

"I don't understand. You not help?"

"Do you know how to read and write?"

"No."

"I can help you learn. I could even teach you how to read and write in Hindi."

"You don't understand. I need money. This food cost you 100, 200... 300 rupees," Iqbaal says looking at the menu and pointing to the various prices.

"Yes, but it is food and not money," I point out. kI suggest to Iqbaal that we meet with my Hindi and English speaking friends that evening to act as translators for us. He reluctantly agrees. On the ride back to the Pahar Ganj he is sullen and stares straight ahead as I sing. We stop at an STD so I can make a local call. "How much will it cost?" I ask the shopkeeper.

"Two rupees," he answers dully. I dial and let the phone ring for a good thirty seconds but no one picks up. I fish out two rupees and drop them into the shopkeeper's waiting hand.

"Four more," he demands. I am indignant.

"You said two and no connection was made anyway. It should be free. There is no way I am going to pay you six. You said two." The shopkeeper bridles at my temerity.

"Four more!" he says rising to his feet. Iqbaal intervenes and tries to hand the shopkeeper four more rupees, but I deflect his arm.

"Don't pay him anything more. It is not right."

"It is only money," Iqbaal says.

"I don't care about the money, but he said two and he's going to feel like he can cheat any foreigner if I pay six."

"Chalo," Iqbaal says tossing the four rupees from the side to the shopkeeper's desk.

"This isn't right," I complain first to Iqbaal and then again to the shopkeeper. I stare disapprovingly at the shopkeeper who dismisses me by joining his fingertips at his forehead and then derisively flicking his hand down and open. PG Translation: Take a hike. As we crank the handcycle away from the STD it is my turn to be in ill spirits. The sun is scorching and I feel every one of the many bumps in the road acutely in my nicely sciaticized leg. Iqbaal asks about stopping somewhere and I can't make out his intention, but agree nonetheless. He pulls in front of a shop and asks the owner to produce five cases of cigarettes. He looks to me expectantly.

"No thanks. I don't smoke."

"Not for smoke. Buy?"

"I don't smoke or buy cigarettes."

"But I sell for much money."

"I won't buy cigarettes even for the Dalai Lama. They are poison for people's lungs."

Iqbaal looks exasperated with me and the shop owner even more so with Iqbaal. No sooner than we start out again and Iqbaal suggests bananas as an alternative to cigarettes. I tell him I will consider his proposal, but I want to be able to communicate clearly with him with the help of my translators in the evening.

"But you promise for buying bananas."

"I don't make promises, but I will meet you tonight and we will talk."

"Promise?"

"Yes. I mean no. But yes. Six o'clock tonight."

That afternoon I stumble upon what I feel might be the ideal solution to assist Iqbaal. I will offer to loan him enough money to buy one day's worth of bananas to sell. He can pay me back at one percent interest at the end of the day. When the loan is paid back I will double the amount I lend, until he is able to finance the purchase of inventory from his own savings. If he defaults early on with repayment of the loan I am out almost nothing. If he takes off later in the scheme at least he will have moved toward economic self-sufficiency in the meantime. But the incentive to pay back each new loan will be remain high with the promise of a doubling of the next amount.

Six o'clock comes and goes, but Iqbaal is a no show. I meet Alisa and Manish and share my idea with them. They generally approve with my loan scheme and echo my feelings that a flat out gift of money is not going to be helpful in the long run. Alisa orders a random dish from the menu that comes with tofu and looks better than my noodles or Manish's burger.

The following morning I encounter the very pregnant Rita and her daughter, Gita, in front of the hotel. The duo are tireless rag pickers that are tempted by the teemingness of foreigners in the Pahar Ganj to supplement their scant earnings with begging. I purchased Rita medicine a few weeks back for her myriad chronic ailments and in all subsequent encounters she has hounded me to replenish her prescription or purchase baby clothes. The pre-teen Gita is so perfectly filthy that the dirt on her face, hands and feet has the slightly artificial appearance of makeup applied for a TV production of Oliver Twist. There are two sons somewhere too, but they are typically sent on their own to beg in the bazaar. Racial sensitivities aside, the boys are so simian in appearance and behavior that one is inevitably compelled to comment, "Whoa, they are just like monkeys."

I haven't had breakfast and it is almost noon, so I tell Rita to wait five minutes while I grab my stuff from the hotel room and then I will take her and Gita to lunch on the Main Bazaar. I run upstairs to our room in the Sahara International and find John in his permafrost position in front of his laptop. I convince him to take a break and meet us in the bazaar for lunch and run back down to the street. When I return Iqbaal is stationed on his handcycle across the street and all smiles.

"Where were you last night?" I ask. He appears confused and shrugs his shoulders. "We had agreed to meet at 6:00 but you didn't come. I waited for you." Again he just shrugs his shoulders.

"Where do you want to go?" he asks.

"I'm going to breakfast with this woman and her daughter," I say pointing to Rita, "You can come too if you like." Yet another shrug of the shoulders and a smile.

"Why not? Come sit," he says motioning to his handcycle.

"That's okay I want to walk." The four start out for the Main Bazaar and I immediately steal Gita's giant recycle bag and start collecting the scraps of cardboard and plastic from the claustrophic alley in double time. She is embarrassed by my usurpation of her menial labor and attempts to reclaim the bag, but I am unregenerate. Lots of hooting and hollering comes from passing pedestrians and the shops lining the road which simply sharpens my focus on the task at hand. Iqbaal forces a smile, but it is clear he too is uncomfortable seeing me in this role. Two teenage boys that discern Iqbaal is following me, say something in Hindi to the affect that he is just waiting to get some money. Iqbaal bristles at their assertion and struggles to pull alongside of me.

"Hah. They say money, but I say just friends." His rejoinder comes across as so contrived that it has the unintended consequence of creating an even greater credibility gap. The crowd gathering to view the spectacle of the rag-picking 'gora' doubles, then doubles again, which is quite a feat in a neighborhood where the population density under normal circumstances allows for standing room only. I take advantage of the burgeoning audience to sing my signature Hindi number, Bewafaa (i.e. cheater, as in unfaithful lover). Late comers, I delightedly realize, might be led to believe that the crowd has formed based on my singing ability and not because of my dirty work. I use a discarded plastic water bottle for a microphone and during the chorus point into the audience as I drone, "Eka bewafaa, eka bewafaa, eka bewafaa, ek bewafaa hai!" Anywhere else people might take offense at being called a cheater by a perfect stranger, but this is India and the unfaithful scream their approval when thus identified.

I take advantage of the road's constriction at its intersection with the Main Bazaar to shed the throng of gawkers and join the flow of traffic moving toward the Railway Station. I rejoin Rita and Gita, but Iqbaal cranks past us. "Where you going?" I ask.

"We meet later, okay?" he says without waiting for confirmation. I enter a restaurant where I have been known to bring a variety of guests and take a table where I can watch the street for John. Gita disappears onto the street and returns two minutes later with a similarly-aged girlfriend. A mother with small girl recognizes Rita and manages to invite herself to lunch. Her daughter, in turn, invites yet another friend. Within half a minute our party of three has become seven. Once everyone has ordered I am two words into my stump speech on the value of washing hands before eating when Gita clasps her friend's hand and leads her to the sink. The others follow suit leaving me momentarily speechless. Lunch is a thoroughly enjoyable affair and I take advantage of my captive audience to quiz the young ones in elementary addition and subtraction. A black magic marker applied on napkins serves as improvised chalk and chalkboard. I am surprised again to discover the little tots are completely facile with single digit problems and fairly capable with double digits. It's not until I challenge them with the subtraction of a larger number from a smaller that their brains are taxed. Math is followed by pictionary and again the children perform in exemplary fashion until I draw a computer chip which they misidentify as a centipede. Hah!

That night I spot Iqbaal by the side of the road as I walk home from dinner. He calls me over and I take a seat on a slab of concrete next to his handcycle. "You give money now for bananas?"

"No. I wanted to talk to you about how we could work something out, but we still need a good translator."

"But you promise."

"I didn't promise. I agreed to meet with you and my friends came to translate, but you were a no show."

"I don't understand. You not help?"

It hasn't been lost on me that Iqbaal does not want to have others involved in his effort to extract money from me and his absence from the previous night's meeting was likely intentional. A boy with a disfiguring cleft palate approaches and kneels between Iqbaal and myself. He says something to us which comes out sounding like the disembodied voices of adults in Peanuts cartoons. I smile and motion for him to sit with us which causes Iqbaal to bristle. He hisses some choice invective in Hindi at the interloper, then raises a hand as if to strike the boy who scampers off. "That really wasn't necessary, Iqbaal," I complain.

"My name is Irfan, not Iqbaal," Irfan (oops) frowns, "You not give money for bananas?"

"I'm going home. Phir melengay." As I start for home I am approached for money by three different beggars in the first twenty meters. I manage a meager smile and walk on. An assortment of street vendors endeavor to tempt me with wares designed for the Western traveler.

"Toilet paper? Bottled water? Cigarettes?" I decline to entertain any of their advances and quicken my pace. A smallish teen in an Adidas sweat suit emerges from an alley and attempts to match my strides.

"Some brown? Hashish? Something else perhaps? Good time?" I wave a dismissive hand and maintain my stride. At the corner for home I am forced to wait behind a tangle of auto and bicycle rickshaws as they attempt to create adequate room to pass. Up the street I catch sight of a dull-green scarfed Anita hurriedly making her way toward me. I am resigned to the fact that all escape routes are blocked.

"I was looking for you yesterday," she says slightly out of breath, "I was very hungry and baby was crying all day."

"I was talking to some people yesterday that said that they know you," I say while stroking Anita's sleeping child on the head. Anita turns to avoid my gaze. "They say you really don't have four other children and live up the street and not in Rohoni. They also said your husband isn't a farmer in Rajastan, but a local alcoholic."

"Oh yeah," Anita says disinterestedly, now actively looking for another mark to inveigle. "No food at home. Much trouble for children."

"Look, I genuinely would like to help you out, but at the very least you have to start being honest with me. If you want to show me your place and introduce me to your children I will do my best to assist you to work your way out of your difficulties."

"Not possible."

"What's not possible?"

"My place is very far."

"I will pay for a rickshaw. Let's go. C'mon, right now."

"Not possible," she claims again without explanation. The traffic jam has managed to become further entangled. I idly turn to buy a bag of Lay's Classic potato chips from one of the ubiquitous everything-under-the-dusty-moon shops that line the streets of the Pahar Ganj.

"Some milk too for baby," Anita prods.

"Not possible," I fire back.

"Some chai to go with the chips then."

"The chips are for me. I'm going to eat them in front of you until you tell me the truth." I rip the bag open and start loudly crunching the chips near her baby's ears.

"What are you doing," she laughs, "You're cruel."

"Only to the ones I love. Now take me to your place or give me your baby and I will raise her properly."

"Not possible." The traffic has cleared and I make my break for home. Anita shouts after me, "What about some food?"

"Not possible." The chips are tasting awful I muse. The colorfully packaged junk food of American origin is usually reliably consistent supersaturated poison, but this bag literally tastes like junk. A young man with cat-like yellow eyes and movie-hero looks steps in front of me.

