Chef

by Jaspreet Singh

  ‘I am surprised,’ he said.

  ‘I attend Sunday language classes.’

  I thought he was going to thank me for learning his language. But he didn’t have the decency to do so, no meharbani, no shukriya, nothing; instead he started praising the language into which he was born, how beautiful it was, how elegant.

  ‘Kashmiri is the language of poetry,’ he said.

  ‘There is no such thing as the language of poetry,’ I corrected him. ‘Poetry can be written in all languages. No language is inferior. When I peel an onion in the kitchen there is poetry in it.’

  ‘You are not entirely wrong,’ he said.

  It was then I felt the pressing need to pose the question:

  ‘So, you do not care about religion?’

  ‘I hope you have no problem converting to Islam,’ he said. ‘Because that is absolutely necessary for the wedding. You must first convert to Islam. Of course when I approached you by the river I knew you were born into a Sikh family. But I know one decent Sikh boy who converted because he fell in love with a Kashmiri Muslim girl.’

  I took my last sip.

  ‘Good tea,’ he said. ‘Wasn’t the tea good?’

  ‘The tea was excellent,’ I said. ‘Salaam-alaikum.’

  ‘Valaikum-salaam,’ he said.

  I hurried back to General Sahib’s residence. There were more leaves on the street now than on the trees. The wind tossed them and turned them and swirled them and blew them back to the khaki barracks. Rubiya was playing barefoot on the lawns of the residence with her black dog. I felt like talking to her, but the ayah was also present.

  The ayah was certainly attractive, a Goan. Her eyes glowed like pods of tamarind. The General’s daughter was very attached to her. Because she had access to all the rooms in the residence the ayah thought she had fallen on this Earth as a superior being. She treated me as if I didn’t matter; only a bit higher than the sweeper, who drank tea from a separate cup. She would shield Rubiya from all the male members of the staff, including Chef. But I really felt for the girl because she was without a mother and her father was absent most of the time. Rubiya was not even allowed to order her own food. From a distance the sense I got was that Rubiya was shy, always hiding under the bed or table. But tell me, I would ask the ayah, what is the girl really like? This is not your concern, she would respond.

  ‘Rubiya refuses to eat the red beans I cook for her?’ I asked. We were standing just outside the kitchen.

  ‘Razma reminds her of kidneys.’

  ‘What is wrong with kidneys?’

  ‘Kidneys make urine.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Pee-pee,’ she said.

  ‘Please don’t talk such things. I am cooking.’

  ‘I must. The girl just can’t digest your beans.’

  Rubiya’s gas problem was solved by adding heeng to the dish. The English word for heeng is asafetida. I like the sound of ‘heeng’ better. The ayah preferred ‘asafetida’ . . . One day she approached me on the verandah. She had a huge cleavage and her sari smiled with the weight of it. There was a little comb in her hand. I was plucking dhaniya leaves on the verandah, and the ayah asked me why I looked so unhappy. Is Rubiya sleeping in her room? I asked. Yes, yes. But we are talking about you, and she started combing her hair from side to side and probed me further about my unhappiness, and I told her to look down at the valley below. Look down at the parade ground, I said. See the troops marching in the parade ground. Young boys are learning techniques from older experienced boys. Learning warfare. Jumping. Crawling. Shooting. Aiming. Marching.

  Then she asked me, what was it I wanted to learn exactly?

  I said I really wanted to learn how to have sex, and perhaps someone like you could teach me? She stopped smiling. Have you gone crazy? she said.

  I stepped out for a long walk by the river in the valley. Red leaves floated on the water, flowing as far as the mountains that belonged to the enemy. Later that night I drank rum in the barracks. A soldier told me: ‘Your only chance, Kip, is with the nurse in the hospital. She is a forward woman. A man like you deserves a forward woman, Major. She is ideal, Major.’

  I don’t understand.

  I-d-e-a-l W-o-m-a-n M-a-j-or.

