On the wedding day the Prime Minister himself flew to the Raj Bhavan, and the Defense Minister was also present along with other high dignitaries and eminent personalities. General Chibber, General Raina, Shri Bhagat, Mr Modi and Dr Jagdish Tytler. Colonel Chowdhry and Patsy Memsahib. The white American ambassador and his black secretary and the chief of the World Bank. Business tycoons. Only government journalists were allowed, the event was not announced to the public, and after the meal the Prime Minister demanded that I show my face, and I appeared in a liveried dress meant for special occasions. I walked straight to the drawing room, somewhat nervous, but the PM put me at ease by telling a Sikh joke, and we all laughed.
‘Well done, Kirpal ji,’ he said. ‘One day when Governor Sahib is not around, we will have to steal you!’
Later many guests recited poetry, and the Prime Minister recited his own poems, and a bureaucrat translated, and the PM said that it was the most perfect translation of his poems from Hindi into English, and the foreign guests applauded with loud clapping. Sahib opened the most expensive French wine to honor poetry, and the more he drank the more the PM changed and looked different from his photos in magazines.
It was a grand affair. Because the number of guests was over three hundred, we had to set up a special scullery tent in the area close to the servants’ quarters. We hired temporary staff. We had to get security clearance for all of them – whether they were Muslims or non-Muslims, but mostly they were poor Muslims. We managed to sneak most of them in without the clearance. There were around a hundred waiting staff.
Golf-ball-sized goshtaba. Tails of sheep. Paisley-shaped naans. Moorish eggplant. Murgh Wagah. Rogan Josh. Pasta with roasted chestnuts and walnuts. Paella valenciana. Pavlova salad. Oysters. I remember it fresh like yesterday. The bartender came from Bombay (with his special English brandy). Bollywood stars flew in. Red carpets lined the walkways. Red shamiana tents were pitched under chenar trees. The Hindu priest had a PhD in Sanskrit. Bina changed her dress thirteen times. She and the groom circled the fire seven times. The air smelled of an epic wedding, flowers everywhere. Columns and spheres and disks and mandalas of pansies and marigolds and jasmines and daffodils and roses. Wild roses. The kitchen door was open and I heard footsteps. From behind the curtains I saw the outgoing Governor, in profile, and the incoming Governor guiding the special guests to the glass cabinet in the drawing room. General Sahib pointed at the famous photo from the ’71 India–Pakistan War.
In the photo General Aurora of our army is sitting next to General Niazi of the Pakistani army. The Pakistani defeat is very fresh. India has taken 90,000 Pakistani soldiers into captivity. General Niazi is signing the surrender documents.
‘I was present during the surrender, sir,’ said General Kumar Sahib. ‘Gen Niazi looked absolutely humiliated.’
‘Kumar Sahib, what happened right after the surrender?’ inquired the PM.
‘Gen Niazi removed his rank, sir, and emptied his pistol, and he handed the pistol to our victorious Gen Aurora.’
‘But how did the pistol end up here?’ The PM demanded an explanation.
‘Gen Aurora made me the custodian of the pistol, sir. This is still a very reliable firearm!’
‘Reliable or not,’ said the PM seriously, ‘this pistol must go to the War Museum in Delhi.’
The General laughed mildly, and opened the glass cabinet and the pistol passed through several hands.
Holding the pistol, the PM said: ‘Wherever they are there is trouble.’
‘But we know the reliable way to contain them, sir,’ said the old Governor.
‘People of Kashmir are unhappy with Delhi, sir,’ said General Sahib, the new Governor.
‘Well, we are unhappy with them too!’ said the PM.
Then they all laughed.
Single malt was served on the rocks.
Finally I could no longer see their faces. Bloody bastard, I said. The dessert is still not ready. Bina was a bit worried about my ability to tackle Italian desserts, but I reassured her. She approved my suggestion to serve tiramisu at the banquet.
‘Sculpt it like paisley!’ she reminded me just outside the scullery tent.