"You are looking very tired," he says.

"You flatter."

"Tired of India? It's easy to dislike this country. Everyone wants something from you."

"And you? What are you selling?"

"It's not like that. I just thought maybe you would like to talk."

"Sure," I smile wryly, "Why not. Where are you from?"

"I am from Kashmir."

"I may be going there next week. Do you think it's safe for an American to travel alone there?"

"There could be problems. But there could be problems for foreigners in Delhi too."

"Anywhere really," I add.

"That's true. You know my philosophy is that there are crooks and terrorists everywhere. Assholes come in all colors," he says thoughtfully.

"And yet they all have that characteristic pucker. I'll have to remember that one for my blog."

"Your what? Why don't you come to my shop and we can continue talking over some chai."

"Not possible, I'm going home. Maybe next time, bhai." Once more I make out for the Green Guest House. A halogen street lamp gives gaudy illumination to a vast cloud of dust rising from the street and the various refuse deposited there. As I return my attention to the bag of chips, I recognize the clear line of transmission from the freshly laid cow pies to my salty snack. Assholes come in all colors, and chips in all flavors I muse. I dump the bag at the nose-end of a toppled dog with impossibly distended teats and she deigns only to sniff at them briefly before struggling to her feet to slink further into the shadows.

Postscript:

When I return to Delhi after my stint in Pakistan, I spot Irfan with regularity sans handcycle by the side of the road. Evidently he has found sitting in the dirt an effective way to enkindle more sympathy. The first couple of sightings he looks to me expectantly and I tap my wrist where there is no watch to indicate I have to keep moving. The third time I get held up by a snarl of traffic and he clutches at my pants. "Hi friend."

"What do you want? I am in a hurry," I lie.

"Just one minute," he says starting to spider walk away.

"I really don't have time," I lie for the second time while reluctantly following him. He stops in front of a cloth shop that has pushed all their stock of outrageously colored blankets to the front tables. Irfan unfurls a blanket and wraps it around his shoulders to demonstrate its warmth-giving property. I am not impressed, but I am cold and can only imagine how cold it would be on the street at night without a blanket. The calculus of the propriety of purchasing the blanket plays in my head. Others are probably in greater need of the blanket, especially children. Buying it will only encourage Irfan to continue begging and will forever cement our relationship in inequality. But it is cold and getting colder and I hate being cold, so I fish my wallet out of my backpack and count out the required money. Uncharacteristically I forego bargaining.

"Thank you," Irfan says. I nod glumly and mutely turn to make my way back to the Karlo Kastle Hotel. When I wake in the morning it is too cold to emerge from under the blankets. The power is out so there won't be any warm water for a shower. I shut my eyes and try to imagine Irfan wrapped tightly in his new blanket and derive some small pleasure (and warmth) from that.

The King's Great Great Grandson and I

CHARACTERS

THE BRIGADIER, the great great grandson of the King of Afghanistan

MARK, an American in Pakistan – a perpetually-worn bandana hides bad hair

BCC DIRECTOR, the head of the Boy Scout Cadet College in Badrasi.

TIME AND PLACE

Early November, 2005, about a month after the earthquake in Kashmir. The action of the play all occurs on the serpentine mountain road between Islamabad and Muzaffarabad in Pakistan.

SCENE AND SET DESIGN

[THE BRIGADIER is driving MARK into the Hindu Kush mountains so that he might get an idea of the scope of the earthquake damage. It is MARK's first time back in the mountains since his 1998 India trip and he is euphoric.]

[The stage design is identical to that of 'Angel Burgers' with a white, compact Datsun sedan replacing the Nissan 4x4. Again, the simulation of motion is achieved by projecting video of a receding road behind the car. The mountain scenery is punctuated by occasional villages, school vans and uniformed children walking roadside.]

[THE BRIGADIER and MARK enter stage right and get into the car. THE BRIGADIER squeezes his hulking frame behind the driving wheel while MARK sits in the passenger seat.]

THE BRIGADIER: Before we start I must offer you a hat like the locals wear so you will blend in. You wear it like this. [THE BRIGADIER puts a flat, donut-rimmed wool hat on MARK's head and with some difficulty wiggles it into place.]

MARK: [Looking at himself in the rearview mirror.] Pure American Taliban.

THE BRIGADIER: You are looking quite dashing, sir. Tomorrow we will get you a real kurta to go along with the hat. So, I trust you had a good rest and some breakfast?

MARK: Actually, going to the hotel took longer than we thought it would. I just got back a few minutes ago. Your son was showing me around the house a little bit.

THE BRIGADIER: I hope you are finding Pakistan to your liking? [THE BRIGADIER puts his hand on the back of the passenger seat and twists his torso around to back the car out of the driveway.]

MARK: I only got in the night before last and flew directly to Islamabad so I haven't seen much. Actually I was surprised how much the road from the airport to the hotel in Rawalpindi resembles some parts of industrialized Illinois.

THE BRIGADIER: Illinois? I had a very interesting encounter in Chicago a couple years back.

MARK: So you've been to the States?

THE BRIGADIER: Yes, I just traveled by myself all across the US for six months in a rental car. You see, I like to get to know a country and I've found that at least four months is necessary for this. I like to meet people and have friends to stay with wherever I travel. I don't care for hotels.

MARK: That's definitely the way to do it. Total immersion into the culture. Hotel life is so homogenous the world round.

THE BRIGADIER: But of all my meetings in America, the one in Chicago had to be the strangest.

MARK: Okay, the suspense is killing me.

THE BRIGADIER: So I was eating at a truck stop on the south side of Chicago. You know just to grab a bite before hitting the road again. A lot of interesting characters were coming through there for lunch, but one particular fellow really caught my eye. He was this very tall, thin Texan with cowboy boots and white hat – what is it called? A ten-gallon hat? And he has a very distinctive mustache curling up at the ends, like some of the Panjabis wear. A real striking guy, you know. Anyway, I decide to try and capture some video of him and he starts to stare at me and really get nervous. You see Mark, I have long had the ability to size a man up very quickly and I could tell this chap was just shaking in his boots. Something just wasn't right with him.

MARK: You mean other than the fact that some stranger is video taping him? I would freak out too if you just started filming me. You're an intimidating looking hombre.

THE BRIGADIER: [Chuckling.] What, me? I hope not. Well at least not too much. Anyway this Texan certainly thought so. He was looking so terrified I felt I just had to go over and try and talk to him. When I told him I was a tourist from Pakistan he really settled down. You see, I was wearing a shirt that a friend in the LA police department had given me that had SWAT written on it. The reason I had asked for this shirt was that my family owns a lot of land in Swat here in Pakistan. But this guy had actually thought I was a policeman and was going to bust him or put him on America's Most Wanted.

MARK: There's a place called Swat?

THE BRIGADIER: It's a very popular place actually – a sort of hill station. But the story gets better. The Texan fellow starts to get comfortable with me and tells me he is coming from California in a large camper van, but he's not sure where he is going to go next. Turns out I had just talked to my friend a few days earlier who is a director in LA. He mentioned to me that his camper had been stolen, so we might have to postpone our hiking outing that we had planned. It doesn't take me long to figure out that I'm having lunch with the thief of my friend's vehicle.

MARK: Wait, you have to be kidding me. You're saying the Texan guy stole your friend's camper in LA and drove it to Chicago and you just happen to meet him in some greasy spoon?

THE BRIGADIER: Only because he thinks I am a policeman! It keeps getting better though. I am able to talk him into heading back to California and taking me along – I end up leaving my rental car at the airport in Chicago. So over the next several days I take turns driving with the Texan and we drive the camper the two thousand miles back to Los Angeles on Route 66. It is two thousand right?

MARK: Something pretty close to that. So the Texan guy doesn't know all this time that it's your friend he stole the camper from?

THE BRIGADIER: No, I figured first I would just get him headed back in the right direction, then I'd worry about the details. I had all those miles to try and convince him to give the camper up and find some lawful means of making money.

MARK: So what happened when you got to Los Angeles?

THE BRIGADIER: I talked the fellow into handing the keys to the camper over to me and bought him a bus ticket for Texas. I drove up to my friend's place and his face just drops. We had a good laugh. I'm telling him I'm ready to go hiking and we end up going to Yosemite a few days later.

MARK: That is simply the craziest story I have ever heard. You just ask the Texan for the camper back? For quite a few years now I have been getting people I meet to share with me the weirdest story they've ever come across, but this just takes the cake.

THE BRIGADIER: But, I'll tell you Mark, I don't believe things happen by coincidence. Even my meeting with you. You know what's even more fun? We picked up Jesus hitchhiking outside of St. Louis and he came the rest of the way to Los Angeles with us.

MARK: Yeah? Jesus is a fairly popular name with Latin Americans.

THE BRIGADIER: But this was a white fellow and he really thought he was Jesus. He even interviewed the Texan and I for possible discipleships. Jesus didn't stop talking the whole way to California.

MARK: [Smiling.] He sounds like the real deal then. [Suddenly serious.] It's too bad this couldn't have all been captured on film.

THE BRIGADIER: I did! I shot over eighteen hours of video. I have it all the tapes in a box in my basement. I even have Jesus issuing the new Ten Commandments.

MARK: I wonder what Moses would have to say about that? That's just crazy. Have you ever considered having all this made into a documentary? It's such a natural.

THE BRIGADIER: I really haven't had the time. I'm busy twenty hours a day and sometimes more than that.

MARK: It would be a surefire Academy Award winner.

[The video screen shows Michael Moore introducing the award for Best Documentary Short. Clips from 'Two Thousand Miles to Los Angeles: The Brigadier, the Texan and Jesus.' are shown.]

THE BRIGADIER: You haven't had anything to eat yet today, sir. We have to let you sample some of the best fruit in the world. Let's stop here.

[THE BRIGADIER and MARK disembark at a very colorful road side fruit and flower stand which is wheeled onto stage left. The vendor is a very old man with red woolen cap.]

THE BRIGADIER: You must try a couple of oranges and an apple.

MARK: Sounds good. [Tries a slice of orange.] Oh, wow. It's really sweet.

THE BRIGADIER: Still even these are nothing compared to what comes from my orchards at Swat.

MARK: What all do you grow there?

THE BRIGADIER: There is no fruit on earth that we don't grow. Everything you can imagine. I tell you Mark, Swat is really heaven on earth. If you go there you won't ever want to leave.

MARK: Sounds good. When do we leave?

THE BRIGADIER: We have a little business to take care of with this earthquake thing and then we will most certainly go. You know Stephen Hawking was on my orchard for six months and I didn't think he would ever go back to London.

MARK: You mean the 'Brief History of Time' guy?

THE BRIGADIER: The very same. I'll tell you though, Mark, he is an extremely headstrong fellow. He absolutely loved the serenity of Swat – it took everything in my ability to convince to go back to his family. There really seems to be no correlation between intelligence and peace of mind.

MARK: Take me for example.

THE BRIGADIER: [Smiling.] Yes?

MARK: I'm a complete idiot, but I'm happy as a lark.

THE BRIGADIER: I rest my case.