  Why am I thinking about these things? Life is withering away, and I should bring to mind only the essential matters. God. Reincarnation. Matters like that. Not food. Not women. Not even ravishing women. Not even women who understand the body, like the nurse. She took her afternoon breaks in the Mughal garden. One day without telling Chef I cycled all the way to say hello to her. There was a chill in the air. The garden was terraced, a royal pavilion in the middle, water flowed in straight lines and fell from one impatient chute to the next before entering the lake at the bottom. Locking my cycle by the gates I noticed she was standing on the uppermost terrace, not far from the ruined wall, smoking a cigarette. I waved. She beckoned me. The garden was filled with tourists and languages I didn’t understand. She leaned against the wall as I walked closer. There was a brittle red-and-black leaf stuck in her hair.

  ‘Did you finish your lunch already?’ I asked.

  ‘Generally I skip lunches,’ she said.

  She was wearing a pretty salwar-kameez with flowery designs, and I said that the kameez and the white hospital coat looked funtoosh on her, and she smiled and asked why I was wearing a bangle, and I explained that it was not a bangle at all, the thing on my right wrist was actually a steel bracelet. All Sikh boys and girls wear the bracelet, I said. It looks cool on you, she said. What do you mean? I asked. In America, she explained, when something looks funtoosh on you, they say it looks cool on you. Thank you, I said and tried to hold her hand, but she frowned and said, ‘Touching this way doesn’t look nice.’ I didn’t know what to say, I felt I had done something very uncool, then for no reason I muttered a few words about the cold Kashmiri weather, and the sadness of Kashmir. This whole place is so beautiful, I said, and yet it is so sad. Look at the barren fruit orchards, the mountains, the lake which has been invaded by weeds. The temples, the mosques, the empty houses, the ruins – everything is sad. I sense a mingling of sadnesses here, I said. It seems as if all the people of Kashmir and all the people who come here, everyone is sad. It is not just a single person (like me) who is sad, rather the situation in the city sprouts the feeling of sadness in everyone. When one is unhappy one doesn’t even enjoy the food one cooks, the basic things in life, I said. One forgets how to love, and life is so short. What are you talking about? she asked. Sadness, I said.

  Back in the kitchen, I stood by the window. The plane trees were bare now. The words she had uttered doesn’t look nice and what are you talking about and it looks cool left me anxious and happy at the same time, for there was still hope, for I had not lost her completely, for despite her lukewarm response she had not said a complete no and I felt a deep desire to transform the slim hope to reality.

  That night in our bedroom Chef poured beer into two tall glasses. The beer was not bad at all. We clinked the glasses the way officers do. Cheers, I said.

  ‘You speak such good Inglish,’ he said. ‘Were you trying to impress the nurse?’

  ‘I was only talking.’

  So he had seen us together.

  ‘Nurses do not like softies. Inglish or no Inglish.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘You still don’t know how to handle a knife.’

  ‘Sir, I will . . . work hard.’

  ‘Look at me in the eye. Certain things cannot be changed, Kirpal. An officer’s son can never stop being a softie. You see, when I was a boy I found certain smells disgusting. I was repelled by the smell of fenugreek and bitter gourd. Now I have overcome that repulsion, in fact I have come to love the very same smells I hated as a boy. But, certain smells continue to be repulsive.’

  ‘Like what, sir?’

  ‘Kashmiris,’ he said. ‘Badboo –’

  I ignored him. To distract him I said, ‘Sir, I would like to cook like you!’
>
  He tasted the foam of beer, and flexed his muscles and the veins of his right forearm bulged. There was a tattoo on his arm, his name in green letters in Hindi. He wore a khaki shirt, the buttons open, underneath no banian and the hair on his chest was a forest of black-and-white curlicues.

  ‘Do you want to replace me?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Replace me,’ he said. ‘I want you to learn all I know. The day your training is over, Gen Sahib will promote me. He has promised.’

  ‘What rank would that be, sir, when you become an officer?’

  ‘That of a captain,’ he said, and put his tattooed arm around my shoulder, and stroked my cheek.

  ‘When will my training end?’ I asked.

  Chef hopped on to his bed.

  ‘The day you lose your virginity,’ he said.

  ‘Pardon me, Chef?’

  ‘The smell of a woman is thousand times better than cooking the most sumptuous dinner, kid.’

  ‘I would not know, Chef.’ I felt embarrassed.

  ‘Come sit next to me,’ he said.

