Part 12 (1/2)

Her Kashmiri had a strong Muslim inflection. (The Kashmiri I had learned sounded more like the Kashmiri of pundits.) 'Why?' I asked.

Her eyes were red. She pulled Chef's journal from her blanket. I walked to the head of the bed, and grabbed it from her.

'Did you read?' I was angry at her.

'The person who wrote this,' she said, 'is sometimes very angry and sometimes extremely happy.'

'The journal is written in Hindi.' I raised my voice. 'You lied yesterday. You know Hindi.'

She looked afraid as I uttered those words, raising my voice.

'No, Saheb,' she said.

'You Pakistanis cannot be trusted,' I said.

'I never attended school, Saheb,' she said.

'What does that mean?'

'I cannot read and write, Saheb.'

'Do not call me sahib,' I said. 'Just answer me. If you did not read it, then how can you say that he was sometimes angry and happy?'

'The pen moves fast, then sometimes slow. One can tell,' she said.

Her speech was almost inaudible, and she spoke very slowly. Her words, like a damaged ca.s.sette in the tape recorder. This angered me, but I continued to let her speak.

'You do not need to know the language, Saheb, to figure out if the writer of words is angry, sad, or happy.'

'Good,' I said. 'You are illiterate.'

She could not read and write and this made me happy. Her face was intelligent, but she could not read from left to right or right to left and this made me happy. She had no access to Kishen's intimate thoughts. But as I was walking back to the General's kitchen I felt sad that so many people in our land and in the land of our enemy cannot even read and write. I felt pity for her. She was a smart woman but really she was leading the life of a donkey.

She had not touched the tray of food next to her bed. On the wall behind her there were more crawling insects than last time.

'The food, Saheb,' she said, 'is not fit for humans.'

Then. I do not know what made me say: 'I will make sure that you eat well. I will make sure you find out the meaning of real Indian hospitality.'

The opportunity to prepare her a proper meal arrived very soon. General Sahib flew to Delhi to meet the COAS, the Chief of Army Staff; and the doctor was away on Internal Security duty. I persuaded the nurse to unlock the doctor's room in the hospital. The room had a beautiful view of distant mountains. They looked completely blue, the Pir Panjals, casting no shadow. Things that are far away always look blue for some unknown reason. Blue is the color of our past. Blue is the color of our wretched past, I say to myself.

It was not my finest accomplishment, but I did my best to feed the 'enemy woman'. I cooked in the General's kitchen, and served her in the doctor's room in the hospital with the nurse present. I do not understand why she still is the 'enemy woman'. To this day, sometimes the phrase slips out of my mouth.

Her name was Irem.

She removed her shoes before stepping on the thick carpet in the doctor's room. Like most Kashmiris she gave the carpet the respect it deserved. The nurse on the other hand kept her dirty shoes on, and I remember the condescending look she gave her patient. There was an open-air cinema not far from the hospital, and most of the staff and guards and non-critical patients were watching a Bombay film there. So the hospital was half empty. The nurse had a shot of rum, and for Irem I made lemonade, and watched from the window.

Music from the open-air cinema wafted into the room. The song playing was about the fickle anger of beautiful women. Irem hesitated to sit on the sofa. So she sat on the carpet, her gaze fixed on the patterns of spiders, lizards, and scorpions embroidered on the beautiful carpet. The colors of the carpet came from vegetable dyes made of roots and berries. The green and indigo and red, although a bit faded, drew me towards them.

The nurse started talking to me in English. I am sleep starved, she said. As if she was the only one who didn't get to sleep. Irem felt increasingly uncomfortable in the room, I could tell. She held her gla.s.s as if it was the only thing that could comfort her. Terror was loose in her eyes still. It seemed to me that her lips were moving slightly. There was a cut on her upper lip. She wiped away the condensation with her hand and rolled the lemonade gla.s.s the way Buddhists roll prayer wheels in Ladakh.

The nurse stared at her, and the patient started staring at the wall.

There is a photo on the wall.

Irem rises to her feet, and without paying attention to us walks slowly towards the wall and stands before the big black and white photo.

There are five or six women in Islamic garments standing on a sheer cliff. Only their backs are visible. Two or three are praying; one is looking at the immense sky, another is surveying the valley below the poplars, the willows, the plane trees, the fruit orchards, the lake, and the timber-framed houses. Another stands barefoot, her arms uplifted, palms open in prayer. A ribbon of a cloud is pa.s.sing by, and it is unclear if the cloud is touching her palm or the folds of the mountain.

It's strange, I am looking at Irem's back and she is looking at the women in the photo. Perhaps there are more than six women. The tall one is hiding the short one, and they are all standing on a cliff. Irem moves slightly to her right; now I see more clearly. At the bottom left corner, a lonely shoe. One small push and it would fall into the valley.

Slowly Irem is becoming a part of that work of art. I do not feel like disturbing. But my breath is becoming heavy.

The nurse begins tapping her feet.

'Irem ji,' I say, switching to Kashmiri, 'I have cooked Rogan Josh for dinner. Halal for you. Non-halal for us.'

No response.

So I start telling her about the recipe I had followed, and then I recall at precisely that moment she turned and muttered something. I ask her to repeat it, and she says: One never uses tomatoes in Rogan Josh.

The nurse asks me to translate.

No tomatoes in Rogan Josh.

This makes her laugh. She laughs at me, the nurse. The enemy doesn't laugh.

'How is that possible?' I say. 'A dish without tomatoes is like a film without sound.'

'No tomatoes,' says Irem.

'Irem ji, please write down your your recipe of Rogan Josh for me.' recipe of Rogan Josh for me.'

But as soon as I open my mouth, I realize my mistake.

'I am sorry. You cannot write.'

The nurse stares at us.

'But, why is the Rogan Josh so red? If there are no tomatoes then why is it red?'

Irem remains silent.

'Tell me,' I insist. 'Please.'

'The color comes from the mirchi.'

'But why is the dish so intensely red?'

'Redness comes from the Kashmiri chilies,' she says. 'And mawal flowers.'