MARK: I was just reading the other day how much Hawking despised the speech synthesizer that the Americans had made for him, because of its "bloody accent." It's funny because I never think of Americans having an accent, but clearly it's exactly proportional to the degree I detect accents in others. My French girlfriend always thought Americans sounded like robots [MARK in overly robotic voice] just like Hawking's synthesizer.

THE BRIGADIER: [Momentarily perplexed by MARK's attempt at hi-tech humor.] You do a pretty good robot. I've always rather liked the American way of talking. Not so much the accent, but the straight way people have of talking.

MARK: [Continuing in robot voice.] Thank you for the kind words. I have 20K hard disk space remaining and can speak seventeen percent Urdu. Must find oil. Must find oil.

THE BRIGADIER: [Smiling.] We have some doctors in the next village that can take a look at you. In fact, that reminds me I must buy some flowers for them.

[THE BRIGADIER buys some flower bouquets and bananas before he and MARK get back in the car and continue toward Muzaffarabad.]

MARK: So as a military man how do you feel about America's actions in the Middle East?

THE BRIGADIER: Well, I'll tell you sir. Four things. First, I think George Bush made a grave mistake in invading Afghanistan and I'll tell you why. In all of history no invading country has been able to last there. The British were thrown out, the Russians were forced out, and in a matter of time the Americans will be. Secondly, the American troops have not been trained well and their bad behavior is souring the perception muslims have of your country. I have heard of no army before that does not pay shopkeepers for their goods, but in talking to many of my friends in Afghanistan they said this happens time and time again with the American soldiers. Complete disdain for the people and if you aren't making friends on the ground you are asking for real trouble. Lastly, I think the American people are most wonderful, but they really have very little idea what the government is doing abroad in their name. And this is too bad, because I don't think they would approve. But I don't think the governments have any power these days. The world is largely being run by multinational corporations without reference to borders and profits are valued above all else. There is almost no sense of social responsibility.

MARK: And the fourth thing?

THE BRIGADIER: Fourth thing? No, that's it.

MARK: Even the idea of democracy seems to be a bit of a sham to me now. It was a real revelation for me to see what happened in the 2000 presidential election in the US. I guess I was pretty naive and probably still am. I mean, I always knew that political action committees had undue influence and politicians could be bought, but I didn't think vote counting could be so suspect. At least not in America. How do you feel about the government here?

THE BRIGADIER: I don't think anyone is rejoicing. But there is some amount of stability. The army knows how to run things smoothly – that's what they excel at. You know, keeping things orderly. But I try to avoid all things political these days and just focus on the things I can do. And I get a quite a lot done if I may say so myself sir. [Pats MARK's shoulder affectionately.]

MARK: You may, and I'm sure you do. I think it's sound policy to focus on what you, yourself, can do, rather than worry about what the government is or is not doing. I was obsessed for quite a time with the perceived injustices that were being meted out by the governments and corporations of the world. I was a pretty satisfied as an angry young man, until I realized that my anger itself, was either a part of the problem or the whole problem.

THE BRIGADIER: I've seen anger and self-righteousness devour men's lives. People just lose all perspective when they let their anger control them. I had a dear friend that lived not so far from Swat who left his farm for a couple of weeks to do some business in Karachi. When he came home his prize hunting dog was missing and he came to learn one of the hired men had hit it with a tractor and it had died. He was just overcome with anger and started searching for the man with the intention of flogging him, but the servant had gone into hiding. He called me for my advice and I told him flat out to let it go. I told him I would buy him two new dogs and have them sent immediately to his farm, but he should forget all about what had happened. You know, it was done and over with. It was an accident and nothing he was going to do would bring his dog back. You see, when you suffer a loss it is critical to focus on all that you do have rather than that thing which was lost. I warned him he was going to lose a lot more than just the dog if he continued to obsess about hunting this man down.

MARK: There's the proverb: For the want of a nail the war was lost.

THE BRIGADIER: Well, my friend's nail was venting his anger on the hired man. Eventually that servant's body turned up in an abandoned well and it didn't take long for the police to figure out who had killed him. My friend went to jail and lost the farm.
The hired man's family lives there now as part of the court decision. You see, Mark, I am capable of giving good advice and do so freely to anyone who should ask for it, but I am not troubled if they fail to follow it. Even I do not always follow my own advice – how can I hold it against someone if they choose to go their own way? When my friend called me from jail what could I possibly say to him? To this day I am the only one who visits him and sends cards. Once I am someone's friend there is no turning back.

MARK: True friendship – that's good stuff.

THE BRIGADIER: And, you sir, I consider a friend.

MARK: And vice versa. And your advice for me?

THE BRIGADIER: Mr. Mark, I would like to see you marry a very level-headed and beautiful Pakistani girl and open a number of schools for orphans in the mountains.

MARK: I will leave all the arrangements in your hands, sir.

THE BRIGADIER: Done. You have probably noticed that the Pathans have perfectly flawless skin. The women are very fair in complexion and blond hair is not uncommon. They say that God spent a whole extra day in creating the Pashtuns after noting the flaws in the other races. You can see the difference even between your skin and my own.

MARK: Of always been kind of partial to my corpse-like pallor. What about your wife? How did you meet her? Was it a love marriage?

THE BRIGADIER: Well, sir, she had been coming to my parent's house since we were children, so some of my earliest memories are of her. The marriage was decided early on, but she is the only girl I ever wanted to marry. So you might consider it an arranged love marriage. Her father is a very intimidating man, so I had to always be on my best behavior.

MARK: Your son was saying that her father is a chieftain in the North West Territory?

THE BRIGADIER: Yes, he comes from a long line of what you would call tribal warlords. Unfortunately, he is a very ruthless man and has probably killed well over one hundred men. Some for very trivial things.

MARK: He has actually killed men himself?

THE BRIGADIER: Yes, it's a sad thing. He is almost never without his sword. But you have to understand that it is a very different world than you are accustomed to. There is no law in the North West and these things happen – bodies are simply disposed of and forgotten. It's a very different life style.

MARK: And death style.

THE BRIGADIER: I imagine it's something like your wild West from years back. My father-in-law will treat his dogs better than the villagers that he gets cross with.

MARK: So is your wife at all like him?

THE BRIGADIER: No. She is very much her own woman. I really married the best, so there has never been any cause for second guessing. I have only one rule in my house which is not to oppose me in anything I do and she accepts this. You can join me, walk by my side or get behind me, but do not try to stand in front or you will be run over. I am stubborn that way, but it is one of the very few conditions I have put on my family. And now if you will direct your attention over here you will see we have arrived at the hospital where I had Fidel send the first team of Cuban doctors.

[Video shows entrance to parking lot through security booth.]

MARK: Fidel as in Castro?

THE BRIGADIER: Yes, he has been a good friend for some years. I really don't understand why your country insists on giving him such a hard time. After the earthquake I kindly requested him to send four teams of doctors and he immediately agreed – without hesitation. The first batch has arrived and I sent them here until I can get some more field hospitals established. So, with your permission, I want to check in with the Cubans and gift them each a bouquet of flowers. You see, Mark, I have real difficulty with the way the disaster relief has been managed here in Pakistan. Musharraf called me to a forum on the matter and the first thing I told them is that whenever volunteers are known to be coming to the country they should be greeted at the airport with a bouquet of flowers and driven to their hotel. Why should a volunteer have to struggle just to get settled? At the hotel they should be given a care package and a detailed dossier on the current situation in the field.

MARK: That's really a fantastic idea. Show people right from the get go that they are appreciated. When I was doing moving jobs in the States I remember how affected I was when a customer would tip my friend and I before the job even began. It demonstrated a trust and appreciation that we became motivated to live up to.

THE BRIGADIER: This is exactly the thing. If volunteers are treated with disdain the quality of their help will suffer accordingly, but treat them with real respect and they will work without end. We must show them up front that their contribution is invaluable. But I also am a firm believer in making sure people take breaks to enjoy themselves. I've seen too many suffer from burnout because they think they must do everything at once – you know, everything becomes an emergency. My first advice to everyone that comes to help is to relax. Then have a thorough look around. Really come to understand the situation. Make a flexible plan and only then act. And take breaks. Shall we? [THE BRIGADIER puts his hand on the car door handle preparing to exit.]

MARK: [Opening his door.] We shall. [THE BRIGADIER and MARK exit the car and gather up the half dozen bouquets from the back seat.]

THE BRIGADIER: How would you like to be introduced, Mr. Mark?

MARK: As a tenacious florist from the US.

THE BRIGADIER: [Laughing.] Done. I think we need a good localized name for you as well. Something with real flavor. Do you know what Hansaab means?

MARK: [Mistakingly thinking the name to be the Hindi equivalent of 'Yes, sir.'] Yes, sir?

THE BRIGADIER: [Misunderstanding MARK's reply to mean he understands the meaning and approves of it as a moniker.] Good, then Hansaab it shall be.

[THE BRIGADIER and MARK exit stage right. Lights dim on the Datsun and video shows THE BRIGADIER and MARK entering the hospital where they are greeted by a doctor from the UK.]

THE BRIGADIER: [Shaking the UK DOCTOR's hand.] It is a real pleasure to meet you sir. Allow me to introduce you to Hansaab, the Love Doctor from Delhi.

UK DOCTOR: [Looking a bit confused while shaking MARK's hand.] Nice to meet you.

THE BRIGADIER: If I may do so, Doctor, I would like to present you with this bouquet of flowers as a small symbol of a the great appreciation the citizens of Pakistan have for your selfless service. I would also like to humbly offer you my modest services should you need anything at all during your stay here.

UK DOCTOR: We are ready to take on new patients, so any you can send...

THE BRIGADIER: Excellent. We have a number of cases up in Muzaffarabad that we can't handle with our facilities at the hospital there. I will have them immediately referred here. The Cuban team is adjusting well here.

UK DOCTOR: Actually, we have all been learning from them. They are able to do the most advanced surgeries with what we thought was less than adequate instrumentation. They are real artists and have none of the attitude that most in my profession unfortunately acquire. It has been a great experience working alongside them.

THE BRIGADIER: I am most pleased to hear it.

UK DOCTOR: Let me show you around the facilities.

[The three enter a room with some twenty bed-ridden patients. A small girl limps over to MARK who crouches down to her level. Smiling, she places her badly misshapen foot in his hand. He massages it while returning her smile.]

MARK: [Turning to the UK Doctor.] Is there anything you can do for her?

UK DOCTOR: Unfortunately, she's had the club foot from birth. To correct it we would have to break the bones and perform multiple, painful surgeries. [MARK grimly continues to smile, strokes the girl on the head and returns her foot to the floor.] It looks like a couple of the Cubans have just got out of surgery. Come, I'll introduce you. [The UK DOCTOR leads THE BRIGADIER and MARK to the hallway where two Cuban doctors are removing their surgical masks.] Doctor Sanchez and Doctor Marquez this is the Brigadier and... and a therapist from Delhi.

