Jaspreet Singh - Chef

The day I discovered I had cancer something happened to my hands. They looked exactly the same, the same shape, but I tore a chapatti a little differently, and I picked up fruits from the bowl differently, gazed at them a little longer than I used to. Even the glass of water didn’t get lifted the usual way. It appeared as if time had expanded and was distorting into patterns I didn’t know. I felt the heat of a spoon, its coldness. I became that coldness.

Before he left by bus to the glacier, Kishen asked me to take care of the nurse in the hospital. How was I to take care of her? She had already said no to my advances, and I felt humiliated. But our next meeting was inevitable. Eight days after Chef’s departure I noticed a dense fog building up outside. Standing by the window, peeling an onion, I felt an immense need to see her. It was as if a garden had grown inside me. I ordered my assistant to take over, and walked down the hill to the hospital.

Once it was a mosque and the hospital now had a green dome. It was a modest but magical-looking place. When I arrived she was busy in the ward, and asked me to wait outside in the hall.

There I waited half an hour, my gaze fixed on the floor. The black and white square tiles looked freshly mopped, not a single particle of dust on them. At last she emerged. Along came the smell of penicillin and talcum powder. Afternoon, I said. She seized my arm. A current passed through me.

‘Can you visit me this evening?’

‘Your home?’ I asked.

She nodded.

‘Right now I am in a hurry,’ she said.

There was a small mole on the left side of her nose as if a seed of black cardamom. I felt like touching the mole, but there was no time. A patient cried sister, sister. The nurse consulted her wristwatch. Well, she said. Later, I said, and we began walking in opposite directions.

The Rogan Josh I prepared that day was one of my best. My assistant asked many questions about origins and authenticity and I found myself responding like Chef Kishen. Major, this tastes of heaven, he said. Good, I said. Now you take your break. Watching him disappear through the kitchen door I thought of a boat I had seen in the Dal Lake – it was called heevan. The painter had misspelled ‘heaven’ as ‘heevan’ and for a brief second I felt as if God had misspelled my fate in more or less the same way. I have a great talent to ruin things when they start shaping up. But that day, when the fog lifted, I was on top of the world, and dark thoughts could not win the tug of war. General Sahib was not supposed to eat at home in the evening. He was to dine at the Alpha Officers’ Mess with commissioned officers and their wives. It was my day off. I was ready to transfer the lamb to the tiffin-carrier when Sahib’s ADC made an entry, parting the curtains.

‘Kip, who are you cooking the Rogan Josh for?’

‘Oh,’ I said cautiously, ‘for tomorrow, sir.’

‘Sahib prefers fresh food.’

‘My mistake, sir. It will not happen again.’

Then he was unusually nice to me.

‘Sahib often praises your preparations. The subzi you made a few days ago was most karari, and piyaz with fish tikka were exemplary. Shabash! Well done!’ he said, and patted me on the back.

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Also,’ he said, ‘I am very impressed you are bringing knowledge from other officers’ kitchens to Gen Sahib’s residence.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

He was the first officer (and dancer) to have stepped in the kitchen, ever, in my presence. His rank was that of a captain.

‘Kip,’ he said, ‘this evening the General would like to reward you and other staff members, too, for all the good work and for maintaining highest standards.’

‘Sir.’

‘Before the function begins this evening in the Officers’ Mess, General Kumar will have rum with the entire staff on the lawns of the Mess.’

‘Rum, sir?’

‘Everyone must attend. Seventeen-twenty hours, sharp. Understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Now make me a quick nimbu-pani.’

Rum with the General on the lawns of the Officers’ Mess was a rare honor for us, the staff members. I was doubly excited. But this new development cut into the time I could spend at the nurse’s quarter. I did not want to hurry her. I did not want to talk about work at all, or brag about the rare honor I was about to receive from Sahib.

Evening came and I polished my shoes and took longer than usual to tie my turban in front of the mirror. I wore my blue shirt and black pants and felt slightly uncomfortable because the clothes were just like new. She lived not far from the Dal Lake. On the way to her house I kept thinking about how my body felt in my clothes. I kept delaying. At the side of the lake, I looked at the water, the waves, and for a brief moment sat on a rock and when I turned I noticed a man fishing. Salaam, he said, and I recall my response was extremely slow.

‘What fish are you looking for?’

‘Trout,’ he said.

It occurred to me that he had been sitting there for a long time. There were no fish in his bucket. Not far from him I saw half-open blue irises and I plucked one. I had forgotten to bring along a proper gift, other than Rogan Josh and garlic naan in the tiffin carrier.

I stood before her door. The curtain was made of beads. When she appeared I did not know how to greet, so I simply apologized for being late. Then she also apologized. She too had been late. For a moment, she said, I thought you came here, and not finding me in, you left. It is not cool to be late, she said.

Inside, she grabbed my arm again. Sorry, she said. I am not going to offer you tea or snacks, but there is something ‘you must know.’

‘Please don’t tell it right away,’ I said. ‘I already know what you are trying to say.’

She installed my flower in the vase.

Something made me wipe the crumb of bread from her kameez. Kishen treats you just like his son, she said. I nodded. It is true, I said. I agree whole-heartedly. Do you know he keeps a journal?

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He mentioned it to me once.’

‘Not everyone knows.’

‘Did you ever read it?’ she asked in Hindi.

‘No, but two days before he left Chef woke me up in the middle of the night. He was scribbling something. What is your best experience with food, Kip? His voice was very disturbed. I rubbed my eyes. Why wake me up at this insane hour? Tell me, he said. First you tell, I insisted. The best meal I ever had was at a dhaba in Amritsar. Me too, I lied. I don’t know why I lied. The dhaba food was not even half as good as the dal-roti at the Golden Temple. His gaze settled on me for a long time before it turned absolutely cold and he started jotting again in the journal and I went back to sleep. In my dream I saw a plate and a bowl, both made out of miniature fig leaves. The leaves were stitched together with toothpicks.’

Telling her about the dream made me feel better. But her mind was elsewhere. She kept looking at the vase on the table. The dots on the vase were almost the same size as her mole. ‘I want to tell you something,’ she said.

‘Later,’ I said. ‘Gen Sahib is going to honor me this evening in the Officers’ Mess. How proud Kishen will be when he gets to hear it! Often I hear an echo of his voice: Cook without fear of failure, Kip. But, you must never fail.’

‘I do not know how to tell you this, but I must,’ she said. ‘I know Kishen has not shared this with you, and that is why I must. We are not married, but we are like husband and wife.’

‘You are like what?’

‘Husband and wife, you know what I mean?’

‘Yes, yes,’ I said.

‘That is why,’ she said, ‘it is not good when I see you giving me that look. I have sensed it in your eyes many times and I would like to tell you that it is not right.’