Chef

by Jaspreet Singh

  What will happen the day I die?

  Clouds will collide with mountain tops. Thunder. Then nothing.

  Once gone, I do not want to return to this earth. No more reincarnations.

  Five or six of us had an audience with His Holiness in Dharamshala, Willow tells Veronica. The Dali Lama told us a story. (She meant Dalai Lama, but she pronounced Dali Lama.) A monk who served eighteen years in a Chinese gulag was finally released under the condition that he would not return to Tibet. When the Lama first met him, the monk said that he was in great danger and several times he didn’t think he would make it. The Lama asked him what kind of danger was he in? The monk replied that he was in great danger of losing compassion towards the Chinese.

  Good story, says Veronica.

  I urge you to please replace China with America and Tibet with Iraq. There is a real danger, Veronica. Danger of losing compassion towards the Americans.

  This time the women did not laugh.

  When people talk religion and politics, I turn my thoughts to food. The catering-wallah’s egg is over-boiled. It has the odor of sulphur. The pleasures of eating food cooked by others! I can’t eat this egg. I will throw it away. No food is better than bad food. But.

  The girl-woman is beautiful.

  Willow or Veronica?

  Maybe both.

  They disappear to the toilet for a while; one returns in an oversize red T-shirt. No. 1 International Terrorist – it is written on the T-shirt. Under the writing is a photo of a face which resembles the American President.

  The girls start laughing again. I feel very tired. Their laughter reminds me of the bleak laughter of the Kashmiri people. They are real jokers, the Kashmiris. I hear them everywhere. Impossible to escape them. The Kashmiri laughter wounds me wherever I go. Kashmir was a beautiful place and we have made a bloody mess of it. Will the Kashmiris, too, lose compassion for us Indians? I ask myself. Will I lose compassion towards certain people?

  There are, and there were, people who occupied my mind all the time – and they ruined me. They made me what I am today, and I bow before them, and am thankful, but, it is certain, these people have also managed to ruin me. They had a weakness for giving commands and I had a weakness for accepting them more or less. Sometimes just to please them I would do whatever they felt like doing and I would pretend I liked whatever they liked. Chef used to go biking and I would say I too like biking but really if I could help it I would have slept longer, there was so little time to sleep in the army.

  I wish I had a mind of my own, a free mind. I wish I had led a life separate from influence. I was like a child, and my fingers were in the hands of two or three important people and they pulled me this way or that.

  After Chef died I did not read the papers for a while. But when I did, there was no story about him anyway. He died for a big nothing. There was nothing on TV. The press and the media had reported nothing to the nation. That is why I think in the larger scheme of things the man died for one big nothing.

  On the other hand there were reports about the colonel who had staged fake battles on the glacier, and filmed them, to get a gallantry medal. The papers were also filled with ongoing talk about the coffin scam. But there was no mention of Kishen. The government censored the story. Chef’s fate was similar to the fate of the Pakistani troops and officers who died in the war. Pakistan had sent them to India posed as freedom fighters, and when they died Pakistan did not even acknowledge them as dead soldiers. Muslim troops in our regiments buried the dead Pakistani soldiers, because the enemy army refused to accept the bodies back. Pakistan maintained a fiction. They had to. And what Chef said that morning during his address on the glacier was the truth, but we had to maintain the lie. In the barracks rumors flowed like rum. But after his first suicide attempt, people started saying they did not know him at all. Those who had consumed his delicacies started saying Kishen? Who is Kishen? He was the most serious and sincere of us all. But he was dead. Not a single watch lost a second in our country. This country produced him. This miserable, melancholic, cowdungofacountry produced him. Then it took him away. He did not kill himself. It killed him.

  Now this is killing me.

  The reason I wanted to read the papers and watch TV was to find out how his parents and loved ones had responded. Not to get the details I already knew, but to find out about his family. I walked to the hospital, and I saw the nurse in white. She was always in white, but that day the color took special significance.

  She knew he was gone. And she was expecting me. She asked me if Chef had mentioned her.

