Cocky Munir and His Golden Eggs

Munir flies the jet
by Narinder

Illustration: The Goose and His Golden Eggs

A Chronicle in the Coop

The MB Club was closed that day, or perhaps it was only the lights that were dimmed. Bopa Rai sat in a corner, glass in hand, listening to two eggs arguing on the table. The topic Munirs, golden egg prophecy.

One had painted itself black, calling itself Khomeini. The other had feathers stuck to its shell, and laughed easily — the Turkey Egg.

Outside, on the runway, boots clicked. Inside, the eggs debated destiny.

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The Golden Hen

Khomeini Egg:
“Tell me, is this Asim Munir the same man who once flew the plane? Or is he only a hen with a basket under him? For in Pakistan, it is not the people who eat eggs. It is always the Army.”

Turkey Egg (laughing):
“And a hen cannot live long in a hungry country. They will either praise him, cook him, or both at once.”

Bopa Rai sipped. He thought of dragons nesting on eggs, some golden, some already scrambled.

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The Farmer’s Feast

The Turkey Egg hopped on the table, rolled a bit, then steadied.

“Pakistan doesn’t want one egg a day,” it said. “It wants a dozen before breakfast.”

Bopa Rai saw the eggs glowing in the dark: IMF, Saudi Riyals, Balochistan, India, Karachi, Kashmir. An Eid feast laid out on a table, with the cook in khaki.

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Newton’s Apple (or Fruit Salad)

At that moment, something fell from the ceiling. Not an apple, but a redacted memo with half its pages missing. Munir bent down in imagination, picked it up, and murmured:

“All forces are pulling us down. Inflation, disillusion, division. But what goes down can be redirected — provided the Establishment approves.”

Newton wrote Principia. Munir signed an NOC for a housing scheme.

Outside, a pigeon dropped a note. RAW, in blue ink.

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Boots and Socks

Khomeini Egg whispered, “What must his boots feel like?”

The Turkey Egg chuckled:
“They gleam like stars on tarmac at dusk. But inside, they limp with regulation musk.”

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Generals Across Borders

The eggs now spun wider circles.

• India’s generals: silent, professional, retiring at a quiet number six.
• Pakistan’s: geese and martyrs, egg-layers with medals.
• China’s PLA: not an army of a nation, but a sword of the Party.

Bopa Rai leaned back. He thought of barns and farmers, how each country feeds its geese differently.

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Coda: Eggshells and Empires

Munir himself was nowhere visible, though his shadow touched the floor. He was methodical, religious, cautious — not flamboyant, not a Caesar. Yet the barn was empty, and the people starved.

The eggs fell silent. Even the pigeon folded its note.

Bopa Rai heard it clearly:
Can Munir lay enough golden eggs before the farmer sharpens the knife?

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• Munir and Nostradamus
• Munir Flies the Plane
• How Are you
• The Council of Beasts
• 🕊️ The Courtyard Parliament of Birds