THE BRIGADIER: [Motioning to to a bemused MARK.] He is the Love Doctor. His work with children is known throughout India and America and he has come to Pakistan to educate us in the ways of love. If you get the chance you must sit down with him and share notes. Hopefully there are no women in your group or they most certainly will fall hopelessly in love with Hansaab and be most tempted to leave their husbands to spend time with him. [The Cuban doctors look as bewildered as the UK DOCTOR, but shake hands with MARK while studying him intently.] On behalf of myself and the many patients who have benefitted from your considerable expertise in the medical sciences, I would like to offer you each a bouquet of freshly cut Pakistani flowers. [The doctors modestly accept the token of appreciation.] And now I must beg leave of you as the Love Doctor has requested a tour of our operation in Muzaffarabad and we still have other stops to make.

[THE BRIGADIER and MARK are shown exiting the hospital where the doctors see them off. They enter stage right and reassume their positions in the Datsun. The video shows the hospital receding in the distance before they turn back onto the road for Muzaffarabad.]

MARK: [Laughing.] The Love Doctor from Delhi?

THE BRIGADIER: Hansaab, I must tell you life can get very dull when you are engaged in endless organizational meetings. You must find whatever ways you can to spice things up. Like yourself, I like to have fun. Taking things too seriously can really make matters burdensome.

MARK: I entirely agree. Speaking of Delhi, what about relations with India? What do you see happening in the future? I was really surprised when my friend and I began our friendship letter writing campaign in India and so many students there expressed interest in having the countries merge. I wasn't even aware that the sentiment existed.

THE BRIGADIER: [Furrowing his brow with concentration.] Three things. Number one, there really is no India even today. The British drew lines in the sand, but they had no historical or cultural relevance. They tried to make one country out of what was a number of very distinct princely states. Even now you have Panjabis wanting their own country, Kashmiris wanting their own country, and the states in the northeast wanting autonomy. So there really is no unifying idea of what India is. Number two, we could never agree to join with India because there is so much bad blood between the countries. They interfered in East Pakistan and even now they are meddling in Baluchistan. So there is a considerable trust deficit.

MARK: Ah, yes. The paradoxical two-way trust deficit. I think the enmity was there with the generation that went through partition and perhaps even their children, but the kids today genuinely seem to want bygones be bygones and to make a fresh start. There are so many cultural ties between the two countries.

THE BRIGADIER: Well, that's true of Pakistan east of the Indus river – Lahore especially. The western half really has nothing in common with India and draws its inspiration from Afghanistan. It's all Pathans and Pashtuns like myself. We really don't mix well at all with the Indians. To be quite frank with you, I find the people over there to be kind of scrawny characters – rather shiftless and not very healthy. I remember when I was posted at the border we used to look over at the Indian troops with our binoculars and feel sorry for them. They looked to be a sad lot.

MARK: Still you gotta love the scrawny buggers. I'm one myself.

THE BRIGADIER: [Laughing.] Sir, we will amend your weight on some real Pakistani mountain food.

MARK: That's what I'm afraid of. There will be nothing left of me to send back to India.

THE BRIGADIER: So tell me exactly what you were doing over in India. How did you find them?

MARK: What? You haven't read up on the Love Doctor? You really have to attend one of my seminars. No, seriously I love the country and its people, its diversity. The hospitality is world class, much like I'm finding it to be here. I think it must be a South Asian thing. People with next to nothing will offer everything just for the pleasure of having you dine or stay with them. It's very instructive for an American. I think India's spiritual tradition is unmatched. But I came to India a year back with some friends to try some experiments in service and to meet inspirational people along the way. It's been a really interesting time and I have no regrets. I love working with the children especially. Just a single smile from one can recharge my batteries when I feel like I am starting to wear out.

THE BRIGADIER: Children can have that effect. You will have plenty of them to tend to in Muzaffarabad.

MARK: I would love to get some schools set back up in the mountains. Most recently I was in Delhi working with a group of doctors on starting an NGO for street and slum children. As frustrating as India can be, I think I will always be in love with the place.

THE BRIGADIER: Even so, and in spite of my introductions at the hospital, I must recommend that you never let anyone here know where you are coming from. Both India and America do not sit well with a few people here and the army in particular may become suspicious of your motives in Kashmir.

[The video screen shows fast cutting clips of a wide variety of Pakistanis asking MARK where he is from. He answers 'America', 'India', or 'I'm coming from India, but I'm originally from America.']

MARK: So what's the next stop?

THE BRIGADIER: Before Muzaffarabad I would like to stop briefly at the Boy Scout Cadet College in Badrasi. It's the only one of its kind and was damaged considerably in the earthquake. As a former scout I am keenly interested in helping them rebuild.

[THE BRIGADIER slows the car to a stop as he peers intently ahead. Behind the audience hundreds of children dressed in goat costumes begin to file into the theater until the aisles are dense with kids. They work their way up onto the stage and throng the car before exiting stage left and right. Occasional bleating is heard. A lone shepherd tends the flock with a smooth wooden walking stick.]

MARK: I didn't realize the Boy Scouts were in Pakistan too. It was started in the United States, right?

THE BRIGADIER: In Britain by Sir Robert Baden-Powell. I still have my manual and merit badges at home.

MARK: I guess maybe it was the Girl Scouts that was founded in the United States.

THE BRIGADIER: [Laughing heartily.] That, my dear Hansaab, is something only the Love Doctor would know.

[Curtains close as the last of the children clears the threshold.]

INTERMISSION

ACT 2

[THE BRIGADIER and MARK sit with the director of the Boy Scout Cadet College on wooden chairs in front of the Datsun and a collection of neatly arrayed tents. Boy scouts enter and exit the stage engaged in various cleaning chores. The video screen shows towering pine trees and patches of brilliantly-colored mountain flowers.]

THE BRIGADIER: [To the director.] Sir, I would like to request of you one copy of the Boy Scout manual for my friend Hansaab, the Love Doctor. He is very intent on introducing Lord Baden-Powell's mental, moral and physical development teachings into his lectures.

BSCC DIRECTOR: Oh, really? That is nice to hear. [Motions a light-brown-haired, blue-eyed, scout over and gives him inaudible instructions. Scout exits stage left. BSCC DIRECTOR turns to MARK.] So where are you from?

MARK: I am from America, but I came to Pakistan from India. [THE BRIGADIER noticeably cringes. MARK motions toward the departing scout.] So you have Britishers going to school here?

BSCC DIRECTOR: [Laughing.] Oh, no. We are all Kashmiris here. I think everyone that comes here for the first time gets that shock.

MARK: He really looks more American than I do.

BSCC DIRECTOR: So you are a doctor?

MARK: I'm not a doctor, but am looking for any way I can help out with earthquake relief.

BSCC DIRECTOR: [Confusedly to THE BRIGADIER] But you said something about a Love Doctor...

THE BRIGADIER: Hansaab is notoriously reticent about his professional qualifications. The Love Doctor has administered his special brand of medicine to children living in the slums and on the streets of India and now plans to start a number of schools here for the children. I think you must have seen some of the stories of his exploits on television?

BSCC DIRECTOR: I actually haven't had a chance to see any television for quite some time.

THE BRIGADIER: [Winking to MARK.] But certainly you will have seen his picture in the newspapers.

BSCC DIRECTOR: I'm afraid I have not, but then I must confess I don't see the newspaper often here either. [The scout returns and whispers something to the BSCC DIRECTOR, before handing him two blue scarves with gold-colored fasteners, a a copy of the Boy Scout manual.] I have to apologize that we don't have any extra Boy Scout manuals in our library right now, but you may have a look at my copy while you are here. [Hands the Boy Scout manual to MARK.] And I would like to present you both with our official scarves.

THE BRIGADIER: [With grandiose solemnity.] Hansaab, sir, today you join the storied ranks of the Boy Scouts. [THE BRIGADIER lifts his chin while the BSCC DIRECTOR fastens the scarf around his neck, and then, in turn, does the same for MARK. The effect on their appearance is quite comical as they appear as two grotesquely oversized children. MARK begins to leaf through the manual while THE BRIGADIER converses with the BSCC DIRECTOR.] So, how have you been holding up since the earthquake?

BSCC DIRECTOR: We were shaken up pretty good. Two of the older buildings had the roofs cave in, but, thanks be to Allah, the scouts were all outside at the time. We can no longer use the dormitories, so all the boys have had to stay in their tents for the past month. But that's what scouts are good at, right? We've also had the opportunity to do some relief work with the local villages.

[A page from the manual stating that every scout should do one good turn per day is projected on the video screen.]

THE BRIGADIER: With your blessing sir, I would like to offer the services of the Global Disaster Relief Agency to rebuild the Scout College and also construct a new masjid on the grounds. Inshallah.

BSCC DIRECTOR: We would welcome any aid you can provide.

THE BRIGADIER: I am proposing to take on the entire project of rehabilitation of your campus. I'm not sure if I told you last time we visited, but I am also planning to start the world's first university of disaster-management studies. We have seen the same mistakes being made time and time again with each new disaster that strikes around the world. Just in the last year with the tsunami in the Indian Ocean, the hurricane in New Orleans and now the earthquake here, the need for organizational expertise has been clearly demonstrated. Mr. Hansaab, what do you think?

MARK: [Looking up from the Boy Scout manual.] It really sounds like a great idea. You know, it's kind of amazing to me that with all the high and low tech designs for shelters there are, that the best for each type of situation haven't been identified and stockpiled for emergency use. People are still arguing the merits of tents in Kashmir, and meanwhile people are sleeping outside on the rocks. I think a university specializing in disaster management is long overdue.

BSCC DIRECTOR: Even America with all of its technology seemed to have real trouble in responding to Hurricane Katrina. It would be very beneficial for good minds to sit down and study what has worked and what has gone wrong in the past.

THE BRIGADIER: So, it is decided then. We will rebuild your campus and also find a suitable location for the University of Disaster Management. And now, we must beg of you permission to be on our way as the Love Doctor has an important speech to give at my hospital in Muzaffarabad.

BSCC DIRECTOR: I won't keep you any longer, but I would like to request one picture of you and the Love Doctor with our troops.

[The boys are called from their chores and form a neat pyramid in front of the THE BRIGADIER, MARK and the BSCC DIRECTOR. Three of the boys are indistinguishable from 'All-American' youth, with blond or light-brown hair and blue or brown eyes. The pictures that are snapped appear on the video screen. MARK and THE BRIGADIER shake hands with the troops before getting back in the Datsun and pulling away from the campus. The tents and troops are moved off the stage toward the back, right and left. Video screen shows them waving goodbye.]

THE BRIGADIER: [Shaking his head with disbelief.] There is simply no excuse for the world's only scout cadet college not to have extra copies of the Boy Scout manual. Really quite pathetic, don't you think? I mean it carries the whole essence of the Boy Scout philosophy and they don't have one available for guests. People really don't take pride in their work these days and that's just tragic.

MARK: I was amused that you asked for a manual on my behalf. I've always wanted one and just never got around to tracking a copy down. I was looking at the page that said a scout should attempt to do at least one good turn a day exactly when you offered to help rebuild the college. It seems you continue to be an exemplary scout. Now I feel challenged to find my good turn to do.

THE BRIGADIER: I'm sure you will find no shortage of opportunity where we are headed.