  I did not respond.

  She wept. She held my arm and wept.

  ‘He talked about you a lot,’ I said. ‘He only talked about you.’

  ‘Was the fire an accident?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ I lied, ‘it was a kitchen accident.’

  ‘What a way to die,’ she said.

  She was grieving him. But I do not think anyone should grieve him. For once he did exactly what he felt like doing. He had designed the complete menu. It was a perfect glacier meal. Chef dared to question the universe.

  He questioned the Siachen coffin scam and the ration scam, which ran into five thousand crore millions of rupees, I didn’t tell her. The colonel, the brigadier, the major general and other senior officers involved in the scams were not even charged. Instead they received early retirement with full pension and benefits. Now they run big hotels and malls, and reside in fashionable glass towers and drive yellow Hummers. Two or three represent our country in foreign lands as ambassadors. Isn’t this the biggest shame on this earth that the man who wanted to improve the army is forgotten, not even acknowledged, and the men who destroyed it every month receive fat pension checks and benefits? Why was I born in this country?

  The cancer that has grown inside me is not my fault. This country caused it. Despite that it has no shame. There are voices inside me, voices of people close to me, and they keep saying that I am personally responsible for bringing the disease and illness on myself. But it is not my fault at all.

  I walked to the ladies ward. There was no one inside. Normally when Irem was not there, her shoes or at least her few belongings were visible under the metal bed. Now the ward was empty. I stood by Irem’s bed. Her name and number were gone and insects were climbing the wall. The nurse told me that the captive had been moved elsewhere.

  ‘Where?’

  She did not know.

  ‘They are looking for you.’

  ‘For me?’

  ‘You must report at the colonel’s office.’

  There was a fog and I followed the gravel road to the khaki office building. The colonel was alone in the room, so I did not have to wait long. His office orderly announced me, and although the colonel didn’t look up I marched in anyway. His cap was lying on his desk, and he was reading a thick file.

  ‘Jai Hind, sir,’ I said.

  No response.

  I noticed the circles left on his desk by cups of chai and coffee.

  I coughed.

  Suddenly he raised his head, stared at me and snapped his fingers and asked the office orderly to bring the thing. I noticed the colonel’s trussed jacket, his curly hair. Coconut oil glistened on the curls.

  The orderly unlocked the Godrej almirah in the room, and pulled out the thing.

  ‘Play it.’

  The orderly played my tape recorder.

  ‘We confiscated this from the enemy woman in the hospital ward,’ said the colonel.

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘You gave the enemy woman this American music?’

  ‘German music, sir.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know. The enemy played it again and again for two full days – very loud – this music. Why did you give it to her?’

  ‘Sir, I thought, sir, music would ease the tension. General Sahib had asked me, sir, to conduct interrogations delicately, sir.’

  ‘The interrogations are over, Kirpal.’

  ‘Sir.’


  ‘This was a serious breach of order, Kirpal. I am giving you the last warning. General Kumar knew your Father Sahib. I knew him too. He was our finest officer. You have been pardoned because of your father. This must never happen again. Understand?’

  Then he buried his face in the file again. I looked at the tea and coffee circles on the desk, and his cap. After a while I coughed.

  ‘You are still here?’

  ‘Sir, where is the woman sir?’

  ‘Woman?’

  ‘The enemy woman, sir?’

  ‘Not here.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Dismiss.’

  I now know the name of the music she heard. Chef Kishen had received that tape from Chef Muller in the German embassy during his training, but he did not know the title of the music. For many years I did not know the title either. It was only last year I found out. I visited the German embassy in Delhi. The yellow-haired girl at the embassy sent me to Goethe House, where the music librarian asked me to sing that piece of music.

  I tried.

  TUH-dee TUH-dee

  TA-deeee TA-deeee

  TUH-dee TUH-dee

  TA-deeee TA-deeee

  ‘Try again,’ she said.

