Part 7 (1/2)

'And yet, in the end,' said Chef, 'no matter how hard we try we are low-caste peoples and we do not matter. Army belongs to officers, Kirpal. I am worthless. I feed them, serve them, take ardors ardors. I endure the heat of the tandoor, and then I am let go, or I leave on my own. My life has come to nothing. My work has come to nothing. What will I do there on the glacier? They eat canned food on high alt.i.tudes. We are the people who do not matter. Bleedy b.a.s.t.a.r.ds Bleedy b.a.s.t.a.r.ds,' he said.

This was one of the few English words he knew. He said it in a thick accent. 'What is the meaning of ''bleedy b.a.s.t.a.r.ds'', Kip?' I told him the meaning, and he confessed that all along he had imagined it to be the equivalent of bhaen-chod bhaen-chod or or ma-dar-chod ma-dar-chod.

We are the people who do not matter, he said. b.l.o.o.d.y b.a.s.t.a.r.ds.

There was a single tortellini left on his otherwise polished plate. He picked it up with his thumb and first finger.

'Kip, this thing reminds me of a woman's belly b.u.t.ton.'

'A woman's what, sir?'

'Navel.'

'I wouldn't know, sir.'

'Here,' he said. 'Hold it.'

I held the tortellini in my left hand for a brief second and touched it with the first finger of my right, and surveyed the curious irregular shape. Then I turned it and turned it again and without hesitation put it in my mouth.

'Congratulations, Chef!' he said.

Next day Kishen took the bus to the glacier.

Two.

11.

So many things begin with an egg. Your tumor looks like an egg, said the doctor. Three months to a year, he said with alarming precision. Surgery might help. Chemical therapy is torture, but it might prolong your life.

Doctor, I can't afford the treatment, I told him. Just tell me what I am in for. Expect a few changes, he said. You are a cook, isn't it? Cancer is an illness that cooks the innards of the body. It spreads from organ to organ eating itself, sometimes slowly, sometimes quickly. Time will come when you will not be able to hold a spoon or a pen. You will lose feeling on one side of your face. You will lose your hair, words, memories. Time will e-vap-o-rate. s.p.a.ce will con-den-se. Your nose will not be able to tell the difference between kara parshad and pizza. Appet.i.te for food and s.e.x will wither. Just like everything else, he said, food and s.e.x reside in the brain. You will repeat yourself. You will confuse thoughts and words. You will try to say one thing but something else will come out of your mouth. You will speak your own language like a foreigner. Foreign words and accents will roll out of your mouth. People will get the wrong impression that you are trying very hard to become an Englishman or a Yankee. You will grow angry at yourself, but you will be more angry at others. You will use lots of foul, obscene words. Galis.

He sounded like a fortune-teller.

's.h.i.+t,' I said.

'Certain things can at best be delayed. But,' he said, 'don't give up hope.'

'Does my cancer really look like . . .'

'Do not worry. Right now it is the size of a pinhead. Here.' He pointed at the CAT scan the way palmists point at lines on one's hands. Looking at that shape I felt dizzy and my head started cracking and throbbing and pounding and that was the precise moment when my transformation began, my dying.

So many things begin with an egg, I say to myself.

The train is roaring over a bridge. I feel dizzy on the window seat. India keeps pa.s.sing by. The melancholy villages keep pa.s.sing by. How much I like these villages, and how much I am repelled by my fellow pa.s.sengers. Civilians. We are racing at an alarming speed. The old engine is suddenly trying to make up for the lost time.

I will miss the bus to the mountains if the train fails to cover time cover time.

There is one thing the doctor said which keeps coming to me. Cells, Kirpal. Our bodies, you see, are made of cells at the most fundamental level fundamental level, he said. Cells are constantly taking birth and dying inside us. Every cell knows when to kill itself. But cancer cells refuse to do so, they keep giving birth to more and more cells, and refuse to die themselves. People with cancer die, Kirpal, because at the fundamental level their bodies start craving immortality.

On this train I feel like a man who has already expired. Unable to endure so many civilians. I don't desire to be immortal. Old pa.s.sengers leave, new ones occupy the seats. They are all the same, no difference, and I am ashamed of them, all of them. The more I witness their lives the more ashamed I feel. Ashamed of my country. Is it for them my father died? Did we lose so many of our men in the army for such useless people?

Eight people on my left are speaking at the same time, they are inebriated and discussing plans to immigrate to America; another group across the aisle prefers Australia. I have decided not to speak to them at all. If I tell them about my time in the army they will say: 'We would like to hear stories about the heroism of our soldiers.' These people think war is TV.

Not far from me a man and his wife are sitting. It seems they have gone without sleep for nights. He is bald and she is on the plump side. They are a slightly older couple than the honeymooning pair I encountered last night. Not a word has been exchanged between us. But they are horrible. I had to endure them when the train stopped unexpectedly an hour ago.

When we came to a halt, the man lifted the window shutter and tapped on the wife's shoulder.

'I am stepping down,' he said.

'It is a small station,' she said.

'Forty minutes halt.'

'Who told you?'

He did not respond.

'Don't go far away.'

He wiped his s.h.i.+rt with his hand, and walked past other pa.s.sengers, and stood by the open door. It was early in the morning, but already very hot. On the left end of the station there was a pile of dismantled army vehicles and a badly damaged MIG-21 fighter plane, with only one wing.

The platform was animated with civilians and stray dogs and white foreigners in Indian dress. Cows were chewing on the garbage inside the bins and outside the bins. The man succeeded in making eye contact with his wife from the platform. She smiled and beckoned him towards her window.

'What station is this?' she asked loudly. He moved very close to the shutter of her window and leaned against the horizontal bars.

'There,' he said, pointing his finger. 'I can't read the sign properly.'

He stood there sweating, and a long time pa.s.sed before another word was exchanged. He unb.u.t.toned his s.h.i.+rt and touched his bald head.

'It is hot,' she said. 'Where is your hat?'

'I am fine. Just fine.'

The girl selling tea and pakoras stopped before the man. She looked like a gypsy. The man ordered.

The girl produced two teas in earthen cones.

'Should we get a plate of pakoras as well?' the man asked.

His wife didn't respond.

The silences were not awkward. I think this is how all married people eventually become.

The gypsy girl looked at the wife while the man transferred a cone of chai through the window. The wife returned the gaze. There were blisters on the girl's feet, red dots in the middle, and red circles around them. She wore bangles all the way from wrists to shoulders, they chimed when she lifted her arms.