Part 3 (2/2)

'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 s.h.i.+rt, the b.u.t.tons 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 embarra.s.sed.

'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 gla.s.s 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 pa.s.sages 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 gla.s.ses. 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 precision and and estimation estimation. Then he wiped his hands on my ap.r.o.n. 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 ta.s.sels 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 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 att.i.tude. 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 compa.s.sion. 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.

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