  He took another swig of beer.

  ‘Have you ever gone down on a woman?’

  I lowered my gaze. He slapped my thigh.

  ‘You see, when I was younger I found the smell down there disgusting. Now I have overcome that repulsion, in fact I have come to love the very same smells I hated when I was young.’

  I gulped down my glass of beer without stopping for breath. He pulled his red journal from under the pillow and showed me a dirty picture.

  ‘Look at this,’ he said.

  Below the sketch there were long passages in Hindi and Punjabi.

  ‘Chef, what have you written in there?’

  ‘None of your business,’ he said. ‘Pay attention to the picture!’

  ‘I am looking,’ I said.

  ‘She is a memsahib,’ he laughed.

  ‘Yessir.’

  ‘Did you ever kiss a memsahib?’ he mumbled. ‘Give me another Kingfisher.’

  When he fell asleep I surveyed the empty beer glasses. Chef groaned in his bed. His naked chest heaved up and down. There was a strange rhythm to his muscles. I spent the night eating berries. In Kashmir everything tastes of fruit. The days tasted of apples and the nights of bittersweet berries. I ate them very slowly, one by one.

  7

  We were preparing mutton yakhni. Dipping fingers in the marinade. The air in the room carried the scent of star anise. Turn the flame on high, he said. Now, he said. One by one I dropped the half-brown, half-crimson pieces of meat into the degchi. Stir, he said. The mutton must never stick to the bottom. Chef, when do I add yoghurt? Not now, he said and explained the difference between precision and estimation. Then he wiped his hands on my apron. I felt uncomfortable, but kept stirring. Cook without fear of failure, Kirpal. But you must never fail. Take good care of your hands, Kirpal. He stared at my hands while teaching. If you lose the use of your hands you will be useless in the kitchen. Don’t ever think of touching a memsahib. If you want to keep your fingers intact simply keep away from memsahibs. Observe them from distance only.

  Now, he said. Now you add the yoghurt to the pot. Yessir. I followed his command, and covered the degchi with a lid. He stroked my cheek and started humming German music. The music was beautiful. His hands moved up and down as if they were guiding invisible instruments. Then he stopped. I mean it, Kip. Take good care of your hands, kid. Not like the Sikh guitarist. The guitarist? I asked. Yes, yes; he cleared his throat. The Sikh guitarist belonged to 72nd Battalion, 5th Mountain Division. The man was blessed with the most elegant fingers, and he used to play for Colonel Tagore’s wife at the colonel’s house. The colonel, said Chef Kishen, was keen on young men and he used to hang out at a special room in the Officers’ Mess and he had no problems leaving his young wife alone with the guitarist who would play for her till the wee hours of the morning. They had no children, the colonel and his wife, but in the beginning I simply could not believe that man’s fondness for boys. The colonel (who was a major then) would find boys in the hospital. He would visit the doctor during the season of recruitment or just before the troops were dispatched to the front. He would stand next to the doctor during the medical examination and survey the naked bodies of hundreds of troops – optimistically – with a smile on his face. But his eyes had indescribable sadness in them, said Chef Kishen. He would move his gaze from head to toe, from toe to head, and after the chest measurements he would ask each one of the soldiers their age and the reason for joining the army, and he would try to persuade the boys to quit the battalions and return home. This, said Chef Kishen, was the psychological examination. I cannot even begin telling you how I felt the day the colonel fixed his gaze on my chest (I was a young man then and I had felt the heat of the colonel’s desire on my body and a part of me had felt really flattered because he had desired my body but I naturally felt no desire for him) and a chill went through my spine, but at that very moment I noticed the colonel’s gaze move to the troop standing next to me. I must confess, said Chef, my neighbor was far more good-looking and handsome than me and as a result the colonel simply lost all interest in me and started persuading the soldier to quit the army and not go to the front and when the recruit responded with clarity that he was going to do his duty for the sake of our great country, the colonel patted thrice on the man’s back. The colonel’s eyes welled up there and then. Days later, said Chef Kishen, I was the one – new to everything – who discovered the Sikh guitarist in bed with the colonel’s beautiful wife and now that I think about it I should have not stirred things up. The guitar was lying on the floor. The guitarist was in a white banian only and she wearing a petticoat only. I remember her smooth-looking body down to the tassels of her petticoat. The burgundy color of her sweaty blouse, which was clinging to the guitar. They did not see me. If I had sealed my lips the regiment gossip would not have started, the rumor would not have spread inside and outside the barbed wires like orange forest fire and things would not have followed the ugly course they did. General Sahib had not moved to Kashmir yet. The one before him, General Jagmohan, had the guitarist arrested and in the prison they chopped off the top of his fingers and afterwards commanded him to play the guitar, which he did. The colonel I heard later, continued Chef, had begged the General to spare the guitarist’s fingers. (The guitarist looked a bit like you. I am not one of those who believes that all men in turbans look exactly like each other, but your face, Kirpal, has a striking resemblance.) To this day I think the colonel did the begging because the colonel and his wife had made a secret pact: the colonel was interested in men and he was going to sleep with them despite the marriage, and his wife was interested in other men and she was going to sleep with them despite the marriage. This was their arrangement, which I did not know, around the time. Because of my intervention, said Chef Kishen, the colonel’s interest in men was revealed and afterwards he found it difficult to face certain persons in the army. When Colonel Tagore died ‘accidentally’ in the war with Pakistan some of us knew that his death was not an accident. His wife, the young widow, was pursued by a major (who is a colonel now) and exactly eleven months later she yielded and the two of them got married. Tonight they are coming to dinner. Who? I asked. Colonel Chowdhry and his wife, he said.