MARK: You know, it's interesting, because as the year has gone on I'm becoming more and more convinced that you really don't have to go looking for opportunities to serve. That chance is always right in front of you wherever you are. The trick is developing the capacity to remain open to what's happening in the moment and recognizing the highest possibility for action in that context. If your mind is on the NGO you are building down the street you end up walking past the child at your feet.

THE BRIGADIER: And if you find no child at your feet?

MARK: Right. Then you can work at fine tuning your awareness such that you aren't unnecessarily stepping on the ants. Or you start picking up the bits of litter you come across. Or in the absence of ants and litter you start looking metaphorically for these things in yourself. The highest service you can offer the world is your own serenity. The latticework of vibratory energy that connects us with all manifestation starts to be infected with our quietude. You start rapping like Amitabh Bachchan during the closing credits in Bunty Aur Bubli.

THE BRIGADIER: Sir, I was following your line of reasoning until that last bit when you lost me with the movie reference. I almost never have time to sit in front of the television.

MARK: Amitabh lip-syncs the words to the title song from the movie. He is no longer the angry young man of his earlier films or even the dignified patriarch he has played in his more recent career. He is a rapping detective, singing the praises of his elusive prey – Bunty Aur Bubli. It really doesn't make a lot of sense, but Amitabh throws himself into the song and so it works. It's not Shakesphere, but it flows because he has aligned himself the character. I think we have a strong tendency to look for our Shakesperian moments, and in doing that we lose sight of the potential of the right here and now. Ironically, I think we are always in the right place at the right time. It's just our attitude that can be wrong. You know, the idea that I deserve better than the conditions I find myself in. Look for the silver lining instead and you can go solid gold.

THE BRIGADIER: It sounds like the Love Doctor will pen a metaphysical addendum to the Boy Scout manual someday.

MARK: [Mirthfully.] Or at least to the advice section of Cosmopolitan. You know when I first heard about you last night I was expecting a very pompous, overblown character. When I saw the very calm and sometimes humorous approach you took, I realized that this is where you had earned your reputation and not from some self-aggrandizing horn blowing. You basically took the material that had been given to you and started rapping.

[Video plays of THE BRIGADIER coming to Farhan's office and rapping about earthquake relief, the sidelined truck drivers, etc. The tune is stolen from Bunty Aur Bubli.]

THE BRIGADIER: I didn't realize I was rapping. But it's interesting you should say what you did because I have long had this notion of tension-free living.

MARK: Something you read in a book?

THE BRIGADIER: No, it's a philosophy for living that I have pieced together over the years.

MARK: Oh, this is great. This is the kind of stuff I love to hear about. So what are the tenets of tension-free living?

THE BRIGADIER: Well, four things, Hansaab.

MARK: Is it really four or just three?

THE BRIGADIER: Why?

MARK: No, nothing. I was just kidding. Go ahead.

THE BRIGADIER: Well, the first thing is not to take yourself too seriously. This causes a lot more harm than people realize. We can spend inordinate amounts of energy projecting and protecting an image of ourselves for others. This energy can and should be used toward other tasks.

MARK: [Deadpan.] I feel like your belittling me.

THE BRIGADIER: What? Why? I didn't mean to...

MARK: [Slapping THE BRIGADIER on the shoulder.] No, I'm just being a goof ball. Please continue, this is good stuff.

THE BRIGADIER: Okay, the second thing, sir, is to let go of worry. If you are confronted with a problem, first just take all the parameters into consideration. Assess the situation from as many angles as possible. Try to exercise your creativity in every way you can to address the issue. Then act or just let it go. No worries. Things will happen or they will not regardless of your worrying about them. Try instead to develop a fearlessness in approaching whatever may come down the road to greet you.

MARK: Now you're scaring me.

THE BRIGADIER: [Concerned.] Why? [Smiling.] Oh, now I get it. I think your devilishness is matched only by my own, Mr. Hansaab. Lastly, for real tension free living we must give freely of our time and possessions to help those who are less fortunate. Have enough to be reasonably comfortable and then look to aid others with whatever excess comes your way. This is the real key to happiness. You know I could have used my money to buy a new car, but this Datsun is perfectly adequate for travel. Now I'm paid back daily by seeing the people treated at the hospital I invested in instead. You see, life becomes very suffocating when we spend too much time catering to our selfish desires.

MARK: You are sounding like a dyed-in-the-wool Sufi, my friend. But that really is only three things, and you said there are four components to tension-free living.

THE BRIGADIER: No that's four.

MARK: No, there was, was, what? First, not to take things too seriously. Second, not to worry. Third, to give away as much as possible. That's three. I would hate to think I was missing the fourth key to tension-free living.

THE BRIGADIER: Well, the fourth thing... [Thinking, then breaking into a grin.] The fourth thing is not to keep an accounting of everything. Stop counting.

MARK: [Laughing.] Damn. I can feel the tension rising. One, two, three...

THE BRIGADIER: Now I remember, sir. The fourth thing is actually to practice the art of forgiveness. You know my friend I told you about who killed a man for the death of his dog? He carried so much tension and still does because to this day he has not been able to forgive. I mean he killed the man and still can't forgive him. His death didn't release him from his anger and grief. If anything it solidified it. Forgiveness should be taught at home, in schools and on the streets from young age to old age and all hours of the day. Letting something go is a real art, one that I have still yet to master, but I am becoming more proficient at in bits and pieces.

MARK: Any personal anecdotes?

THE BRIGADIER: Well, for a time I was appointed to the most powerful position in all of Pakistan – the head of the Anti-Corruption Office. I was given power to indict any official in the entire country and I sat down and made a list of several hundred people I knew had been engaged in wrongdoing. You see, Hansaab, I had been involved with so many people in the military and government over my career that the President knew I had unmatched knowledge of who was involved in what. But you know what I did next, before submitting the list? I called every single person on it to let them know what was coming. Many were long time friends, but I just phoned them and said you know what you have done is wrong and a price has to be paid.

MARK: How did they react?

THE BRIGADIER: Of course some were very indignant and others were very upset with me personally – at least initially. But they knew that I knew what they had done. They couldn't deny it to me, because I had been there on the inside. But the key thing I let them all know is that I myself had forgiven each and every one of them and held no grudges. To me they were still friends. I even invited Benazir Bhutto to my house for dinner after sending the list in with her name on it. That thing forgiveness has amazing transformative power. Immediately after making the list and submitting it I resigned my post and shut down the office. It existed for all of seven hours and did more to transform the government than the previous thirty years of effort.

MARK: Tension-free living.

THE BRIGADIER: [Grinning affectionately.] I really feel that the people we meet is orchestrated by a higher power.

MARK: Or a least by mid-level bureaucratic jinns.

THE BRIGADIER: You know, sir, I haven't enjoyed traveling with anybody this much since I met my friend David in America. We made just an unlikely pair as the two of us. He was a marine that had fallen on hard times after the Gulf War and I ended up spending a number of weeks on the road in the Midwest with him. He was what you would call... what do you call people that live in trailer parks?

MARK: You mean white trash?

THE BRIGADIER: That's it. I just find that expression to be the funniest thing. I like to mix with the widest possible range of people to get as many different perspectives on life. David and I became quite close and he even took me to visit his father who had left the family when David was just two or three years old. His father was living out of a rusted pickup truck in the backwoods of Indiana. He had set up some sort of liquor distilling vat there and was drunk all the time. I'm there in a three-piece suit, David's in oily jeans and a ripped tee-shirt and his father is just in boxers. Really a ridiculous group.

MARK: Being comfortable with all manner of people is a great asset I think.

THE BRIGADIER: Let me tell you, Hansaab. A month after I had met David I am staying at the Beverly Hills Hotel as a guest of the Leadership Council. David calls and says he is in town with his mother and wants me to meet her. What can I say? He comes over to the hotel dressed as usual in rather scrubby clothes and his mother is in some awful miniskirt and tank top. They meet me in the lobby just as the head of the Leadership Council recognizes me and comes over. We get on the elevator together and this guy just can't stop looking between David, his mother and myself. You can just see him thinking how did these characters ever come together. Later David and his mother are sitting in my room and smoking some hashish, or what is it they smoke in America?

MARK: Marijuana?

THE BRIGADIER: Yes, or you call it pot, isn't it? And so my room completely fills with this smoke and I have dignitaries visiting with me there and wondering if I had been getting high. But David was my friend and I really value that. He and his mother even ended up spending an extra day with me. You have ex-presidents and current world leaders staying in that hotel for the conference and then these scrubby folk.

MARK: It really sounds like the makings of another documentary.

THE BRIGADIER: Unfortunately, I didn't have my camera with me at that time.

MARK: You have so many great stories, are you writing them all down somewhere? You should really be penning your memoirs. What about your experiences in the army? Your son was telling me you earned quite a reputation there.

THE BRIGADIER: Well, not always for the smartest of things. But I have been talking too long, Hansaab, and I am most eager to hear your stories.

MARK: You can't leave me hanging. At least share one story from your time in the army.

THE BRIGADIER: Well, okay. There is one incident was literally pounded into my memory. Every Friday the troops would gather from the different regiments and nominees would be put in the ring to battle for top boxer honors. I was always my company's selection as I was quite a bit bigger than everyone else and had especially large hands. Well, for a few months I was winning these bouts pretty easily and one of the superior officers didn't care to see this continue. So after I had had three fights one Friday he orders that I stay in the ring and then calls this Panjabi into the ring that I had never seen before. He was at least as big as I was and just solid muscle through and through. A real tough guy. We stand across from one another and just start knocking each others brains out. [The video screen shows Rock'm Sock'm toy robots superimposed over the receding mountain road. The robots methodically alternate punches.] I was seeing so many stars, but just willed myself to stay conscious. [Stars circle the head of one robot.]

MARK: You had had boxing training?

THE BRIGADIER: No, we really had no sophistication at all. We would just stand perfectly opposite from whomever we were fighting and exchange blows. It was considered cowardly to try to block or dodge a punch. We had never heard of Muhammed Ali, or George Frasier, and there was absolutely no artistry to what we were doing. You hit me. I try to hit you harder.

MARK: So what happened with the Panjabi?

THE BRIGADIER: Well, losing really wasn't even an option, because more than my company, I felt like I was representing the Pathans, and it would bring dishonor to be knocked out. I was fully prepared to die, but under no conditions could I allow myself to fall unconscious and it was only that determination that kept me upright. But punching this fellow was like hitting a brick wall and his fist felt like a battering ram. Anyway he decided to alternate working my midsection with my head, while I just focused on pounding him in the face. Really brutal, primitive stuff. Eventually the blood flowing from his nose was coming so fast that it cut off the oxygen to his mouth too and he went down to the canvas choking. [One robot head pops up on the video screen signaling a knockout. The superimposed robots fade from view.] For a week after that fight I could only eat soup because my jaw hurt so bad. To this day I am not particularly keen on facing off with another Panjabi.

MARK: [Pointing forward.] Do you see that man by the side of the road?

THE BRIGADIER: You think we should pick him up?

