I could not return Chef Kishen’s gaze, which penetrated through me. Life is so precious, I said. I know, he said. Will any harm come to General Sahib? I asked him again. No, he assured me, no harm, not a single hair that belongs to him will be harmed.
By the end of the day Chef was gone.
Khatam.
Finished.
20
Everything is ready. The inspection of two battalions on the glacier is done. The snow-scooter ride is over. There was a fog on Siachen the previous night, I heard. Now the fog has gone, the peaks are visible, K2 is visible, the sun is bright, so bright it brings black dots in front of eyes. The sky is cobalt blue.
The General and the Defense Minister have started eating lunch. The two men are in the Officers’ tent. The colonel sends a boy to the kitchen. The Defense Minister would like to have a word with the cook. I look at Chef Kishen. He has done the cooking with his own hands. I look at his four assistants, then at Chef again. He surveys me with piercing eyes. I notice the determination in them, and that is why I decide to go ahead with the plan.
I go bundled to the Officers’ tent. There is sushi in front of them. I overhear the General explaining to the Minister the art of growing bonsai trees. I overhear the Minister’s question on ‘tent windows’. Gen Sahib’s response: ‘The Swiss have developed new technology, sir. As I mentioned before, from here we are able to see the men outside, but they can’t see us . . . Yes, yes, Kip, come in.’ I salute. ‘Shahbash, Kip! Good food!’ I tell Sahib that Chef Kishen did all the cooking. If anyone deserves praise – it is him. Not me. Briefly I survey the sushi on the table, and my mouth waters. Cuttlefish. Hamaguri. Sashimi-Salmon Rose. The General asks me to bring along Kishen.
I return to fetch him.
They are ready.
Chef Kishen’s four assistants salute him. They call him Commander. The Commander is in full military dress. His shoes are impeccably polished.
It is minus 49 outside. Useless tears in my eyes.
On the way Commander Kishen stops by the Soldiers’ tent, and stands before the red letter-box. From his pocket he pulls out two letters, one addressed to his children, and the other to his wife. He laughs a bit. Like a good man who is forced by circumstances to commit evil in a Bombay film.
They march to the Officers’ tent. I go with them.
Savdhan.
Vishram.
They march over the crunching snow, faces hidden, aprons whipping.
Left. Right. Left. Right.
Dayan. Bayan. Dayan. Bayan.
White plumes come out of our mouths.
We stop outside the Swiss tent.
I enter. The Commander and his assistants wait outside. Then: ‘Sir, Chef Kishen here,’ he says. ‘Permission to enter?’
‘Permission granted,’ says the General.
‘Sir, my junior staff members are with me. Permission to enter?’
‘Permission granted,’ says the General.
‘Kya naam hai terah?’ asks the Defense Minister.
‘Chef Kishen, sir.’
‘Oh the embassy-wallahs gave him this name. Kishen was trained there. The chap knows cooking very well, sir.’ The General turned to the Defense Minister.
‘Good food,’ says the Minister. ‘Shabash.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Were you trained at the Japanese Embassy?’
‘Years ago, sir.’
‘I must say this is one of the finest sushis I have ever had. The fish melted in my mouth right away.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Kishen, what food do you think is best for this glacier area?’
‘Sashimi, for officers, sir.’
‘Certainly.’
‘To make sashimi, sir, the cut is important. It is the cut, sir, that is most important. Knives are very important.’
‘You chaps know it all.’
‘Permission to display the knives, sir?’
‘Permission granted.’
The table is bright. Strong light filters through the tent window. The Commander’s assistants place the knives one by one on the square of light. The two sahibs examine the shiny knives.
When the knives are returned, the Commander gives a quick nod to his assistants. They rush towards the General and the Minister and tie them with ropes to the post and seal their lips with a tape. They do exactly the same thing to me. Everything is going according to the plan. I am to behave as if I am not with them.
