Chef (11 page)

‘What fish are you looking for?’

‘Trout,’ he said.

It occurred to me that he had been sitting there for a long time. There were no fish in his bucket. Not far from him I saw half-open blue irises and I plucked one. I had forgotten to bring along a proper gift, other than Rogan Josh and garlic naan in the tiffin carrier.

I stood before her door. The curtain was made of beads. When she appeared I did not know how to greet, so I simply apologized for being late. Then she also apologized. She too had been late. For a moment, she said, I thought you came here, and not finding me in, you left. It is not
cool
to be late, she said.

Inside, she grabbed my arm again. Sorry, she said. I am not going to offer you tea or snacks, but there is something ‘you must know.’

‘Please don’t tell it right away,’ I said. ‘I already know what you are trying to say.’

She installed my flower in the vase.

Something made me wipe the crumb of bread from her kameez. Kishen treats you just like his son, she said. I nodded. It is true, I said. I agree whole-heartedly. Do you know he keeps a journal?

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He mentioned it to me once.’

‘Not everyone knows.’

‘Did you ever read it?’ she asked in Hindi.

‘No, but two days before he left Chef woke me up in the middle of the night. He was scribbling something. What is your best experience with food, Kip? His voice was very disturbed. I rubbed my eyes. Why wake me up at this insane hour? Tell me, he said. First you tell, I insisted. The best meal I ever had was at a dhaba in Amritsar. Me too, I lied. I don’t know why I lied. The dhaba food was not even half as good as the dal-roti at the Golden Temple. His gaze settled on me for a long time before it turned absolutely cold and he started jotting again in the journal and I went back to sleep. In my dream I saw a plate and a bowl, both made out of miniature fig leaves. The leaves were stitched together with toothpicks.’

Telling her about the dream made me feel better. But her mind was elsewhere. She kept looking at the vase on the table. The dots on the vase were almost the same size as her mole. ‘I want to tell you something,’ she said.

‘Later,’ I said. ‘Gen Sahib is going to honor me this evening in the Officers’ Mess. How proud Kishen will be when he gets to hear it! Often I hear an echo of his voice: Cook without fear of failure, Kip. But, you must never fail.’

‘I do not know how to tell you this, but I must,’ she said. ‘I know Kishen has not shared this with you, and that is why I must. We are not married, but we are like husband and wife.’

‘You are like what?’

‘Husband and wife, you know what I mean?’

‘Yes, yes,’ I said.

‘That is why,’ she said, ‘it is not good when I see you giving me that look. I have sensed it in your eyes many times and I would like to tell you that it is not right.’

‘I am sorry,’ I said.

‘No, I am sorry,’ she said, ‘and I have no tea to offer you.’

I did not know whether to stay or leave.

From her window that huge mass of snow and ice was faintly visible on the distant mountains, and I took a few steps to the window and looked at that thing for a long time.

What is a thing called a
glacier
? I asked myself. Layer over layer of ice. Snow from hundreds of years ago. Peel this one and then peel that one. Endless, limitless, thankless work. It cuts one’s fingers. Endless, limitless, thankless work. The glacier deceived people, it didn’t even reveal its actual size or intentions or the number of layers. No, it was not. The glacier was not a thing of beauty. It was one big white onion. It brought tears to one’s eyes. Useless tears, I say to myself. The saddest thing about those tears was that they were absolutely useless.

She tapped on my shoulder, and when I turned she hugged me, and said: Now go.

I left the Rogan Josh next to the vase on the table. Under the table there were three miniature battle tanks. They glared at me. I’d not noticed them earlier. Centurions: manufactured in England. Now go, she insisted. Without a proper namasté I stepped out towards the Officers’ Block. It was getting dark and chilly and I passed lots of jeeps and black cars parked on both sides of the road. I made it exactly twenty minutes before rum at the Alpha Officers’ Mess.

The Mess was bright both inside and outside. The lawn was lit up with floodlights. The flowers that lined the lawn were red and yellow and purple, and they were the size of footballs. We lined up outside on the lawn. The gardener Agha, the water carrier, the sweeper, the orderlies – the entire staff that worked at Sahib’s residence.

There were two empty chairs on the lawn, and behind those chairs the little girl Rubiya appeared: ‘Daddy, the men are here!’

But as soon as she said that the girl ran away as if afraid of us.

Then all of a sudden I heard confident footsteps pounding on the pebbled path. General Sahib stepped out in his dashing civilian clothes, wearing an impressive tie. He walked up close to the line, shaking our hands one by one.

‘Stand at ease,’ said the colonel of the regiment.

It was the second time I stood next to General Sahib face to face, and I did not know how to conduct myself in front of him. I stood to attention the way my father used to in the photos. The General looked at me with piercing eyes.

‘The army is proud of your father.’

‘Sir.’

He patted my back.

‘You know, Kirpal, Major Iqbal did all the work and I got the baton.’

I did not know what to make of it.

Then the General laughed.

I still recall the fine cut of his dark blue jacket and the red and blue regimental tie. Sahib was around forty-nine then, that day we had rum, and he did not change much as long as I knew him. I remember he had a large collection of ties. The width of his ties changed according to the fashion of the year. Narrow. Broad. Narrow again. His neck was long and his face sharp and clean-shaven.

‘We are impressed by your exemplary work,’ he said.

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘The colonel has recommended you for a promotion, Kirpal.’

‘Sir.’

‘Now you are only one rank short of an officer.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Let us drink to that.’

We clinked our rum glasses. I looked at General Sahib in the eye.

‘You are very handsome, my boy,’ said the General.

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Beautiful. Just like a woman, sir,’ said the ADC from far away.

‘Are you happy?’ said the General.