‘Bina,’ I said, ‘this is an excellent way to make the Italian mithai our own! Bina, please don’t worry. I will make you happy. I will make all the three hundred guests extremely happy. Chef Kishen taught me the most authentic recipe from Florence, Tus-canny.’
‘You mean Tuscany?’
‘I think so.’
The night before I had started looking for bottles of rum. Rum is one of the most essential ingredients. You can do without vanilla, you can do without cinnamon, but you can’t do without rum in tiramisu. Cocoa, coffee, cream, sponge fingers, mascarpone cheese, eggs, sugar, and rum. The old servant told me that the bottles were stored in the corner room in the Raj Bhavan, and it took me a while to find the right room in those labyrinths, but I did find it finally, and after procuring two bottles I drank a big burra-peg, standing underneath a big chandelier, to deal with the stress and hard work, and then, I do not know how, I lost my way in the building, and found myself going down the stairs and up the stairs, clutching a bottle, and down again to a room with worn furniture and faded wallpaper and carpets and thin walls. I think it was around two o’clock in the morning. Voices were coming from the neighboring room. It was as if two people were having a good time. Through a little hole in the wall I peeked in and saw a figure who resembled the outgoing Governor’s son. I do not remember his name, in my mind he is Bina’s brother. He was with a girl in that room. I half-finished the bottle and kept looking through the hole. The girl was very fair. Kashmiri girls are always very fair. But. There were dark marks under her eyes. She was giving him a blowjob. After some time he spread his semen on her fair skin and milk-white breasts. She had huge aureoles. Her hair was wild. But she did not seem to be liking it. When he was done he opened the door. As she followed him, he said, I will live up to my promise, you whore, I always live up to my promise. I did not do this to you for nothing, he said, and I hid behind a crate, unable to follow them, scared because I knew the whole area was under heavy surveillance, and there were loaded guns. Please release my brother, I heard the woman’s voice say. Let her out, Bina’s brother ordered the sentry. I went back to my room and swallowed two more mouthfuls of rum.
After the wedding and the banquet Bina (now Mrs Ramani) left with her husband to honeymoon in Gulmarg. Gulmarg means meadow-of-flowers in Kashmiri. Her parents kissed her goodbye, and so did her brother. She was wearing a blue peace silk with paisley and of course she looked very beautiful. She thanked me by planting a kiss on my cheek. She recommended to her father, the ex-Governor, that I be sent on a well-deserved holiday to my home to be with my people. At that point I could not ask for anything better.
23
I am such a pea.
I don’t like mutters.
Mutter-paneer, mutter-aloo, mutter-gobi.
There is a small area the size of a pea in our brains. I read it in the paper. This area is just behind the eye. Compassion and empathy lie in this area. When the area gets damaged we torture others more easily, and with less mess to ourselves.
In Delhi, while on leave, I could not stop thinking of Kashmir. I would shut my eyes or try distracting myself, but the more I tried the more forcefully the images flashed before me.
When will you get married? Mother would ask, and the question would annoy and sadden me. All my uncles and aunties wanted to hear were tales about the heroism of our soldiers at the border, and I found the June heat unbearable, and the June mosquitoes unbearable at night. Images of mountains and mosques and Raj Bhavan disturbed my sleep. Sometimes I would think about Irem. Sometimes the beauty of the valley and Sufi music filled my dreams. I would see Kashmiri women in pherans pounding dried red chilies. I cut short my holiday and returned on this very train.
Srinagar had become a war zone during my absence.
The streets trembled with armored vehicles
.
Militancy was at its peak again.
The enemy was training more men and brainwashing more boys, and wave after wave crossed into Kashmir to set off bombs at public places, even inside army camps. Fifty new battalions were raised by our army to contain the insurgents. For every four civilians we had one soldier. But things were going badly. During those dark days no one on the General’s staff was a Muslim. The only Muslim in the Raj Bhavan was the old gardener, Agha.
Nothing is ready. Nothing.
It is early, no fire in the kitchen yet. I am still planning the day. There is a knock. I see a wrinkled hand. The rear door opens. Agha, the gardener, is standing in front of me. Teeth gone. Skullcap on head, three-day stubble like a dusting of snow. A rag of a sash around his neck.