The colonel (standing guard) outside senses something fishy inside the tent. He tries to enter, but is rebuffed. He tries again. ‘You asshole. If something happens to the General . . .’ One of the Commander’s four assistants says loudly that no harm would come to the General and the Minister and Chef Kirpal. We have three demands, he tells the colonel. Demand one: Gather the two battalions of troops outside the General’s tent. Demand two: Commander Kishen will address the troops, and the troops must listen to him in complete silence. Demand three: the media and press must be allowed to witness the address.
The colonel is a rational man. He agrees to the demands.
He sounds the emergency bugles. He assembles the entire two battalions below the General’s tent in twelve minutes. From inside the tent we can hear the sound of boots hitting snow and ice. I see a five-three-five troop formation.
Half an hour passes by. Still no sign of media.
‘Colonel, you asshole . . . don’t play games with us.’
‘Media is on its way,’ he says fast. ‘I have radioed them thrice.’
The Commander steps out. One assistant follows behind him. Inside we hear the metallic click of a rifle’s safety being released. But there is no fire. Three assistants keep an eye on three hostages inside the tent.
Soon a helicopter is hovering in the air. It lands. The flaps of the tent flutter. We hear the rotors come to a stop. TV and paper reporters and photographers have arrived. Sitting so close to me the General and the Minister look like two little rats. I try to free myself. My ropes are not as tight as theirs. Freeing myself is not part of the plan. I feel for once like changing the foolish plan.
Outside, Commander Kishen begins his address. The wind is howling like mad. He begins softly but soon raises his voice. The wind. He begins by thanking all the men who had died defending our country.
Thank you, soldiers of 8th Battalion, 7 Mountain Regiment; and 23rd Battalion, 15 Corps, says the Commander. The army is the soul of our country, he says. But that old tradition of camaraderie and humanity has died out in our regiments. We have officers who have opened big hotels and malls in Delhi and Gurgaon. We have officers who make money out of selling rations, make money out of recruitment. We have men who are involved in coffin scams. More dead Indians at the front means more profits for officers and their friends in Delhi. The question I ask today is: Are we dying for nothing? Did so many of our fellows die for nothing? One big nothing? We feed the army, we work hard, and those at the very top have failed us. I would like you to protest this. I would like you to think hard. Ask what are we doing on this glacier, on these Icefields? Ask why do we want to melt away this glacier? The kerosene and other poisons we discard on the glacier end up flowing in our holy rivers. For a long time we Indians have believed that the gods live up in the mountains. Why are we now wrecking the home of our gods? Why do we need Kashmir? Ask. Does Kashmir need us? We shit on the glacier, and the shit freezes and we have to break it with the rifles. And I say the same thing to the bastards on the other side. What are they dying for, the Pakistanis? This ice is no place for human beings. It has wasted the lives of our finest soldiers. We shit on . . .
He is trying very hard to explain himself, something that he has been processing for a while. But the soldiers of the two assembled battalions are not very responsive. Soon more cheetah helicopters start hovering over the glacier. The soldiers boo and whistle and create a racket, and the Cheetah helicopters create a racket, blowing snow in their eyes and creating deafening noise. Minus 55.
>
The soldiers are unable to hear him properly. Two more helicopters appear. They shake the whole bloody glacier.
I am trying to free myself. The rope is coming loose.
The Commander’s address has not gone down well. He and his assistant enter the tent. In the corner there is a jerrycan of kerosene. I try to shout. Words don’t come out. The Commander douses himself with kerosene. The other assistants do the same. Don’t do it, I try to beg them, convulsing in my chair. The Commander strikes a match and sets himself and the assistants on fire. Bloody bastards, I realize: they have changed the plan; they were going to untie our ropes and hand themselves in. Fire was not part of the plan. I struggle. I scream. My hands break free. The flames are spreading. I leap towards the captives and untie their ropes. The General runs with the Defense Minister out of the tent. What have you done, Chef? I scream. The storm troopers start shooting. The General shouts: Do not shoot! The troopers enter the tent, followed by the colonel, who tries to drag me out. I resist. The plates fall down. He overpowers me. The last thing I hear is loud barking of a dog.
There is a helicopter waiting. Rotors running. The colonel rushes the General and the Minister and me to the Cheetah helicopter.
