Part 17 (2/2)

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 amba.s.sador and his black secretary and the chief of the World Bank. Business tyc.o.o.ns. 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 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 gla.s.s cabinet in the drawing room. General Sahib pointed at the famous photo from the '71 IndiaPakistan 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 doc.u.ments.

'I was present during the surrender, sir,' said General k.u.mar Sahib. 'Gen Niazi looked absolutely humiliated.'

'k.u.mar 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 gla.s.s cabinet and the pistol pa.s.sed through several hands.

Holding the pistol, the PM said: 'Wherever they they are there is trouble.' are there is trouble.'

'But we know the reliable way to contain them 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. b.l.o.o.d.y b.a.s.t.a.r.d, I said. The dessert is still not ready. Bina was a bit worried about my ability to tackle Italian desserts, but I rea.s.sured 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 b.l.o.w.j.o.b. After some time he spread his s.e.m.e.n on her fair skin and milk-white b.r.e.a.s.t.s. 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 wh.o.r.e, 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 people. At that point I could not ask for anything better.

23.

I am such a pea.

I don't like mutters 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. Compa.s.sion 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 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. 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 brainwas.h.i.+ng 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.

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