As usual he doesn’t step in.
‘Do you have something to polish this with?’ he asks.
He is holding an old fountain nozzle. The metal is layered with green patina.
‘Come in,’ I say. ‘It is getting cold.’
To my surprise he starts removing his shoes.
‘You can keep them on.’
He ignores me and walks in bare feet. The kitchen floor is so cold he is standing on the tips of his toes.
‘No Problem,’ he says.
‘This might work,’ I say, handing him the bottle of acid I normally use to polish the sink.
‘Good,’ he says and picks up an old rag and starts work on the nozzle.
His presence makes me uneasy. He keeps muttering poetry while polishing.
‘Now you may leave,’ I say.
‘No Problem,’ he says.
He does not leave.
‘Do you have a minute?’ he asks.
‘It has to be quick,’ I say.
‘Why did you remove your turban?’ he asks.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘My hair is short now.’
‘What will your father say?’
‘He is dead, Agha. He is buried in the glacier.’
The gardener stops polishing.
‘Fathers never die,’ he says.
I lift my hand to my face. The beard is gone now, my cheeks are smooth. The turban is no longer on my head, but I sense its weight. It was a big part of me and I removed it. I look at my hands. All the muscles of my hands. The pores of my skin. The tips of my thumb and middle finger. The whorls, the roughness, the cuts. My hands are freezing. They start shaking. I strike a match. It doesn’t work. Agha helps me light up the stove.
‘Do you still have a minute?’ he asks.
He has no patience.
‘Please be quick,’ I say.
‘No Problem,’ he says.
‘Yes, yes, be quick.’
‘My son disappeared two days ago.’
‘He will come back,’ I say.
‘No,’ he says.
‘Did he become a militant?’ I ask.
‘He simply disappeared.’
‘Sorry, I must get back to work.’
The nozzle is shining now, reflecting Agha’s face.
‘No Problem,’ he says and walks slowly to his old shoes and shuts the door behind him. A cold draft hits my cheeks.
Later in the evening when I am done with the dinner I spot him sitting by the marigolds in the garden, smoking a hookah. His breath stinks of nicotine.
‘No Problem,’ he says.
He looks more dead than alive.
‘What do you mean?’ I say. ‘Your son.’
‘He is gone.’
‘No, no. But how do you really feel? Not just about your son, but the situation in Kashmir?’
‘Bad things are expected during the turmoil,’ he says. ‘Why should the most beautiful place on earth be spared bad things? People are turning mad here. This place is becoming a pagal-khana, a lunatic asylum.’
‘Where do you suspect your son is?’
‘They should stop torturing our boys,’ he says.
‘They?’
‘Military,’ he says.
‘Where?’
‘In the hotels,’ he says.
‘You are a joker, Agha,’ I say.
‘No Problem,’ he says.
His words disturbed me a lot. I found it difficult to cook. Difficult to sleep. It was true. Our army had occupied many hotels in Srinagar. But they were the new residences for our officers and jawans, I had not imagined them as sites of torture. I decided to visit. Part of me wanted to disprove Agha. Barring a few bad apples our army was basically good. The only way it was possible for me to access the hotels was by taking extra initiative. General Sahib was pleased by my proposal, and he granted me the permission to inspect kitchens in all the army-occupied hotels. I became a part-time inspector of kitchens.
Hotel Athena. Hotel Duke. Hotel Nedou. Oberoi Palace. More than thirty-six hotels now belonged to the army. Before inspection, I would read the tourism department’s write-up for that particular site, then a special vehicle would take me to the hotel (cycling was no longer safe) and I would arrive unannounced just before meals and taste the food and inspect the kitchen hygiene, and then excuse myself for a few minutes, and during that brief time I would hurriedly check the rooms.
Agha was wrong.
