Jaspreet Singh - Chef

‘Excellent biryani.’

The napkin touches the General’s lips.

Chef shoves the server in, bearing finger bowls. He returns for the dessert tray. Halva. Ashrafi. Jalaybee. Crescents of watermelon, and aloobukharas and peaches and strawberries. The colonel’s wife has become unusually silent. She closes her eyes and breaks out of silence slowly. Not a single Kashmiri fruit can make me forget the taste of a mango, she says.

‘The best way to eat a mango is to suck it,’ says the colonel.

‘Yes, yes,’ says Gen Sahib.

‘Every time I eat a mango I think of Major Iqbal Singh’s Partition story,’ she says. ‘And that Muslim woman who saved his life…’

Memsahib stops talking in mid-sentence.

The two men avoid the subject.

(Father never told me anything about someone saving his life in 1947.)

I look at Chef. Those real Pakistani women can’t even save a dog, he says. Memsahib watches too many films, he whispers.

The three of them are sitting on the sofas again.

‘More dessert for Pakistan?’ asks the General.

‘No,’ she says.

‘ Pakistan must have more?’

‘No, no,’ she says.

General Sahib starts the records.

Time passes.

It passes very quickly, then slows down. Music makes time pass slowly.

How could the woman save my father’s life? I ask myself.

Sahib raises his voice. ‘Kishen,’ he beckons.

Chef dashes in with fennel seeds and tea on tray.

‘Food was all right, Sahib?’ he inquires.

‘Excellent trout and biryani.’

‘Was it Hyderabadi?’

‘A-One Rogan Josh!’

‘Good brinjals!’

‘Local produce?’

‘Many things came from our own vegetable garden, Memsahib.’

‘I have only one complaint,’ she says.

‘Yes, Memsahib?’

She is stirring her tea.

‘Did the knife touch meat? I smelled non-veg in paneer.’

The General stares at Chef.

‘Sorry, Memsahib. If you would allow me, I will check with the trainee cook.’

‘The Sikh chap?’ asks the General.

‘Sir.’

‘Sir, my wife has a sharp nose,’ says the colonel apologetically. He wipes dust off his green regimental blazer.

The General is not looking very happy.

Chef dashes back to the kitchen. He pulls me up by holding my ears and stares at me angrily and drops me on the floor with a thud. I murmur an apology. He shoves me towards the tandoor, parts the curtain, and returns.

‘Separate knives were used, Memsahib,’ he assures her. ‘The trainee says he added mushroom water. The non-wage taste was coming from mushrooms.’

I breathe a sigh of relief.

‘Who is this Sikh in the kitchen?’ asks the colonel’s wife.

‘Major Iqbal’s son,’ says Gen Sahib, hesitating.

‘Our Iqbal’s boy in the kitchen?’

‘Don’t worry. He is on the fast track.’

‘I see,’ she says.

I watch the ayah enter the room with Rubiya. The child is in a pink frock, looks sickly. The ayah forces Rubiya to say good evening, uncle, good evening, aunty. She acts shy. Sahib scolds her not to be shy. Only a minute ago you were going to commit suicide, and now, my sweet pisti, what happened to your tongue? Suddenly the girl says: Colonel, uncle can help me! Uncle can help me! How? Asks Sahib. Uncle is a fat man, says Rubiya. Bad manners, says Sahib. Uncle has thick fingers, he can choke me to suicide. Don’t talk like that, says Sahib.

‘He is fat, uncle is fat.’

‘Sing the National Anthem, Rubiya,’ says ayah. The girl pauses, then does exactly what she has been told. She sings jana gana mana in a baby voice and runs and hides under the table.

Memsahib wants to say something to her husband but changes her mind and turns her gaze towards the curtain. She starts walking towards us. Pakistan is going to invade the kitchen, whispers Chef. He shoves me towards the clay oven and parts the curtains and smiles a fake smile. Memsahib would like to have a word with the trainee.

I lift my hands and fold them to say namasté. My brain fogs up. I bow. She says something in Hindi, I respond in good English. My attention moves from her feet to her ringed finger. She is standing very close to me now, a very tough moment, and Chef doesn’t utter a word, he observes with tiger eyes. Memsahib in her convent accent inquires about my hometown and education and thousand other things, including, if I was really Iqbal Singh’s son, and I feel like talking to her more and more, and I want to ask her about my father’s Partition story, but meanwhile I am liking her feminine presence in the kitchen, and the old vaccine mark on her upper arm. She is wearing a sleeveless blouse, but abruptly she turns, her sari spins like a top, and her high heels start clicking and it hits me hard the sound of her heels clicking as she returns to the drawing room. Before she leaves she says: come see me sometime. Chef scolds me: why did you talk to the memsahib in Inglish? Rubiya is still in the drawing room with the ayah. Memsahib sits next to the motherless girl. She strokes the girl’s ruddy cheek. The girl is the spitting image of the dead woman in the painting. The men are not paying attention to the girl or the memsahib. Sahib is talking, the colonel is listening. Now Sahib is listening, the colonel is talking. Conversation turns to Kashmir. Conversation always turned to Kashmir. The air in the room grows absolutely still.

Colonel: ‘Sir, the way these people live.’

Colonel’s wife: ‘Darling… what do you mean?’

Colonel: ‘If I may say so, sir. Each bloody Kashmiri has a bloody second wife.’

Colonel’s wife: ‘This means there must be twice as many women in Kashmir?’

General: ‘Your wife does have a point.’

Colonel: ‘No, sir. The brides come to Kashmir from bloody Bangladesh. And they bring along bloody men from bloody Islam, who are in touch with militants in Afghanistan and Pakistan, and they have occupied the bloody mosques, sir. They want bloody azadi, sir.’

Colonel’s wife: ‘The girl! Rubiya is listening.’

Her husband stands up abruptly and walks to the window.

Colonel: ‘Outside it is very dark, sir. Array baytah! You sing soooo well. You are a big girl now – If I may say so, sir, the way the bloody bastards think -’

Colonel’s wife: ‘Shhh! The girl.’

Colonel: ‘Sir, I love my India, sir… Array baytah! What will you become when you grow really big? Tell me?’

Rubiya: ‘Suicide.’

Colonel: ‘Jokes apart, baytah. What will you really do?’

Rubiya: ‘Go to Amay-ree-ka.’

Colonel’s wife: ‘Why so?’

Rubiya: ‘Papa says so.’

Colonel: ‘ America is an astonishing country, sir. The doctor’s daughter studies there at NYU. She loves it.’

Colonel’s wife: ‘Let’s leave. We all love a good night’s sleep. Don’t we, darling?’

She giggles.

Colonel: ‘Let me tell General sir one last thing, darling. I have found the perfect solution to deal with Pakistan, sir! Now that we’ve the N-weapon, it is very simple… I shared my idea with Mr. Ghosh, sir, but he didn’t seem to get it… Few nights ago, sir, I woke on my bed thinking the idea. Why don’t we – and I am just thinking, sir – why not drill a hole in the glacier, bury the bomb inside, the way we do it in the desert sands, sir, and blow it up? The glacier would melt and millions and billions of liters of water will flow to their side and flood our enemy out of existence, sir?’

General: ‘But, colonel. The enemy too has an N-weapon.’

Colonel: ‘We’ll do it first, sir.’

Colonel’s wife: ‘Darling, you and your ideas.’

‘Please allow us, sir, to take our leave.’

‘It was a delight.’

‘Delighted, sir.’

‘Good night.’