From the air we see flames and smoke and troops scattering. The wind is so severe it separates the tent into two. From the air we see two little oranges, one on the Indian side and the other rolling towards the Pakistani side of the glacier.
The smell of burning skin never really leaves you, I say to myself on this train.
21
Is it possible to cook well when one is completely sad? Or when one is completely happy? I ask myself. In our country where half of the children are malnourished, and cannot even read and write, is it all right for some people to eat well? I close my eyes trying to answer, but all I see are the shadows. The shadow of Chef Kishen in the kitchen, and the shadow of General Sahib on the carpets, and the soldiers on the glacier. My eyes ache when I think about the glacier. The sun is out. The sky is cobalt blue. Blue is too bright for me.
My head is aching. My brain is. Am I already dead?
India keeps passing by.
Outside, the land is impoverished, not planted. No river, only a polluted stream. The land is parched and yellow and flat with an occasional rise, then flat again. Flatness is terrifying. An occasional animal flashes by. A defecating man or woman flash by. The town of Pathankot passes by. Troops and tanks go by. Now the foothills are visible. Distant mountains, the Pir Panjals, are visible. Now we are far away from the Delhis and Bombays. Far away from the maximum cities, far away from a million people and their miseries, and a hazaar million melancholies. Kashmir is close by. I can smell it. Akhni. Yakhni. The mehek of saffron. The beauty. The sadness of mountains. The disquiet of plane trees. The accumulation of snow. Large flakes and powder fallen on cobbled streets. In winter all streets look alike, all houses alike. Snow is whirling in the air. Smoke rises from the braziers. Embers in wicker kangris. Beauty, I am coming. I am on my way. I have not forgotten your fragile pastries. The ridges on your leavened bread. Half-eaten pomegranate in General Sahib’s fridge. Cherries so big they redden Rubiya’s hands, Irem’s fingers. Kashmir, you are real. You are my half-chilled soup, minced cilantro, my zaman pilaf. Bittersweat chukunder. Rista. Aab gosht. Gurdé Kaporé. Kidney and testicle curry. Kaléji. Sheermal. Lavasa. Tsot. Maythi paratha. Kabuli chana. Nargissi kebab. Tamatar muli. You are a sudden red mirchi. You give me pleasure and pain, both at once. You are my dream, my desire. My North, my Brain. My pounding headache. You are my weed, my cancer. My egg yolk.
You are colder than death, colder than love.
Kaschemir. Cashmere. Qashmir. Cachemire.
Cushmeer. Casmir. Kerseymere. Koshmar.
I can smell you. Paradise.
Ice.
Paradice.
I can’t see a thing.
Did I dream a glacier?
Am I dead?
What am I doing here? Minutes ago I woke up in this air-conditioned bogie. The windows are double-glazed.
‘What am I doing here?’ I ask the khaki-clad man. ‘Why on earth am I in this carriage? I was traveling second-class. What happened?’
‘Sahib, around 10 o’clock, three or four hours ago, you had stepped into the bathroom of that second-class bogie you were traveling in.’
‘Yes, yes.’
‘You passed out in the bathroom, Sahib.’
‘I collapsed?’
I look down. My hands are dirty.
‘Seizure, Sahib. Fortunately there was a doctor in the bogie. On his recommendation, we the railway staff moved you on a stretcher to this air-conditioned bogie.’
‘Shookriya,’ I say. ‘Thank you. I must pay for the extra ticket.’
Some people who work for the Railways are exceptionally kind. I am not talking about the corrupt TT’s and the crook Ministers, but workers like this attendant. He is one of those rare people who do not expect a tip. Just like soldiers in the army.
‘No, Sahib. I will not accept extra money.’
‘But you must. I insist.’
‘Don’t worry, Sahib. You served in the army.’
‘How do you know I served?’
‘The whole train knows you served. News travels fast on trains, Sahib.’
Even on trains there is no privacy, I say to myself.
‘Has the train covered time?’ I ask. ‘If it does not cover, I will miss the bus.’