‘Sir, is it possible to go on a three-day casual leave, sir?’

‘When?’

‘First week of July, sir.’

‘Delhi?’

‘No, sir. Glacier, sir.’

‘I understand, Kirpal. Your father . . .’

Then he turned to the colonel: ‘Send Kip on some duty to the glacier. Is there a vehicle going?’

‘I will look into that, sir. But, for now the situation is unstable.’

The General turned and saw Colonel Chowdhry’s wife enter the Officers’ Mess. The other officers’ wives were already inside the dance hall, waiting. Particles of talcum powder kept floating towards us on the lawn. The light in that room was faint and weak and before the colonel’s wife stepped inside she smiled at me from a distance.

‘What is going on?’ exclaimed the General. ‘
Pakistan
is inside, and
India
is outside! This is unfair!’

The officers laughed. Loud music could be heard.

‘Very unfair, sir. The gentlemen are outside, and the ladies are inside.’

‘Unfair,’ repeated the General.

‘Start the party, sir?’

‘Yes. Yes,’ he said to them.

‘Jai Hind,’ he said to us.

‘Jai Hind, sir.’ We clicked our heels.

The General saluted and hurried towards the dance hall. Other ranks followed him.

I returned to my room after a long walk along the river. Only once I felt the need to splash my face with water. It was ice cold.

13

If you want something, my mother had told me when I was a boy, you say no and then say no again and the third time you say
Okay, a little
. She was talking about food when it is offered at some other person’s house. Our guests had offered us the betel leaf cone, and I said no, then no again, and I was ready to say
Okay, a little
but the hosts didn’t offer the paan the third time. At home I screamed at the top of my voice. I want that betel nut thing now, right now. Neighbors gathered around our house, probed my parents why they were torturing me. Next time you want something, said my father, grab it.

The nurse, I just learned, was not up for grabs. Memsahib was, but I was afraid of her, and of the colonel. I was afraid of losing my fingers. Ideally, I wanted to become a vegetable. The vegetables were not afraid of anything.
The carrots were fucking the earth
. The carrots and onions were having better sex than me. Zucchini made scandalous love to paneer, mushrooms, garlic and tomatoes. Basil coated the deep interiors of fully swollen pasta, with names sexier than shapes. R-i-g-a-t-o-n-i! F-u-s-i-l-l-i! C-o-n-c-h-i-g-l-i-e! Gulmarg salad licked walnut chutney in public. Even brinjal (that humble eggplant), swimming in a pot of morkozhambu, insisted on having more pleasure than me.

Patience, Kip.

How impatient we people are in this country. Yet how patient we are when it comes to food. We wait for a long time to get it right, I say to myself on the window seat. I wanted to speed things up, force them into bending my way, and the result was a disaster. I seem to have no talent for forcing things my way.

I stopped using the cycle. I would go to the bazaar to buy vegetables on military transport. Sometimes when the curfew was in place the ADC would arrange a jeep. One morning I found that the General’s staff car was taking the black dog to the vet, and I requested the driver to give me a lift. The dog was in great pain, eyes running. Sitting in the car, I found it difficult to endure the animal’s whine. What is it? I asked. The orderly and the driver did not know for sure. No idea, Major. Just doing our duty, Major. The dog stank of a strange disease.

They dropped me in the bazaar, and took the road to the vet’s clinic. The bazaar was crowded and dusty and noisy as usual. Sad and miserable people milled around in colorful robes. I bought fresh herbs and fish and vegetables and fruit. For several hours I waited in the street, elbow to elbow, but the car did not return. Fortunately, there was a military transport parked close by, and the driver, an acquaintance of mine, gave me a lift.

On the way just outside the Mughal garden the nurse was standing at the bus stop. The driver slowed down.

‘I am in a hurry,’ I said.

He stopped not far from her and honked.

‘Going to the army camp?’

She nodded.

‘Get in,’ he said.

She squeezed in beside me and lit up a cigarette as soon as she settled.

‘Please don’t smoke in the truck,’ I said.

‘It is OK,
Major
,’ said the driver, smiling at us in the mirror. ‘Let her.’

She made brief eye contact with me, then threw the cigarette out the window. The shopping bags were squeezed in the space between our legs. I picked up the strawberries, which were wrapped in an old English newspaper. The color red had wicked into the yellow of the paper, the Government was planning to construct a railway track all the way to Kashmir. I sliced the strawberries with my army knife. I am not hungry, she said. Take some home, I suggested. I don’t like cherries and strawberries, she muttered and sat there silently. Just before the driver made it to the camp gates we heard sounds of sirens. Emergency vehicles were heading downtown. He turned around and stopped not far from the hospital. Without saying a word, she jumped out of the truck.

The truck would not start up right away. From the window I watched as she opened her purse and dug out a fresh cigarette and put it between her lips. Camel. It was an imported Camel. Her hands started searching for a light. There was a matchbox in the driver’s shirt. He gave it to me and I jumped out and ran to her and struck a light. She turned away. I struck another, but again she turned her head.

‘Why don’t you just give it to her,’ yelled the driver.

‘OK,’ I said.

She struck the match herself.

‘This is my last cigarette,’ she said before disappearing.

In the kitchen I heard that the General’s car had been grenade-attacked downtown. The news terrified me.
Kashmiris
, Major.
Terrorists
, Major. Close to the vet’s clinic the car had slowed down to negotiate the speed-breaker when a Kashmiri lobbed a grenade. The car shot up in the air and was ripped to pieces. Although the driver and the orderly had escaped unharmed the dog had been badly wounded.

General Sir rushed to the site with his staff members and a curfew was imposed on the city. Sirens echoed in the valley.