  Daam Dum De-daaam De-daaam

  Daam Dum De-daaam De-daaam

  ‘One more time,’ she said.

  ‘This one goes slowly,’ I said.

  Daaah Daaah Da Daaah It Vit

  Daaah Daaah Da Daaah It Vit

  ‘More,’ she said.

  ‘The tune is almost a military march,’ I said.

  TUH-dee TUH-dee TA-deeee TA-deeee

  TUH-dee TUH-dee TA-deeee TA-deeee

  ‘This sounds Turkish to me,’ she said. ‘There is no such thing. In German tradition there is no such thing.’

  ‘But, I have heard the music,’ I said.

  My hands moved up in the air, then down and up again. I found myself conducting – just like Chef Kishen had done on the glacier – as I sang or tried to sing that music.

  Da Da Da Da

  Da Da Da Da

  Da Da Da Da

  Deee da Daaa

  ‘The Ninth.’ She jumped from her seat.

  ‘The Ninth?’

  ‘Beethoven,’ she said.

  ‘Bay-toh-behn?’

  ‘Beethoven,’ she said.

  ‘Beethoven.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He wrote that music just like that?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘It took him thirty years to write it. He made many errors. But, finally he found perfection.’

  She gave me a headset and I listened to the complete Ninth at the booth. She told me where to buy works by Beethoven.

  ‘But I am only interested in the Ninth,’ I answered.

  ‘Maybe.’

  She gave me a book, so I read it. The man was completely deaf when he wrote that piece of music. Tuh-dee Tuh-dee Ta-deeee Ta-deeee. I simply could not believe it. It is like a cook who can’t smell or taste trying to create a new dish to make millions of people happy. Tuh-dee Tuh-dee Ta-deeee Ta-deeee. This has stayed with me all these years. The Ninth has stayed. It is not just music. It is real. My whole wretched life is embedded in it. And I do not care if it comes from Germany. I am dying, but I have heard the music. My fear, my fury, my joy, my melancholy – everything is embedded in this piece. The Ninth is real. It penetrates my body like smells, like food. And yet: it is solid and massive like a glacier. Shifting. Sliding. Melting. Then becoming air. When I listen to this music so many places penetrate me. So many times. So many sounds. Voices. The voices do a tamasha, and I am able to say it for the first time. The Ninth is real. It is the kiss, the most powerful and delicate kissforthewholeworld.

  Da Da Da Da

  Da Da Da Da

  Da Da Da Da

  Deee da Daaa

  22

  In November General Sahib was approved by Delhi to become the next Governor of Kashmir. Sahib was a good choice for the post. He was the ‘Hero of Kargil’ and the ‘Hero of Siachen Glacier’. The State needed urgently a gentleman-soldier at the very top to restore order. Sahib arranged to take me (and the gardener Agha) along to the Raj Bhavan, his new residence in Srinagar. It was a rare honor. Kishen would have been proud to see me occupy the highest kitchen in Kashmir.

  On the night of his appointment General Kumar delivered a speech on radio and TV.

  My fellow Indians,

   This troubled and beautiful land is ready for peace. Our task is not going to be easy, many challenges lie ahead, but together we will find a solution. In my opinion the first thing we must tackle is the question of governance and power. How will I, as your administrator, use power? Let me reassure you that I will act in an enlightened, just, and humane way. I will lead by reason and cooperation and set an example not just for the poor countries, but also for the rich . . . Thomas Jefferson once said, let me quote: ‘The less power we use the greater it will be.’ I convey my warm greetings to all of you and wish you peace and prosperity. Jai Hind.

  This speech made a great impression on me. Those first few days I worked even harder to please Gen Sahib. One day he asked me especially to cater the wedding banquet for the preceding Governor’s daughter. Her name was Bina. The girl was stunningly beautiful and well-educated. She had spent years in London and New York and was getting married to an Indian boy who had also spent time in New York and London. Both had moved back home because they did not want to be treated second class in those foreign lands. Bina took great interest in Indian art, buildings and food. She had even gotten involved with the Department of Tourism to write glossy brochures for foreign visitors. She handed me, during our second meeting, a brochure she had written herself about the Governor’s residence.

