Chef

by Jaspreet Singh

  Outside the sun was brightening the plane trees, and fresh wind was blowing in the valley, and I realized it was time to head out to the bazaar. The streets were red, and on the way I saw women sweeping the leaves into huge piles, filling their big sacks with leaves, and I knew why. They made charcoal in their homes, mixing leaves and sawdust. They used the charcoal in braziers in winter to keep warm. On the way to the bazaar I slowed down my bike and watched the women sweep the leaves. Their breasts alive inside beautiful pherans. I felt empty. I felt like a one big nothing. I was not even worth a soldier’s ration.

  16

  Forgiveness is a strange animal, I say to myself. Not many people on this earth know how to ask for forgiveness, and very few know how to truly forgive. I returned to the hospital to ask for forgiveness. I did not really need a bandage, the cut I had on my finger was minor. Some of the wards were absolutely dark. One or two were lit up with emergency lights. There was no power in the hospital, and the whole place smelled of dead cockroaches and chloroform. I waved at her. She ignored me; the sound of her heels clicking throughout the ward was unbearable.

  Finally, I stopped her in the corridor.

  ‘Nurse, I have been meaning to say “sorry” to you.’

  ‘Say it quickly.’

  ‘I was wrong. The way I used to look at you was wrong. It will never happen again.’

  She held my arm and I felt she had already forgiven me. I like you a lot, she said, and immediately after saying that she entered the dimly lit ward. The guard saluted her. I lingered until she took a cigarette break and stepped out on the lawn. Only then, when she was gone (and the guard was looking in the other direction), did I step into the ward.

  There was a blanket on his face. The only light came from the window in the corner. The blanket heaved up and down. Chef stirred, but did not flap it open. This made my task easier. In a low voice I apologized on two counts. First, for reading his journal, and second, for liking his woman. Nothing happened between us, Chef. I just told her that I liked her. I did nothing.

  I do not recall exactly the words I used, but I apologized and placed the red journal by his pillow and quickly made it to the door. The guard looked at me suspiciously, but didn’t utter a word.

  Outside in the corridor a man was tapping the floor with his crutches. A thin boy from the Madras regiment in a wheelchair was playing with his saliva, slowly shaking his head left to right and right to left like a machine. The nurse was standing with two or three other nurses. They eyed me curiously.

  ‘I was only trying to have a word with Chef,’ I explained.

  ‘Who?’ she asked.

  ‘Kishen.’

  ‘But he is not here,’ she said.

  ‘Not here?’

  ‘Gone.’

  ‘He left?’

  ‘He put in a request with the colonel for a return to the Rose Glacier.’

  ‘Why did they let him go?’

  ‘Because no one else wanted to go.’

  ‘So who is on the bed?’ I raised my voice.

  I rarely raise my voice. Perhaps that is why the power returned in the hospital.

  There was a commotion in the corridor. Officers are coming. Officers. There I saw the colonel and his platoon marching in. The doctor was walking parallel to the colonel in his trussed jacket. The colonel was carrying an inspection stick, and the doctor was smoking a Marlboro.

  ‘Power is very unreliable, sir,’ said the doctor to the colonel. The others followed them to the ward. The officers took a long time inside and ordered tea and pakoras.

  Half an hour later the hospital orderly stepped out of the ward with an empty tray.

  ‘Major, what tamasha is happening inside?’ I asked him.

  ‘We really live in a foreign land, Major. They are dealing with an enemy.’

  ‘An enemy?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, Major. They need an interpreter inside, and no one knows Kashmiri here.’

  ‘I do.’

  I knocked on the door.

  ‘Permission to enter, sir?’

  ‘Kip . . . Kirpal?’

  ‘If you do not mind, sir, I know the language. I took lessons, sir.’

  ‘Shahbash,’ said the colonel.

  He beckoned me inside.

  The officers, in proper uniforms and black boots, looked at me in relief as if I had just saved them. The captive lay on the bed. He was a she. The first enemy I ever saw was a she, and already I had apologized to her moments ago on two counts. The first thing I noticed was the unconscious movement of her head. Rapid breathing. Terror in eyes. Peasant feet. The toe ring gleamed in flourescent light. There was a cut on the left foot.