MARK: Could we? With your track record it would probably be good for a story. Let's do it. [A neat and trim man of maybe forty-five years enter stage right and motions at the car as the road on the video screen stops moving. THE BRIGADIER leans out the driver's side window and motions for the stranger to sit in the back. The new passenger is extremely grateful and continues to smile for the duration of his appearance in the play. THE BRIGADIER and he talk in Urdu for half a minute.]

THE BRIGADIER: He's also traveling to Muzaffarabad and would like to offer you an orange from his package. Apparently you remind him of his son.

MARK: His son must be a good-looking brute. I'd love an orange. [THE BRIGADIER takes two oranges from the man and hands them to MARK who begins peeling them.]

THE BRIGADIER: [Pointing to the road ahead.] Shall we, Hansaab?

MARK: We shall, sir.

[Video screen shows the road starting to recede again. The effect of sunlight being filtered by the branches and leaves of overhanging trees is simulated by stage lights on the Datsun. 'Road Trippin' by The Red Hot Chili Peppers plays with the lyric 'USA' replaced with 'Pakistan.' THE BRIGADIER, MARK and the new man continue to talk, eat oranges and share laughs while the song plays to completion. The car stops again and all disembark. The man shakes hands with THE BRIGADIER and MARK and walks off stage left. He appears on the video screen where he pats two young mountain girls on their heads and offers them a few rupees. He turns once to wave goodbye, before walking completely out of sight.]

THE BRIGADIER: [Still standing outside the car.] That was quite a gentleman. He has offered for you to stay in his tent and have dinner if you should choose to do so tonight. He lost his entire family in the earthquake – his wife and six children. He had gone out to pick up an order for his shop when the quake struck and it brought down his building crushing everyone inside. Now he's helping others keep their spirits up.

MARK: [Overwhelmed.] Hmmm.

THE BRIGADIER: If you look here, sir, you will see quite clearly the awesome power of the earthquake.

[Video screen sweeps 180 degrees to show a wide-expanse of a mountain range. One-half the width has been completely sheered away exposing chalky white rock.]

MARK: Oh, my gosh.

THE BRIGADIER: You are seeing only a small fraction of its impact. This goes on for over one hundred kilometers.

MARK: It's mind boggling.

THE BRIGADIER: In the valley below is Muzaffarabad.

[The video screen sweeps 180 degrees again to show a bus filled with children passing. MARK waves enthusiastically, causing the children to erupt in laughter.]

THE BRIGADIER: Hansaab, you have a real gift with the young ones, but I must recommend that you never interact directly with the girls because of the sensitivities many have here. Certainly you must never touch any female.

[The video screen shows fast cutting clips of Mark interacting directly with girls and boys in a number of situations – shaking hands, demonstrating hand games, dancing and so forth. It culminates with him running down an embankment with three young girls on his back screaming with delight.]

THE BRIGADIER: [Getting back in the car along with MARK.] Next stop is the hospital just down the road.

MARK: I'm ready if you are.

[The video screen shows an increasing number of cracked buildings and activity along the road leading to the city. The car passes trucks carrying rubble, medical vans, army vehicles, and numerous UN utility vehicles.]

THE BRIGADIER: [Disgustedly.] No organization in the world does less with more money than the UN. These guys have been driving around in their fancy trucks for the past five weeks doing absolutely nothing. Just abominable. My eldest son has just been promoted to overseeing UN development programs for South Asia, but it hasn't done anything to change my opinion. The UN is world-class corruption.

MARK: [Pointing out the window.] Could we stop here for just a bit so I could help load rubble?

THE BRIGADIER: Hansaab, I realize that you enjoy jumping in wherever you go, but there are some who's skills are best fit for this type of labor and your skill set is needed at the hospital.

MARK: [Crestfallen.] Thik hai, sir.

[The buildings visible by the side of the road now are virtually all badly damaged or completely flattened. The car pulls up to the hospital which is revealed in another 180 degree pan by the video screen camera. It occupies the first three-floors of a four-star hotel that had been under construction when the quake struck and was largely spared of any damage.]

THE BRIGADIER: Well, Hansaab, we have arrived. I would suggest you do what the Love Doctor does best and interact with the patients while assessing the situation around the hospital. We can meet back up later in the night and you can brief me on your findings at 2400 hours.

[MARK exits stage left and reappears entering the hospital on the video screen. An extended version of the New Radical's 'You Only Get What Your Give' plays. The camera follows as he tours the building and adjacent tent camps providing shelter to displaced locals. Reaction is initially cool, but thaws as a growing number of kids fall in line behind the stranger in the funny clothes with the funky walk. The crowd of children swells and Western doctors can be seen in the background marveling at the growing spectacle. MARK eventually enters the hospital's ward by himself and the occupants of the cots look on in wide-eyed terror as he demonstrates the removal of his thumb. A wiggling walk and b-boy snake of his arms puts them somewhat at ease and some on the verge of smiling. Finally a poorly enacted 'mime in a box' routine triggers laughter the whole way round. He takes up a seat on a double amputee's cot and attempts to make conversation in Urdu with the young boy. 'You Only Get What Your Give' momentarily fades.]

MARK: Mera naam Mark hai. Tumhara naam kya hai?

OFFSCREEN VOICE: His name is Tariq. He had to have his lower arms removed because they had become infected.

MARK: Kitne bhai behen tumhare hai?

OFFSCREEN VOICE: He lost his two brothers and three sisters in the earthquake.

MARK: [Shocked.] Oh. Tumhare mata-pita-ji kahan hai?

OFFSCREEN VOICE: They were killed too. He is all alone.

MARK: [Further shocked both by the scope of the loss and the inappropriateness of his questions.] Oh. [Recovers.] But he isn't alone. We all are here isn't it? [MARK pinches the boy's cheeks, pokes him in the belly and pops his fingers against his cheeks. The boy's face breaks into a wide smile matched only by MARK's own.]

['You Only Get What Your Give' fades in again and plays to completion. MARK is shown in a time-lapsed sequence sitting by the river that cuts through Muzaffarabad as twilight turns to night and the stars appear overhead. The myriad lights of dwellings on the mountain sides create the impression of a complete sphere of stars surrounding MARK who appears suspended in space. Camera revolves around his position while stage light is diffracted by a mirrored ball to sparkle on the stage and audience. The children dressed as goats spill onto stage, into the audience and out into the lobby creating a carpet unbroken movement throughout the theater.]

But when the night is falling
You cannot find a friend
You feel your tree is breaking
Just bend...

You've got the music in you
Don't let go
You've got the music in you
One dance left
This world is gonna pull through
Don't give up
You've got a reason to live
Can't forget
We only get what we give

This whole damn world can fall apart
You'll be ok
Follow your heart
You're in harms way
I'm right behind
Now say you're mine...

[In the lobby, a booth is set up offering THE BRIGADIER's 4-point tension-free living program. Each point is followed by an idea for implemented the advice in one's life including a listing of local hospitals and orphanages that welcome volunteers. Caricatures of THE BRIGADIER in scouting attire accompany the brochure.]

Angel Burgers

CHARACTERS

ARHAM, student in his last year before college and son of the much-ballyhooed Brigadier

MARK, an American in Pakistan – a perpetually worn bandana hides bad hair

TIME AND PLACE

Early November, 2005, about a month after the earthquake in Kashmir. The action of the play all occurs on the road between Islamabad and Rawalpindi in Pakistan. It is very late night and the streets are deserted.

SCENE AND SET DESIGN

[ARHAM is driving MARK back to his hotel in Rawalpindi so he can collect his belongings and shift to the Brigadier's house. From there he will leave in the early morning for the quake-affected mountains of Kashmir. ARHAM and MARK have just met an hour earlier and both are somewhat sleep deprived – ARHAM from study for college entrance exams, and MARK from constant travel.]

[The stage is minimalist in its presentation with the front half of a black 2002 Nissan 4x4 pick up truck resting in front of a large video projection screen. The simulation of motion is achieved by projecting video of a receding street behind the truck. A ceiling-mounted revolving spot light gives the appearance of illumination from passing street lamps.]

[ARHAM and MARK enter stage left and get into the truck. ARHAM sits stage left in the truck's cab and MARK is in the passenger seat.]

ARHAM: [pensively stroking his long scraggle of chin hairs] Can I ask you something?

MARK: Sure. Anything. What is it?

ARHAM: What's America like? I mean, what do you think of Pakistan? [ARHAM puts his hand on the back of the passenger seat and twists his torso around to navigate his father's black Nissan 4x4 out of Farhan's driveway.]

MARK: Pakistan's beautiful as far as I can tell from the little I've seen. America has got a lot of natural beauty too. I don't know much about the people here, but it seems like a lot of them, at least in Islamabad, are adopting the American vision of success.

ARHAM: That's what I feared. There are a lot of burgers here.

MARK: Burghers? As in English middle class?

ARHAM: No, I mean burger as in McDonalds. Like a burger with finger chips or, what do you call them... french fries.

MARK: American fries. France betrayed us in the Second Great Iraq War. They weren't keen on renegotiating their cozy oil deals in Iraq on American terms.

ARHAM: So you support the war in Iraq?

MARK: No, never. Lots of Americans were against the idea. But Cheney and team trotted out the flag and Bush went on the global airwaves to say you are either for us or against us. Once you manage to get people flag waving – whether its red, white and blue or green and white – all rationality just goes out the door. Even the major American newspapers and magazines, which are normally pretty level headed, fell in line with the governmental rhetoric. It was pretty scary to watch it all unfold. How did Pakistanis feel about the whole thing?

ARHAM: Most of us just see it as a war on Muslims. I think Bush wanted to get even for Saddam's attempt to kill his father. It was a personal thing for him and he just got all of America to come along with him.

MARK: There likely was some personal issues involved and I wouldn't doubt that Cheney played on Bush's insecurities about his family's legacy. I think oil considerations played a major role in the decision as well.

ARHAM: There's no doubt oil was on their minds. There's so much of it in Iraq and the oil companies have all the power.

MARK: There was also probably some hope that an American-style democracy could take root in the region and make business dealings in the Middle East easier. But the package was sold to the public as the centerpiece in the war on terrorism. What was almost an afterthought to the central motivations was advertised as being the primary or even sole consideration.

ARHAM: So everyone became in favor of the war against Iraq.

MARK: No, still a lot of people were actively against it. But part of the genius of the war mongers was to reduce everything to black and white, good and bad. War protesters were cast as unpatriotic, troop haters, or, worse yet, naive puppets of a foreign dictator or terrorists in general. Only a sick-in-the-head idiot could be against the war which was going to last one to two weeks and have our troops feted with flowers at KFC openings all along the Tigris. Over time, as it became painfully obvious just how few ties Saddam's regime had with any terrorists, the stated goal shifted to some sudden burning desire to deliver democracy to the Iraqi people and liberate them from Saddam's tyranny. Even Fox News started to feel silly calling every Iraqi that was killed a terrorist and adopted the 'insurgent' rhetoric.

ARHAM: Oh yeah, I've seen Fox News before. We don't get it on our television, but I've seen clips. They're like the state-run channel, right?

