Part 11 (2/2)

'No idea, sir.'

'Guess?'

'To make it go slower, sir?'

'Faster.'

'Sir is joking.'

'I do not joke, Kip.'

'Sir.'

'Colonel Sahib phoned me. He reported this morning's proceedings at the hospital.'

'Sir.'

'Good job.'

'Thankyousir.'

'Now is your chance to pick up your second rank, and maybe a medal.'

'Sir.'

'Understand me?'

'Not exactly, sir.'

'Find out everything about that enemy woman.'

'How, sir?'

'You are a smart chap.'

'It is an unusual a.s.signment, sir.'

'Delicate a.s.signment, Kirpal.'

'Certainly, sir.'

'Certainly.'

'Sir, if I may, when will I go to the glacier?'

'Things are shaping up. I'll look into this personally. And, Kip '

'Sir?'

'Everything must remain confidential.'

'Sir.'

'What did we talk about?'

'b.a.l.l.s, sir.'

'Dismiss.'

He narrowed his eyes and hit the ball with his club and I clicked my heels. On the way to my room I thought about all the b.a.l.l.s that get lost from the golf course. How many lost golf b.a.l.l.s belonged to the army? I wondered. If dimples allowed the b.a.l.l.s to go faster, was there a way to make them go slower? Suddenly I started thinking about fast fast and and slow slow. Fast and slow in cooking. Fast and slow in the kitchen. This is exactly what we were trying to do in the kitchen.

17.

Men in the barracks already knew more about her than I did. She had crossed the river from the enemy side to our camp. One version said she was a suicide bomber, and that her target was schoolchildren. Another version was that she worked for ISI, the enemy spy agency. A third version claimed that she had come to incite the youth of Kashmir to become militants.

I returned the next day. She was wearing a loose pheran, and a third of her body was thickly bandaged. Her head was covered by a scarf. She looked beautiful even in sickness.

'There is a cut on your foot,' I said. 'Why is it not bandaged?'

She stirred her feet as if to say, I know. She withdrew her feet into the blanket as if they were little rats.

'Who did it?'

She did not say anything, so I turned and walked towards the window.

Outside, the troops were marching in the parade ground and the air was dusty.

'In Pakistan you people eat dogs,' I said.

Dust was rising on the road outside. The troops: one-two, one-two, one-two one-two, one-two, one-two.

'You people eat dogs,' I said loudly.

'No,' she said.

I turned.

Her gaze was fixed on the floor.

'You eat chicken feet . . . snakes . . . lizards . . . you crave . . .'

Chef Kishen had written that the enemy ate cows and buffaloes, and the most repulsive dish on their tables was made by slow cooking a young bull's t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es.

'I know why you are here,' she broke her silence.

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