  The colonel asked me to occupy the chair next to the enemy’s bed. I took a deep breath, then the interrogation began. It was my first time as an interpreter. I asked the questions slowly, she stammered her responses. I do not recall the many unintelligible things she brought to her lips. But the essence has stayed with me.

  Name?

  Nav?

  Irem.

  Father’s name?

  Moul sund nav?

  Maqbool Butt.

  Citizenship?

  Shehriyat?

  Kashmiri.

  Colonel: Ask again.

  Citizenship?

  Shehriyat?

  Kashmiri.

  Married?

  Khander karith?

  Awaa.

  Yes.

  Husband’s name?

  Khandaraas nav?

  Raza Nomani.

  Any issues?

  Kahn mushkil?

  Khandras manz ché mushkilat aasani . . .

  She says, sir, all marriages have problems.

  No, what we mean is, does she have children?

  Bacchi chhoi kanh?

  Na.

  No issues, sir.

  There was a pause.

  Mrs Irem, why are you in India?

  Irem, tsé kyazi koruth border cross?

  Khooda yi chhum guanha sazaa.

  She says, God is punishing her for sins.

  The enemy woman started breathing more heavily. The colonel muttered something. She was gasping for breath. The nurse offered her a glass of water. But.

  The woman fainted.

  The doctor held her wrist for a few seconds, then let it go.

  In that entire ward (especially on her bed) my eyes could not locate Chef’s red journal. Small insects were climbing up the wall by her bed. I anticipated a trial, a long court martial, at least an inquiry. Empty-handed I returned to the General’s kitchen, and my spine shivered with panic when the ADC phoned me:

  ‘General Sahib would like to see you, Kirpal. Report right before golf. Fifteen-thirty hours.’

  With great anxiety I walked to the golf course. I had committed a serious crime. But the General looked in a beautiful mood. He was dressed in civilian clothes. He asked other officers to leave us alone. He was holding an expensive golf stick, and he picked up a white ball.

  ‘You see this, Kirpal.’

  ‘Golf ball, sir?’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘You see the dimples, Kirpal?’

  ‘See them, sir.’

  ‘Why is the ball dimpled?’

  ‘No idea, sir.’

  ‘Guess?’

  ‘To make it go slower, sir?’

  ‘Faster.’

  ‘Sir is joking.’

  ‘I do not joke, Kip.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Colonel Sahib phoned me. He reported this morning’s proceedings at the hospital.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Good job.’

  ‘Thankyousir.’

  ‘Now is your chance to pick up your second rank, and maybe a medal.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Understand me?’

  ‘Not exactly, sir.’

  ‘Find out everything about that enemy woman.’

  ‘How, sir?’

  ‘You are a smart chap.’

  ‘
It is an unusual assignment, sir.’

  ‘Delicate assignment, Kirpal.’

  ‘Certainly, sir.’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘Sir, if I may, when will I go to the glacier?’

  ‘Things are shaping up. I’ll look into this personally. And, Kip –’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Everything must remain confidential.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘What did we talk about?’

  ‘Balls, sir.’

  ‘Dismiss.’

  He narrowed his eyes and hit the ball with his club and I clicked my heels. On the way to my room I thought about all the balls that get lost from the golf course. How many lost golf balls belonged to the army? I wondered. If dimples allowed the balls to go faster, was there a way to make them go slower? Suddenly I started thinking about fast and slow. Fast and slow in cooking. Fast and slow in the kitchen. This is exactly what we were trying to do in the kitchen.

  17

  Men in the barracks already knew more about her than I did. She had crossed the river from the enemy side to our camp. One version said she was a suicide bomber, and that her target was schoolchildren. Another version was that she worked for ISI, the enemy spy agency. A third version claimed that she had come to incite the youth of Kashmir to become militants.

  I returned the next day. She was wearing a loose pheran, and a third of her body was thickly bandaged. Her head was covered by a scarf. She looked beautiful even in sickness.