  ‘Tonight, from behind that curtain, I will show you the real thing.’ Chef cleared his throat. ‘The real memsahib,’ he said.

  ‘Tonight?’

  ‘Yes, observe her attitude. She speaks polished Inglish. And observe her nakhra. The way she holds a fork.’

  8

  Everything is ready, almost ready, in the kitchen. Fumes are rising from simmering pots. Soup is cream of corn. Starter is sheekh kebab. Main course is seven items, including pork in mango-coriander sauce. Memsahib is vegetarian, Chef tells me. Navrattan paneer and dal makhni have been prepared especially for her. Lady Fingers are also for her. Biryani, kakori and fish are for the colonel. Trout is ready – from Dachigam in the
morning.

  Evening approaches. Tonight the real memsahib is coming. The sun reddens the kitchen walls before it sets in the enemy’s land.

  Everything is ready.

  General Sahib stands on the verandah, hands clasped behind him. He is an inch or two above six feet and he always stands in this manner. The black American suit gives him a stately air, the red scarf on his neck depicts a leaping leopard. There is a fresh shaving mark just below his left cheek. His skin has an oily sheen, no wrinkles yet. Everything about him is what I had imagined to see in a General, even his eyes, which are at once intimidating and filled with compassion. He bends his neck, listening to the sound of footsteps on the gravel path. The guests are approaching.

  The colonel, a short man wearing a black beret, walks a little ahead of his wife. She has Bombay actress good looks, but he is a bit on the heavier side. He looks restrained but angry as if already tonight someone has offended him deeply.

  The two men shake hands firmly.

  Sahib kisses the memsahib on her cheek, which is red because of make-up. She giggles. Says something in English.

  ‘India and Pakistan all right?’ asks General Sahib.

  ‘Both of us are very well, sir!’ says the colonel.

  ‘I don’t believe a word!’ says Sahib.

  ‘No. Please don’t believe him,’ says Memsahib and giggles.

  ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ Sahib guides them to the living room.

  ‘More fire power,’ says the colonel, now looking more relaxed.

  ‘Darling, stop it,’ she says with a sparkle in her eyes.

  She is wearing silk. The sari clings to the curves of her body, tight, as if purely out of desire.

  Inside, Chef explains the meaning. ‘Gen Sahib calls all married couples as India and Pakistan.’

  ‘But who is Pakistan?’

  ‘Women are.’

  There are three sofas in the drawing room, and a grand fireplace with glowing red coal. The painting of the dead woman looks down at the guests from the wall. Not far from the painting there is a glass cabinet. The artillery mementoes inside the cabinet demand one’s attention. Next to the mementoes are bottles of finest quality rum and scotch, and Kingfisher beer.