MARK: As long as the state is Republican controlled, yes. Fox was desperate to prove the claims made by their analysts and the administration before the war. They had sworn up and down that Iraq was crawling with weapons of mass destruction and so for the first few weeks of the war Fox was claiming everything they found on abandoned construction sites was actually part of some sinister doomsday machine. They would hold up some sewer pipes and say that they had uncovered documents that showed how Saddam planned to link a million together to create a giant prod to poke unsuspecting Americans. Or they would show crop duster planes and say that they evidence it had been outfitted for poison gas. People just ate it up without reason. For a month or two after the war started Bush's popularity remained in the mid-nineties or something crazy like that. Fox had an American flag flying in the corner of the television screen 24-7 so there could be no mistaking whose side they were on. [A similar flag appears in the corner of the video screen and will remain until INTERMISSION.] I haven't watched any TV for a long time, but I think the flag is still there. They even made fun of the old-school journalists who tried to remain impartial in their news coverage and questioned their patriotism.

ARHAM: So the American people are still in favor of the occupation?

MARK: No, generally the tide has turned against the President. But there is a sizable percentage of Americans that simply believe it is wrong under any circumstances to be against an active war. The lesson they took from Vietnam is that we should have stayed there until the war was won – not that we shouldn't have been there in the first place. To speak out against a war once it has started is akin to treason. And on the other side there is a smaller percentage of people that are convinced Bush and his administration are evil incarnate. Others feel war is wrong under any circumstances.

ARHAM: What do you think?

MARK: In general, I am less sure about what I think the older I get. Though over the past several years I have become comfortable with the idea of applying my prescriptions for what I feel is just or right, within, rather than without. I realized that the things I find most unjust 'out there' can serve as markers for similar tendencies in me. In this sense, the most interesting wars are played out on the battlefield of my ego.

ARHAM: I don't understand.

MARK: Take terrorists, and the whole so-called war on terrorism for example. I can point a finger at Bin Laden and blame him for the suffering caused by 9/11. I can expend my energy hating him, wanting to get even, or even fearing him. Or I can view the episode metaphorically. I can see my discomfort with his actions as a marker of something I am uncomfortable with within myself. What 9/11s do I enact on a daily basis? Am I prone to take it out on innocent people when I feel my voice isn't being heard? Furthermore how should I deal with this tendency? Should I hate myself for it, or attempt to become more conscious of the tendency to the point that it self negating. This, in turn, can provide clues to eradicating the behavior on the macrocosmic level as well. In the same way I can despise Bush and company for wrapping a range of ulterior motives in the so-called war on terrorism, or, instead, I can look at how I may be misleading others as to the true nature of my actions. Am I hiding my own wolfish, greedy tendencies in the sheepskin of noble aspirations? I've trained myself to the point where my annoyances with others usually trigger a self-analytical episode. If nothing else it makes hating the supposed wrongdoer far less palatable. Certainly less easy.

ARHAM: So you can take everything as a lesson. Even the things that get you mad.

MARK: Yeah. Those things perhaps most of all. I even start to get excited when I catch myself getting upset with someone. I think, 'Oh here comes some revelation about something unseemly in myself.' There's seemingly no limit to the amount of personal housecleaning one can do. It's nearly impossible to remain upset with the offending person in this context. A similar interpretation can be made with respect to jihad in the Koran.

ARHAM: That's pretty cool. You remind me of my Sufi teacher. I would like for you to meet him. You probably have been wondering about this thing. [Arhum rolls his sparse chin hairs into a single strand and tugs several times.]

MARK: Not really.

[MARK steals another look at ARHAM's threadbare beard and it dawns on him where he has seen similar abominations: the outlandish mole growths on characters of dubious repute in comical kung-fu flicks. A montage of such characters plays rapidly on the video screen.]

ARHAM: Over the past couple of years I have gone through a lot of searching – trying to find my place. You wouldn't believe this, but I used to want to be a dancer and actor, like in the movies. I was becoming a real burger. [ARHAM pauses to see the effect this disclosure has on MARK.]

MARK: That's not so hard to imagine really. [ARHAM appears slightly disappointed.]

ARHAM: I went to all the parties and would just dance like crazy. I could dance like Michael Jackson even, but I made up my own moves. I even would buy all the latest music, like this. [ARHAM pushes a tape in the cassette deck and Eminem's 'The Real Slim Shady' comes over the car's ample sound system.]

[Lights fade on the truck so it is virtually invisible. The video screen shows ARHAM, sans beard, dancing like crazy to the Eminem song in a party environment. A disco ball lowers and ten girls and ten boys enter from stage left and right. They groove and gossip in party mode, drinks in hand, occasionally looking up at ARHAM's frantic dance on the video screen. When the music changes ARHAM stops dancing and looks on slightly uncomfortably, as the girls and boys break out into a choreographed routine to Bruce Springstein's 'Born in the USA.']

[Dancers continue dancing while exiting stage left and right. Lights come back up on the truck and music crossfades back to 'The Real Slim Shady' at reduced volume.]

Now I don't listen it anymore. I had this jihadi friend that told me how it corrupts the mind and over stimulates the senses. I had to agree with him. I tell you Mark, when I was listening to the music and dancing I would just lose my mind. [ARHAM nods his head in time to the beat and raps the steering wheel with the side of his palm.]

MARK: Music is powerful stuff.

ARHAM: The jihadi helped me see how I was becoming a damn burger. I started to hang out with him and his friends, but became restless again. They were too intense and thinking about violence all the time. But I have to give him credit because he got me into the masjid after a long time.

[A staff-brandishing man springs from the shadows of the otherwise deserted road and covers the opposing lane and median with disconcerting swiftness. With wild-eyes he stares directly into the cab of the truck and appears hellbent on immobilizing the craft. ARHAM accelerates and veers sharply to avoid hitting the interloper and then continues on without visible distress – so completely unaffected is his behavior that MARK is compelled to turn to verify the presence of the would-be attacker. Sure enough the robed man stands in the middle of the road (now on the video screen) flailing his weapon in apparent frustration. ARHAM continues his narrative with nary a comment on the ambush.]

ARHAM: I eventually moved from the jihadis to hanging out with some Al Queda that I met through them. They were a bit more relaxed, but I didn't really feel my place was with them either. My parents really started to get worried about me. They saw me going from the burger life to the other extreme. That's when I met my teacher.

MARK: The Sufi? I ask.

ARHAM: Yeah. He is young, just in his twenties, but so wise. He really started getting me to think about my life and what I wanted to become – what kind of man I should be. I really want to become an example others can follow. Pakistan has come too far grabbing after all the Western things and forgotten the real way to be happy which is written in the Koran. I tell you Mark, if you read the Koran... have you read it?

MARK: Just parts.

ARHAM: Well, if you read the whole thing you will find every word in it to be true. Whenever I have had any difficulty I just go to it and there is an answer. Have you heard of Yusef?

MARK: You mean Joseph? [The question has an unintentionally colonial ring.]

ARHAM: Yes. His book of visions can give you the meaning of anything that appears in your dreams. Like I had this dream with these white horses and angels a year back and my teacher just showed me Yusef's book and the hidden meanings were all there.

MARK: You know, everybody's a sucker for a good angel. There was a total resurgence in everything angel a few years back in America. Did you see that Nicolas Cage movie? I'm terrible with names.

ARHAM: No, but I know the one you're talking about.

MARK: And there was a television series, 'Touched by an Angel' or something like that – I never actually saw it. I think there was a play called 'Angels in America.' Time and Newsweek magazines had cover stories about angels around the same time too. Then there was that Robbie Williams song and 'Send Me An Angel.' And you have always had names like Angelo, Angelica, Angela, Los Angeles and just plain Angel.

ARHAM: What's you point?

MARK: I was just thinking if everyone likes angels so much why don't we work at being angels for one another. I mean you could just think of some beloved angel scenario and then make it happen for someone. Everyone's waiting for angels to come from somewhere else, but sightings are pretty few and far between. You know what I mean? It's usually when someone is about to die.

ARHAM: I don't get it.

MARK: Why not start a whole hit-and-run angel movement? Like say it's likely to rain on some day. You could get in an angel outfit and hide out behind some tree. When it started to pour you could just appear out of nowhere to escort someone to their car. You could even act like you had just landed when you appear. You know, bend your knees to the ground and be breathing really heavily.

ARHAM: Can you imagine the looks you would get?

[The video screen shows actual footage of such an experiment being done and captured by a hidden camera.]

MARK: It would be awesome. You could even get elaborate with hidden guy wires like they had for the Victoria's Secret angels and come down from off the top of buildings. Imagine someone relieving their dog on the street and you would just swoop down with a poop scoop and then fly off again. Mission accomplished. The person would have such a great story when they got home. 'Honey, I'm home. My guardian angel scooped Foofie's duty today.'

ARHAM: It would make a great reality TV show.

MARK: Swooping Poop Scooping Angels. When ratings started to slip you could get perverse and start mugging people. Can you imagine the headlines? 'Jumped by an Angel,' or 'When Will the Scourge of Angels End?' At least people would get over their need for angels. Seriously though, it just seems to make sense to me that we should try to embody ourselves those things we most want to see in the world. You know, why wait for some otherworldly heaven? If it's angels we want, then we should start sewing wings. Why should we expect angels to look after us if we aren't willing to be angels for others?

ARHAM: Make the kind of world you want to see.

MARK: I can't believe I'm rabbling on about angels.

ARHAM: I've also had a vision of Issu.

MARK: Jesus? I have no jokes about Jesus.

ARHAM: He appeared to me in a dream. It was really incredible. He was showing me a door to a room and two angels were guiding me there. There was some writing on a table that I couldn't make out. You know Muslims believe in Issu too. It's just that for us he is one of the great prophets and not the only son of God.

MARK: Have you heard of Ramakrishna?

ARHAM: I'm not sure. An Indian guy right?

MARK: Yeah. He lived in Bengal in the middle part of the 1800's. He was a very advanced saint and a devotee of Kali, or the dark aspect of Divine Mother.

ARHAM: Oh, I don't believe in all that stuff.

MARK: I know, but hold on though. He had a friend that was a Sufi adept. Anyway, Ramakrishna took training from him in the mystical traditions of Sufism and for a number of days began worshipping God in the manner of a devout Muslim. You can only imagine how stunned the people around him must have been. I mean this guy just adored God in the aspect of Kali and would spend so much time just lost in devotion to her. Then suddenly he was spending all his time in a masjid.

ARHAM: So he converted?

MARK: Well sort of, but no. He wanted to see if God could be directly experienced by following the path laid out by Mohammed. He just went all out in his practice and after some time determined that Islam provided another valid route to the divine. Then he did the same experiment through devotion to Jesus and Christianity and once again with the Buddha. Ramakrishna had a good number of followers and they must have been a totally freaked out by his behavior. In the end I think his message was simply that there are many legitimate paths to God communion or self-realization, not that one should try to follow all disciplines. But we've strayed from the topic of your beard.

ARHAM: [Slowing the vehicle and peering over MARK out the passenger window] Your hotel is here.

MARK: Hold that discourse, I'll be right back. [MARK gets out of the truck and exits for the hotel stage right. Curtains close.]