  ‘There is a cut on your foot,’ I said. ‘Why is it not bandaged?’

  She stirred her feet as if to say, I know. She withdrew her feet into the blanket as if they were little rats.

  ‘Who did it?’

  She did not say anything, so I turned and walked towards the window.

  Outside, the troops were marching in the parade ground and the air was dusty.

  ‘In Pakistan you people eat dogs,’ I said.

  Dust was rising on the road outside. The troops: one-two, one-two, one-two.

  ‘You people eat dogs,’ I said loudly.

  ‘No,’ she said.

  I turned.

  Her gaze was fixed on the floor.

  ‘You eat chicken feet . . . snakes . . . lizards . . . you crave . . .’

  Chef Kishen had written that the enemy ate cows and buffaloes, and the most repulsive dish on their tables was made by slow cooking a young bull’s testicles.

  ‘I know why you are here,’ she broke her silence.

  Her Kashmiri had a strong Muslim inflection. (The Kashmiri I had learned sounded more like the Kashmiri of pundits.)

  ‘Why?’ I asked.

  Her eyes were red. She pulled Chef’s journal from her blanket. I walked to the head of the bed, and grabbed it from her.

  ‘Did you read?’ I was angry at her.

  ‘The person who wrote this,’ she said, ‘is sometimes very angry and sometimes extremely happy.’

  ‘The journal is written in Hindi.’ I raised my voice. ‘You lied yesterday. You know Hindi.’

  She looked afraid as I uttered those words, raising my voice.

  ‘No, Saheb,’ she said.

  ‘You Pakistanis cannot be trusted,’ I said.

  ‘I never attended school, Saheb,’ she said.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I cannot read and write, Saheb.’

  ‘Do not call me sahib,’ I said. ‘Just answer me. If you did not read it, then how can you say that he was sometimes angry and happy?’

  ‘The pen moves fast, then sometimes slow. One can tell,’ she said.

  Her speech was almost inaudible, and she spoke very slowly. Her words, like a damaged cassette in the tape recorder. This angered me, but I continued to let her speak.

  ‘You do not need to know the language, Saheb, to figure out if the writer of words is angry, sad, or happy.’

  ‘Good,’ I said. ‘You are illiterate.’

  She could not read and write and this made me happy. Her face was intelligent, but she could not read from left to right or right to left and this made me happy. She had no access to Kishen’s intimate thoughts. But as I was walking back to the General’s kitchen I felt sad that so many people in our land and in the land of our enemy cannot even read and write. I felt pity for her. She was a smart woman but really she was leading the life of a donkey.

  She had not touched the tray of food next to her bed. On the wall behind her there were more crawling insects than last time.

  ‘The food, Saheb,’ she said, ‘is not fit for humans.’

  Then. I do not know what made me say: ‘I will make sure that you eat well. I will make sure you find out the meaning of real Indian hospitality.’

  The opportunity to prepare her a proper meal arrived very soon. General Sahib flew to Delhi to meet the COAS, the Chief of Army Staff; and the doctor was away on Internal Security duty. I persuaded the nurse to unlock the doctor’s room in the hospital. The room had a beautiful view of distant mountains. They looked completely blue, the Pir Panjals, casting no shadow. Things that are far away always look blue for some unknown reason. Blue is the color of our past. Blue is the color of our wretched past, I say to myself.

  It was not my finest accomplishment, but I did my best to feed the ‘enemy woman’. I cooked in the General’s kitchen, and served her in the doctor’s room in the hospital with the nurse present. I do not understand why she still is the ‘enemy woman’. To this day, sometimes the phrase slips out of my mouth.

  Her name was Irem.

  She removed her shoes before stepping on the thick carpet in the doctor’s room. Like most Kashmiris she gave the carpet the respect it deserved. The nurse on the other hand kept her dirty shoes on, and I remember the condescending look she gave her patient. There was an open-air cinema not far from the hospital, and most of the staff and guards and non-critical patients were watching a Bombay film there. So the hospital was half empty. The nurse had a shot of rum, and for Irem I made lemonade, and watched from the window.

