October 18, 1999 Shrine of Imam Bari, Islamabad Three Days After the Coup
"Sir, this is an unnecessary risk," Brigadier Tariq said, adjusting his earpiece nervously as he scanned the chaotic street outside. "The security sweep isn't complete. There are too many blind spots."
I checked my reflection in the rearview mirror of the armored Toyota Land Cruiser. I wasn't wearing my medal-heavy ceremonial uniform. I was wearing clean, crisp field fatigues—the dress of a soldier on duty, not a king on a throne.
"Tariq," I said, my eyes still on the mirror. "I just fired a Federal Secretary this morning. Tomorrow, I am going to declare war on the High Court Judges. I need armor."
"We have Level-4 bulletproof vests in the trunk, Sir."
"Not that kind of armor," I opened the heavy door. The noise of the crowd rushed in. "I need the armor of the mob. If the people love me, the Generals can't touch me."
I stepped out onto the dusty pavement. This time, it wasn't a secret midnight visit. It was a spectacle.
The Script
Cameras from PTV (Pakistan Television) and CNN were already positioned behind the barricades. The Intelligence Bureau had done its work well. As I walked toward the Langar (community kitchen) area, the crowd surged forward against the police line.
My Intelligence Chief, General Mahmood, had done his job too. A group of "concerned citizens" had been planted near the entrance. I could spot them instantly—they were wailing too loudly, wearing ragged clothes that looked suspicious because their shoes were brand new.
"General Sahib!" one of the planted men shouted, pushing forward right on cue. "We are dying! The price of Atta (flour) has gone up by 5 Rupees! The shopkeepers are looting us!"
Another planted woman screamed, tearing at her dupatta. "My children have no sugar! The hoarders have taken everything!"
I stopped. The cameras zoomed in. The shutter clicks sounded like machine-gun fire. I knew this was theater. But in the subcontinent, theater is reality.
I placed a firm hand on the man's shoulder. I looked deep into the camera lens, speaking not to him, but to the millions watching at home. "I know," I said, my voice grave and heavy. "I have seen the reports. The thieves who stole your sugar are sitting in air-conditioned rooms right now. But I promise you... their ACs are about to turn off."
The crowd cheered. The sound bite was perfect for the 9:00 PM news. Script complete.
But then, I saw him.
The Real Man
In the corner, far away from the actors and the flashing cameras, sat an old man. He wasn't shouting. He wasn't looking at me. He was eating.
He wore a torn grey Shalwar Kameez covered in fresh cement dust. His face was a map of deep wrinkles, his hands calloused and cracked—the hands of a daily wage laborer who built the palaces he could never enter. He was scraping the last bit of watery Dal from a plastic plate with a piece of dry Roti.
He wasn't planted. He was real. He looked exactly like the laborers I used to see sleeping on the footpaths of Delhi in the freezing winter.
I veered away from the planned route.
"Sir?" The security detail panicked, hands twitching toward their holsters. "That sector is not cleared!"
I ignored them. I walked straight to the old man. The media scrambled to follow, cameramen tripping over cables in their desperation to get the shot.
The old man looked up, terrified. He saw a General towering over him. He started to scramble to his feet, trembling, ready to abandon his food to run. "No, Baba," I said, dropping my voice to a soft, rural Punjabi dialect. "Sit. Do not leave the Rizq (God's food)."
Then, I did something that wasn't in the ISI rulebook. I sat down on the dusty floor next to him. I crossed my legs.
"Is the Dal good?" I asked.
The old man stared at me with wide, watery eyes. He was shaking. "It... it is God's mercy, Sahib."
"Can I share?" I asked.
The crowd went dead silent. The PTV cameraman almost dropped his equipment. A Military Dictator asking for food from a beggar's plate?
The old man broke a piece of Roti with shaking hands, dipped it in the yellow lentil soup, and held it out. I ate it. It was spicy, watery, and tasted of honest charity.
"What is your name?" I asked, chewing slowly.
"Gulzar, Sahib. Laborer. Brick carrier."
"Gulzar," I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. "People tell me the prices are high. Is it true?"
He didn't shout like the actors. He just looked down at his empty plate. "Sahib... last week I bought onions for my daughter's wedding. Today, I cannot buy onions for my own dinner. The big men... they squeeze us like lemons."
That one sentence was more powerful than a thousand political speeches. It cut through the propaganda.
I took off my cap. It was the official beret of the Chief of Army Staff. Dark green, with the golden emblem of the State shining on it.
"Gulzar," I said, placing the cap in his dusty, cement-covered hands. "I cannot lower the price today. But I give you my word. Until onions are cheap enough for your plate, I will not sleep comfortably."
I took a black marker from my pocket—the same one I used to sign execution orders—and signed the brim of the cap. Pervez Musharraf.
"Keep this," I said. "As a guarantee."
I stood up, patted his shoulder, and walked away.
The Aftermath
I didn't look back, but I heard the chaos erupt behind me. As soon as the security cordon lifted, the media swarmed Baba Gulzar like vultures.
Geo News Reporter: "Baba! Baba! The General ate from your hand! What did he say?"
Gulzar was weeping, holding the green beret against his chest like a holy relic, shielding it from the microphones. "He is not a General," the old man sobbed, his voice cracking. "He is our brother. He sat in the dust!"
Then, the madness started. A man in a sharp suit—a local property dealer—pushed through the crowd, eyes gleaming with greed. "Oye old man!" the dealer shouted. "I will give you 50,000 Rupees for that cap! Right now! Cash!"
"50,000?" another shopkeeper yelled, pushing forward. "I will give 1 Lakh! It is the General's personal cap!"
The camera caught the moment perfectly. Baba Gulzar clutched the cap tighter, looking at the rich men with sudden, fierce defiance.
"Go away!" he shouted, pulling the cap away from their grasping hands. "This is my honor! You rich men took my onions... you will not take my General!"
Army House, Rawalpindi 22:00 Hours
I sat in the dim light of the study, watching the footage on TV. The image of me sitting on the floor, eating with a cement-covered laborer, was playing on a loop on every channel. The ticker at the bottom read: THE PEOPLE'S GENERAL.
I turned to Brigadier Tariq. "Did you see that, Tariq?"
"Yes, Sir. Very moving. The public sentiment has swung 80% in our favor."
"No," I pointed at the screen where the rich man was trying to buy the cap. "I mean that. The rich man tried to buy his loyalty with cash. But the poor man refused."
I poured myself a drink. The ice clinked softly in the glass. "They can buy the politicians. They can buy the police. But they cannot buy this."