Jaspreet Singh - Chef

‘I am sorry,’ I said.

‘No, I am sorry,’ she said, ‘and I have no tea to offer you.’

I did not know whether to stay or leave.

From her window that huge mass of snow and ice was faintly visible on the distant mountains, and I took a few steps to the window and looked at that thing for a long time.

What is a thing called a glacier? I asked myself. Layer over layer of ice. Snow from hundreds of years ago. Peel this one and then peel that one. Endless, limitless, thankless work. It cuts one’s fingers. Endless, limitless, thankless work. The glacier deceived people, it didn’t even reveal its actual size or intentions or the number of layers. No, it was not. The glacier was not a thing of beauty. It was one big white onion. It brought tears to one’s eyes. Useless tears, I say to myself. The saddest thing about those tears was that they were absolutely useless.

She tapped on my shoulder, and when I turned she hugged me, and said: Now go.

I left the Rogan Josh next to the vase on the table. Under the table there were three miniature battle tanks. They glared at me. I’d not noticed them earlier. Centurions: manufactured in England. Now go, she insisted. Without a proper namasté I stepped out towards the Officers’ Block. It was getting dark and chilly and I passed lots of jeeps and black cars parked on both sides of the road. I made it exactly twenty minutes before rum at the Alpha Officers’ Mess.

The Mess was bright both inside and outside. The lawn was lit up with floodlights. The flowers that lined the lawn were red and yellow and purple, and they were the size of footballs. We lined up outside on the lawn. The gardener Agha, the water carrier, the sweeper, the orderlies – the entire staff that worked at Sahib’s residence.

There were two empty chairs on the lawn, and behind those chairs the little girl Rubiya appeared: ‘Daddy, the men are here!’

But as soon as she said that the girl ran away as if afraid of us.

Then all of a sudden I heard confident footsteps pounding on the pebbled path. General Sahib stepped out in his dashing civilian clothes, wearing an impressive tie. He walked up close to the line, shaking our hands one by one.

‘Stand at ease,’ said the colonel of the regiment.

It was the second time I stood next to General Sahib face to face, and I did not know how to conduct myself in front of him. I stood to attention the way my father used to in the photos. The General looked at me with piercing eyes.

‘The army is proud of your father.’

‘Sir.’

He patted my back.

‘You know, Kirpal, Major Iqbal did all the work and I got the baton.’

I did not know what to make of it.

Then the General laughed.

I still recall the fine cut of his dark blue jacket and the red and blue regimental tie. Sahib was around forty-nine then, that day we had rum, and he did not change much as long as I knew him. I remember he had a large collection of ties. The width of his ties changed according to the fashion of the year. Narrow. Broad. Narrow again. His neck was long and his face sharp and clean-shaven.

‘We are impressed by your exemplary work,’ he said.

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘The colonel has recommended you for a promotion, Kirpal.’

‘Sir.’

‘Now you are only one rank short of an officer.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Let us drink to that.’

We clinked our rum glasses. I looked at General Sahib in the eye.

‘You are very handsome, my boy,’ said the General.

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Beautiful. Just like a woman, sir,’ said the ADC from far away.

‘Are you happy?’ said the General.

‘Sir, is it possible to go on a three-day casual leave, sir?’

‘When?’

‘First week of July, sir.’

‘Delhi?’

‘No, sir. Glacier, sir.’

‘I understand, Kirpal. Your father…’

Then he turned to the colonel: ‘Send Kip on some duty to the glacier. Is there a vehicle going?’

‘I will look into that, sir. But, for now the situation is unstable.’

The General turned and saw Colonel Chowdhry’s wife enter the Officers’ Mess. The other officers’ wives were already inside the dance hall, waiting. Particles of talcum powder kept floating towards us on the lawn. The light in that room was faint and weak and before the colonel’s wife stepped inside she smiled at me from a distance.

‘What is going on?’ exclaimed the General. ‘ Pakistan is inside, and India is outside! This is unfair!’

The officers laughed. Loud music could be heard.

‘Very unfair, sir. The gentlemen are outside, and the ladies are inside.’

‘Unfair,’ repeated the General.

‘Start the party, sir?’

‘Yes. Yes,’ he said to them.

‘Jai Hind,’ he said to us.

‘Jai Hind, sir.’ We clicked our heels.

The General saluted and hurried towards the dance hall. Other ranks followed him.

I returned to my room after a long walk along the river. Only once I felt the need to splash my face with water. It was ice cold.

If you want something, my mother had told me when I was a boy, you say no and then say no again and the third time you say Okay, a little. She was talking about food when it is offered at some other person’s house. Our guests had offered us the betel leaf cone, and I said no, then no again, and I was ready to say Okay, a little but the hosts didn’t offer the paan the third time. At home I screamed at the top of my voice. I want that betel nut thing now, right now. Neighbors gathered around our house, probed my parents why they were torturing me. Next time you want something, said my father, grab it.

The nurse, I just learned, was not up for grabs. Memsahib was, but I was afraid of her, and of the colonel. I was afraid of losing my fingers. Ideally, I wanted to become a vegetable. The vegetables were not afraid of anything. The carrots were fucking the earth. The carrots and onions were having better sex than me. Zucchini made scandalous love to paneer, mushrooms, garlic and tomatoes. Basil coated the deep interiors of fully swollen pasta, with names sexier than shapes. R-i-g-a-t-o-n-i! F-u-s-i-l-l-i! C-o-n-c-h-i-g-l-i-e! Gulmarg salad licked walnut chutney in public. Even brinjal (that humble eggplant), swimming in a pot of morkozhambu, insisted on having more pleasure than me.

Patience, Kip.

How impatient we people are in this country. Yet how patient we are when it comes to food. We wait for a long time to get it right, I say to myself on the window seat. I wanted to speed things up, force them into bending my way, and the result was a disaster. I seem to have no talent for forcing things my way.

I stopped using the cycle. I would go to the bazaar to buy vegetables on military transport. Sometimes when the curfew was in place the ADC would arrange a jeep. One morning I found that the General’s staff car was taking the black dog to the vet, and I requested the driver to give me a lift. The dog was in great pain, eyes running. Sitting in the car, I found it difficult to endure the animal’s whine. What is it? I asked. The orderly and the driver did not know for sure. No idea, Major. Just doing our duty, Major. The dog stank of a strange disease.

They dropped me in the bazaar, and took the road to the vet’s clinic. The bazaar was crowded and dusty and noisy as usual. Sad and miserable people milled around in colorful robes. I bought fresh herbs and fish and vegetables and fruit. For several hours I waited in the street, elbow to elbow, but the car did not return. Fortunately, there was a military transport parked close by, and the driver, an acquaintance of mine, gave me a lift.

On the way just outside the Mughal garden the nurse was standing at the bus stop. The driver slowed down.