  Music from the open-air cinema wafted into the room. The song playing was about the fickle anger of beautiful women. Irem hesitated to sit on the sofa. So she sat on the carpet, her gaze fixed on the patterns of spiders, lizards, and scorpions embroidered on the beautiful carpet. The colors of the carpet came from vegetable dyes made of roots and berries. The green and indigo and red, although a bit faded, drew me towards them.

  The nurse started talking to me in English. I am sleep starved, she said. As if she was the only one who didn’t get to sleep. Irem felt increasingly uncomfortable in the room, I could tell. She held her glass as if it was the only thing that could comfort her. Terror was loose in her eyes still. It seemed to me that her lips were moving slightly. There was a cut on her upper lip. She wiped away the condensation with her hand and rolled the lemonade glass the way Buddhists roll prayer wheels in Ladakh.

  The nurse stared at her, and the patient started staring at the wall.

  There is a photo on the wall.

  Irem rises to her feet, and without paying attention to us walks slowly towards the wall and stands before the big black and white photo.

  There are five or six women in Islamic garments standing on a sheer cliff. Only their backs are visible. Two or three are praying; one is looking at the immense sky, another is surveying the valley below – the poplars, the willows, the plane trees, the fruit orchards, the lake, and the timber-framed houses. Another stands barefoot, her arms uplifted, palms open in prayer. A ribbon of a cloud is passing by, and it is unclear if the cloud is touching her palm or the folds of the mountain.

  It’s strange, I am looking at Irem’s back and she is looking at the women in the photo. Perhaps there are more than six women. The tall one is hiding the short one, and they are all standing on a cliff. Irem moves slightly to her right; now I see more clearly. At the bottom left corner, a lonely shoe. One small push and it would fall into the valley.

  Slowly Irem is becoming a part of that work of art. I do not fee
l like disturbing. But my breath is becoming heavy.

  The nurse begins tapping her feet.

  ‘Irem ji,’ I say, switching to Kashmiri, ‘I have cooked Rogan Josh for dinner. Halal for you. Non-halal for us.’

  No response.

  So I start telling her about the recipe I had followed, and then I recall at precisely that moment she turned and muttered something. I ask her to repeat it, and she says: One never uses tomatoes in Rogan Josh.

  The nurse asks me to translate.

  No tomatoes in Rogan Josh.

  This makes her laugh. She laughs at me, the nurse. The enemy doesn’t laugh.

  ‘How is that possible?’ I say. ‘A dish without tomatoes is like a film without sound.’

  ‘No tomatoes,’ says Irem.

  ‘Irem ji, please write down your recipe of Rogan Josh for me.’

  But as soon as I open my mouth, I realize my mistake.

  ‘I am sorry. You cannot write.’

  The nurse stares at us.

  ‘But, why is the Rogan Josh so red? If there are no tomatoes then why is it red?’

  Irem remains silent.

  ‘Tell me,’ I insist. ‘Please.’

  ‘The color comes from the mirchi.’

  ‘But why is the dish so intensely red?’

  ‘Redness comes from the Kashmiri chilies,’ she says. ‘And mawal flowers.’

  ‘I accept. But, in the absence of tomatoes where does the khatta taste come from?’

  ‘Khatta is due to curds only.’

  ‘I am hungry,’ the nurse roars in English, unable to comprehend Kashmiri.

  Irem would not sit on the sofa or in the chair. She sat on the carpet. So I spread a white calico sheet on the carpet and transferred the dishes there, and that is how it all began. She closed her eyes and lifted her palms and said a small prayer to Allah and started eating slowly, then picked up speed. Suddenly she remembered she was not alone in the room and slowed down again. She used her left hand to eat, and once or twice licked her fingers.

  During dinner she opened up to us and shared her story. She was no longer hesitant.

  She had jumped into the river to end her life. To end one’s life is against religion, she said. It is a sin. But the life she was leading was worse than death. Her husband and his mother criticized her constantly for not being able to bear a child.