How and when they moved my body and luggage to this compartment, I have no recall. He is the first man on the train I feel like talking to. The man is wearing a khaki uniform. Says he used to work as a lineman. The Railways made me a lineman. For thirty-one years I worked as a lineman. For thirty-one years I was unhappy. But when I started growing old the Railways transferred me inside the train, Sahib. We were so overworked, he said, sometimes on two hours of sleep we changed the lines, gave signals, and it was a lot of responsibility. So many lives depended on me. I could not imagine making a mistake, Sahib. Making even one would equal mass murder.
The air inside the bogie is refreshingly cold. From very hot I have moved to very cold. I do not say this to him. Instead I ask the attendant for a blanket. When he returns with my blanket I ask: Now that you work inside the train, are you not worried that some other lineman on two hours of sleep might make the same mistake you feared the most?
‘No, Sahib, it will not be my mistake. Working inside the train is much better than the duty of a lineman outside.’
‘So, you are not afraid that you might die?’
‘If I think about death all the time, I will not be able to work, Sahib. Now if you will please allow me.’
He disappears to his cabin (as I found out later) to play cards with the second attendant.
I hear the hum of air-conditioning, and many foreign accents, in this bogie. From my berth I can see two foreign women, dressed in Indian salwar-kameez. The more they try to look like Indians, the more they stand out. The women are quite fair and beautiful. One has blue eyes.
First: Canadian?
Second: No. From Texas.
First: But you carry a Canadian flag on your bag?
Second: The American flag lands me in trouble.
First: My name is Veronica. I am from Mexico City.
Second: Willow from Texas. From across the border!
They shake hands.
One of them says: The only bloody thing in India on time was the train.
Who said it? Willow or Veronica?
My head is pounding. My body is shivering. I beckon the attendant.
‘Please, it is very cold,’ I say to the man.
Not as a complaint, but by way of making a simple request.
‘The temperature is pre-set, Sahib.’
‘Can you do something about the noise at least? I have a bad headache.’
‘AC makes a lot of noise, these coaches are old, Sahib. This one is from the time of the British. The air-conditioning was installed where the
iceboxes used to be in these bogies. Those days the compartments were kept cold by using blocks of ice, Sahib. When the train stopped at big junctions, coolies standing on platforms would transfer ice to the boxes, sahib.’
‘Please, my head is pounding.’
Willow and Veronica are both carrying cell phones. They seem to have developed a quick friendship. I don’t know who took more initiative. Willow or Veronica, or maybe both? They laugh a lot. At first I thought they were laughing at the poverty of our country. I was wrong. Laughing was basically a way to forget all the difficulties they were encountering dealing with the civilians in our country. They laughed a lot about toilets and latrines.
Just to hear them has made me feel young again. I am not dying, I say to myself.
Tuh-dee Tuh-dee Tuh-deeee Tuh-deeee
Tuh-dee Tuh-dee Tuh-deeee Tuh-deeee
Catering-wallah comes into our bogie. The women order hard-boiled eggs. He says he has no more eggs left. I have potato cutlets only, he says. They buy the cutlets. Too bad you don’t have eggs, I demand. And the man smiles and produces a perfect hard-boiled egg.
‘You did not sell the girls the eggs?’ I ask.
‘Sahib, I have only one egg, and they are two. I could not choose who gets the egg, so I decided not to give either one of them the egg.’
One girl makes eye contact with me. I translate from Hindi to English. I tell her the catering-wallah’s exact reasoning, and the moment I finish they break into a fit of laughter.
‘Where in India are you from?’ asks one of them.
I am at a loss for words.
‘Not an Indian,’ I say. ‘Brazilian.’
Then silence.
Aren’t they nice, my shoes. They will outlast me. They will continue to live. They will not be cremated. I do not want to be cremated. There is nothing sacred about fire. I have no fondness for burials either. I like the towers of silence. The Parsees leave the bodies of the dead for the vultures. The birds eat while flying, one is neither on this earth, nor in the heavens yet. Sometimes a limb falls on ground from the beak of a flying bird and worms on earth feel graced, a river or a jungle gets nourished.
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