  More than anything else I remember the smell of wood inside the Raj Bhavan. The richly decorated papier-mâché ceilings. The fifty-five rooms. Dimly lit corridors. Red curtains. Crystal chandeliers. It was easy to get lost in the labyrinths of the building. The interiors were done entirely in walnut and deodar and rose, and the kitchen was large, airy, always filled with light. From the west window it was possible to see the ruins of the Mughal garden on the slopes of the mountain, also General Sahib’s old residence.

  Bina’s tourist brochure was an elegant piece of work, and whenever I try to describe that residence I bring it to mind. For me describing buildings is harder than detecting the ingredients in an exotic dish and certainly more difficult than describing human faces. People hide their true selves behind a face, but buildings hide even more. The Raj Bhavan, Bina had written, is perched on the beautiful Zabarwan hill and quivers with the fragrance of crocuses, and irises, and narcissi. The steep road to the compound is lined by majestic plane trees (also known as bouin or chenar). The mansion commands a stunning view of the Dal Lake, the ancient ruins, the snow-clad mountain ranges, and the Hazratbal Mosque. On the east side is a large cherry orchard, and on the west the Royal Springs Golf Course.

  The banquet, I must say, was my best accomplishment to this date. We had a pre-banquet dinner as well, which I cooked on a small scale for eight chosen guests – the old Governor and his daughter met me before the dinner to decide the menu and I had to use some tact to convey that most of their choices were simply wrong, and whenever the old Governor started insisting on a dish, Bina (like Rubiya) would wink her eye and smile as if saying to me, just ignore him, he is being fussy for nothing.

  Bina took me aside and said if I could give the banquet a paisley theme she would do anything for me. I did not know what paisley was, and she told me that it was the pattern on the blouse she was wearing. You mean that tear-shaped thing? I asked. It is also a comma, she said. It can be seen as a mango. It can be many things. Touch it, she said. You mean you want me to touch your blouse? Yes, she said. Is this silk? I asked. It was very soft. She said it was different from the silk people bought in showrooms. This is called peace silk. This silk is made without killing the silkworms.

  In the kitchen I thought about
paisley for a long time, and thanks to Bina I finally found out the name for the embroidery I had seen on Irem’s pheran. Her pheran had paisley all over, not just on the borders.

  The ruins of the Mughal garden, as I said before, were visible from the kitchen window, and they, too, for some unknown reason (in my mind) became associated with paisley. Sometimes wild animals appeared in the upper terraces and made strange sounds. While cooking I would ask, How is it possible for such beauty and such extreme forms of cruelty to co-exist? I would think about the beauty of the gardens in Kashmir and the Mughals who had built them. The Emperors were such learned men, scholars they were, they kept journals and ate good food. They took cuisine to perfection. They took architecture to perfection. They built the Taj, and yet how cruel they were. Not just cruel to others, but son to father, and brother to brother. How could these two things co-exist in the same person, in the same kingdom, and I felt there must be something wrong about Chef Muller’s theory. Muller had told Kishen that it was possible to identify the qualities of a person from what they ate. How can people who eat the finest delicacies commit the most horrible crimes? I would ask myself.

  Two days before the banquet, a curfew was imposed on the city because of militant violence. Bombs and IE devices exploded in downtown. I needed prawns and fish and ingredients for cioppino – the Italian soup – and many other things. Bina was nervous, but the captain who escorted me into the city told her not to worry. He ordered the pilot jeep to accompany the Governor’s black car, in which I sat on the front seat, and my two assistants sat on the back, and two military trucks moved ahead of the car and two moved behind, and a windowless armored vehicle raced on the side, and that is how I went to the bazaar to shop for the banquet. The shops were closed because of the curfew, so we knocked and woke up the shopkeepers one by one, and I told them not to worry because we meant no harm, and if they refused to charge I paid them anyway.