Our army was out shooting films. Everything was being done in the open, there was nothing to hide, the rooms were clean, certain scenes were being shot inside the hotels, others outdoors. Light. The most important ingredient in cinema is light. One needs the right kind of light to screen a film, just like one needs the right kind of light to shoot a film. (I remember, in Grade 3, I watched a film shot in Kashmir. The hero fought the villains first in the Mughal garden, then in the colonial-style hotel with red shingles. There was something magical about the quality of light in Kashmir.) Because of the new assignment I witnessed the shootings of many films. I was able to understand the connections between light and cinema. I was also able to compare the art of filmmaking with the art of cooking. A dish does not last more than a meal, but a film is for ever. Some people give up eating meat after watching the slaughter of a goat. But no one gives up the movies after witnessing a shooting.
If I were asked to give a collective title to all the films our army was shooting in the hotels, it will be called Masters of Light or Colonel Madhok’s Diary of a Bad Year. There was a scene which involved a man tied with a rope to an iron pillar. A captain shoved a cricket bat up the man’s anus. Light was warm and soft in the room. There was a boy crawling like an infant in a pool of his own shit and urine. There were naked men in the semi-darkness of sparkling Diwali lights. Two or three German shepherds snarled at their privates, men’s penises squirming. In Hotel Nedou I discovered men standing under light so harsh and bright it burned their skin, and a machine kept emitting sounds like ping, ping, ping while giving shocks to the testicles of a Kashmiri tied to a wet mattress. In Hotel Athena I found hair and nipples and electrodes in cold outdoor light. Downstairs, close-up of a detached hand in underexposed light. Blackout. Pigs. Blood. Semen. In Oberoi Palace four male nurses were force-feeding two men in the fading light of the evening. There were tubes stuck up their noses and into their throats. But, I was not looking for men.
Only one person.
Irem.
From the tourist department I got a list of all the hotels in the valley, and finally I visited every single one, but I failed to find her.
Then something else happened. Sahib did not go for his morning walk that day because of light rain. When the rain stopped Sahib stepped out and sat on the bench in the garden. He ordered tea. Through the open kitchen window I observed everything.
The ayah took the tea tray and the daily paper to the garden. I had added ginger in the tea. Normally I would add a clove and crushed cardamom, but that morning I added ginger as well.
Sahib motioned with his hand, as if to say, leave the tray on the bench.
She planted the tray and placed a roll of paper between the tray and Sahib’s crossed legs. He unfolded the Times.
‘Please ask Agha to see m
e.’
She walked to the edge and beckoned the man raking the leaves in the garden. Not far from the yellow pile his transistor radio was playing rag malar. He stopped and literally ran to the bench.
‘Salaam, Sahib.’
‘Agha, how is the garden?’
‘The begonias have bloomed, Sahib, and the faulty fountain nozzle has been repaired, but it is no longer like the old one.’
‘Something more important?’
The gardener’s canvas shoes dropped a cake of mud as he shifted on green, neatly trimmed grass. He kept his eyes downcast.
‘Your son is dead, Agha,’ General Sahib raised his voice. Sahib rarely raised his voice.
The gardener remained still.
‘Do you hear me?’
The gardener still didn’t move.
‘You didn’t even tell?’
Agha held his face between his hands.
‘Show him the paper.’ Sahib turned to the ayah. ‘He can’t read, but he knows the photo.’
Agha studied the front page.
‘Look at your son. Is he in heaven now? Overnight he made you the father of a martyr. Thirty-seven people inside the bus terminal, Agha – all Kashmiris.’
‘My son DEAD, Sahib.’
‘The bus was to leave for Pakistani Kashmir. Fifty-six miles after fifty-six years. Fifty-six wasted years, Agha. And your son plants a bomb. Shabash.’
‘Passenger not hurt, Sahib.’
‘Passenger not hurt, Sahib,’ he mimicked. ‘Two majors, just out of the academy, killed. Finish. Khatam.’
‘Sahib –’
‘From this bench I used to watch your son. Only a few months ago he watered the trees in this garden. But one thing I will not say, I will not say he was misguided. He well knew the consequences.’
The gate opened. The guard posted outside the Raj Bhavan opened it. The nurse from the army hospital entered, and propped her bicycle by the fence. By the time General Sahib looked over his shoulder she had disappeared into the house.
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