INTERMISSION [The actors playing ARHAM and MARK don angel costumes and serve free refreshments in the Lobby suspended by wires. The unspoken implication is that the two have decided to follow MARK's suggestion sometime in the future which is the audience's present. They pose for photographs with audience members.]

ACT 2

[MARK throws his luggage behind the cab of the truck and takes a seat on the passenger side. ARHAM has been waiting and is now listening to Pink Floyd's 'Wish You Were Here.']

MARK: So you were saying?

ARHAM: Saying? Oh, about the beard. So when I read in the Koran that a man should always keep a beard, I grew this. You can't imagine how much shit people have given me for it. But I really wanted to put God first in my life so I saw the beard as a test – you know, was I willing to do this one small thing for Him or did I just want to fit in with the burgers. But I got teased so much. Even my parents and some of my friends were telling me I should get rid of it, so I started to wonder. You know Mark, the only person that supported me in keeping this was my teacher.

MARK: So in the end you came to realize that the Sufi lacked fashion sense.

ARHAM: [Smiling.] You're a damn bloody burger. Why? Do you think I should shave it off too?

MARK: No, but I also clearly lack any fashion sense.

ARHAM: [Nodding in agreement as he scans MARK's attire.] Where did you get it from?

MARK: You mean my lovely pajama kurta? I acquired it for about 80 rupees in Delhi.

[Comical footage on the video screen of MARK negotiating for his kurta in the Pahar Ganj, New Delhi. In the end he is able to get the laughing shopkeepers to confirm he looks 'fair and lovely' in the cheaply made outfit. It is a sarcastic reference to the skin whitening cream for women that is ubiquitously advertised in India.]

ARHAM: So, tell me. You've been in India for a long time, right? What are the Indians like?

MARK: Typically they're better dressed than I am. Seriously though, I wish I could take you there just for a month to meet my friends. Some are Muslim, some Sikh, some Hindu, some Christian, and some don't believe in God at all. But all of them are pretty cool and I'm sure you would really like them. If you were to visit India just once you probably would come to the same realization that I had a long time ago. There are so many nations, religions, races and so forth, but people are pretty much just people wherever you go. Eating, squatting, scratching and sniffling.

ARHAM: But there's so much poverty and disease over there isn't there? And too many people.

MARK: There's so much of everything in a country its size. Poverty, wealth, disease, health, generosity, greed – and lots of each.

ARHAM: What do they think of Pakistan?

MARK: You would definitely be surprised at how much goodwill there is toward Pakistan. In general most people just want to get their party on and aren't too bothered about the behavior of others unless it threatens their piece of the pie. I think there are a growing number of what I would call secular religionists on both sides of the border. They go to the temple or masjid on special occasions, but otherwise are preoccupied with their jobs and relationships. A large number of them subscribe to the belief that God can be called by many names and worshipped differently and therefore can live and work side-by-side with, or even marry someone from another religion. And then you have the handful of deeply devotional Ramakrishnas and Sufi-types that recognize an underlying unity to everything – good, bad, white, black, up and down.

ARHAM: Where do you think the problems come from then.

MARK: A couple of things. One is definitely just a lack of communication and travel between the two countries. The more you guys know about each other the less anxiety there is going to be. The cricket series was a revelation to a lot of people and changed perceptions on both sides. I know a lot of Indians were blown away by the hospitality the fans got in Pakistan. There are so many stories about shopkeepers refusing money from 'family' and rickshaws giving Indians rides for free.

ARHAM: Yeah, I heard about that too.

MARK: But the other issue is fundamentalists on both sides. Fundamentalists everywhere are convinced they have a monopoly on truth and thus feel called upon to correct everyone else's behavior. They know what's right and what's wrong and are going to set everyone else straight for their own good – even if it means lopping heads off. Usually they feel that God has given them special dispensation to take corrective action because the offending parties are blasphemers, heathens, or non-believers. Both Bush and Bin Laden have claimed direct lines of communication with God so neither is terribly disturbed about making decisions that cost a few lives or even thousands of lives. There is always a higher purpose behind it. And, of course, it's all pretty exciting, heady stuff. And un-heady.

ARHAM: The jihadis are a little like that. They pretty much want to take Kashmir at any cost.

MARK: Complicating matters is the fact that politicians are only too eager to take advantage of religious or nationalistic fervor to secure their power. They can play upon fear of the unknown and can, if necessary, interpret scripture in the most violent of ways. You know, vote for me and I'll protect you from the murderous heathens even if it means I have to murder them. It's cut and dried – classic good versus evil. Really appealing in its simplicity. And you can always find people willing to fight with the hyper-abundance of testosterone in youngish males.

ARHAM: So what do you think the solution is?

MARK: Use vacuum hoses to drain the testosterone out of the youngish males. No, just kidding. All these forces need to be creatively channeled and people need to recognize the benefits of choosing paths other than confrontation. Alternatives have to be sold in a more compelling fashion than just being 'not war' or 'not conflict.' In other words, active, energizing options need to be put on the table. I think Kennedy tried with the Peace Corps, but it somehow lacks the humility, scale and gusto that's called for.

ARHAM: So you would look to try some new version of the Peace Corps?

MARK: A few years back I actually had an idea for a group called Hard Corps. Corps as in C - O - R - P - S rather than C - O - R - E. It would take all the compelling elements of the armed services, like discipline, danger, camaraderie, respect, rank, skill, danger and so on and then apply them in a greater spiritual context. It literally would be the most exclusive force anywhere in the world. The boot camp would have the usual rigorous physical aspect, but would also would involve hard core training in the mental, social and spiritual realms. Conflict management, creative thinking, tai chi, meditation and so on. The month before graduation would be spent fasting in a darkened cave.

ARHAM: That would be too long.

MARK: Everything about Hard Corps would be too something or other. The graduates would be called upon to go into the most conflict-torn areas and attempt to provide both basic relief and mediation skills. But you know how paratroopers come into areas now all plain jane? The Hard Corps jumpers would be doing aerial stunts on the way down. Spins, sumersaults, sky-surfing. Everything would be turned up a notch.

ARHAM: Sounds like fun. Sort of like the angel thing again.

MARK: It definitely would be. I think the initiates would also receive training in comedy. Knowing how to make people laugh is one of the most important skills. But conquering the fear of death would really mark the final initiation into the ranks. You know, even if you're shot up and dying in some side street of a nameless town, if you can reach into your rucksack and pull out some biscuits to offer to a mangy dog then you've figured it out. Jesus was still able to ask for forgiveness for his enemies while his strength was ebbing on the cross. He was totally hard core. Life is a short dream and the more we step out of ourselves the sweeter it becomes. Death, for that matter, is but a dream. Death will require that we leave everything we are grasping after behind, so why not preempt and let go now? You know, cheat Death of its miserable bounty.

ARHAM: So you want to start this Hard Corps group? Do you think it could really make a difference in places like Kashmir?

MARK: Actually I'm still working on starting with myself. Can I recognize my own impulse towards righteousness or seeing everything in a dualistic fashion? A good exercise might be to spend more time walking in the chappels of the supposed enemy, including the enemy within. If I'm not at peace myself, how can I really expect to export that vibration? If nothing else we can each serve as miniature ambassadors of goodwill wherever we travel, if even to the corner shop. And we can listen more. Like I'm not, and should be.

ARHAM: For me I'm really trying to put God first in my life. After that comes my father, and then my teacher.

MARK: It seems as if your father is really highly regarded. Do you feel any pressure to follow him into the armed forces?

ARHAM: No. He set all the standards in the army, so there's no point in trying to live up to that. I have to make my own path. My father will support me no matter what I choose to do, but I tell you Mark it has to be something really great. I have to be the best at whatever I choose to do. We are not only Pathans, but we are also part of the royal family. My great great grandfather was the King of Afghanistan. My grandfather was the most decorated Pashtun serving with the British. And my father has always been the best at whatever he did. You cannot imagine the kind of pride my family has.

MARK: You've got yourself quite a family tree.

ARHAM: That's just my father's side. My mother's side is all chiefs from the North West Territories. There is a lot of tradition to uphold.

MARK: My family was just happy to see me make it out of the fifth standard.

ARHAM: [Laughing.] You're a damn burger.

MARK: With great buns and special sauce.

ARHAM: You really are a burger, but at least you're the original.

MARK: Sounds like a really lame ad campaign. Actually it's ridiculous that you're calling me a burger when you're the meat eater and I'm the vegetarian. Or maybe that does make sense.

[A thirty-second ad for a veggie-burger franchise plays on the video screen. Dancing condiments in low-rider jeans dance to either side of a tap-dancing MARK in burger costume. The jingle is based on, "You really are a burger, but at least you're the original."]

ARHAM: [Stopping the truck in an upper-class neighborhood in Islamabad.] We're home. You have exactly twenty minutes before my father is going to be ready to go.

MARK: As in two-zero?

ARHAM: Yeah. Gotta be ready by oh-four-hundred hours.

[MARK and ARHAM exit the truck and walk off stage left, before appearing on the video screen inside the foyer of the house. The remaining portion of the play has been pre-filmed inside the Brigadier's house.]

ARHAM: Let me show you something. [ARHAM leads MARK to the living room where he points to a crisply-focused, sepia-tone photograph on the wall.] So this is my great great grandfather. [Slow pan across close-up of photo. The stony-stare of a seated monarch is offset by the even stonier-stare of his bull-like bodyguard. Not guys you would want to meet in an Kabul alleyway.] You see how strong he looks? This is the tradition I have to uphold. The British have come to him for help with the Indian rajas who are seated over here. You can see they don't wear shoes. [Eight barefoot rajas of incredibly ornate and diverse costume sit opposite a similar number of stiffly-posed British officials.]

MARK: They look so real. I mean they look like guys I have seen before. Isn't it wild how this guy is actually related to you. He's your father's father's father's father or whatever and these are all real dudes that he hung out with.

ARHAM: And my father painted all of these. [Camera pans across the wall where there are a half dozen well-rendered portraits of generals from different eras in full regalia.]

MARK: Your father has real skill as an artist.

ARHAM: He writes too. I can show you some stuff later.

MARK: A real renaissance man.

ARHAM: Come, I'll show you the weapons room. [Camera follows ARHAM into a vast basement room. All four walls are replete with weapons of every design.]

MARK: If your next door neighbors every declare war on your family you're going to be ready to go. This is amazing.

ARHAM: Most of these have actually been used in combat.

MARK: Battle tested. That's reassuring.

OFF STAGE: [Basso profundo voice of the Brigadier.] Mr. Mark?

ARHAM: Sounds like my father's ready.

MARK: So I'll see you soon?

ARHAM: Yeah, I'll just be here studying for exams.

OFF STAGE: [Gently booming voice of the Brigadier once again.] Mr. Mark Sir, the mountains await our presence.

['The Real Slim Shady' plays while the video screen shows ARHAM and MARK playing one-on-one basketball in a caged court in an Islamabad park. ARHAM drives furiously to the basket, while MARK throws up high-arching three pointers. Cricket playing teens can be seen in the background. Curtains close and ARHAM and MARK, once again in angel costumes, are in the lobby to offer up chocolates and hail cabs for the theater's patrons.]