Jaspreet Singh - Chef

Two days before the banquet, a curfew was imposed on the city because of militant violence. Bombs and IE devices exploded in downtown. I needed prawns and fish and ingredients for cioppino – the Italian soup – and many other things. Bina was nervous, but the captain who escorted me into the city told her not to worry. He ordered the pilot jeep to accompany the Governor’s black car, in which I sat on the front seat, and my two assistants sat on the back, and two military trucks moved ahead of the car and two moved behind, and a windowless armored vehicle raced on the side, and that is how I went to the bazaar to shop for the banquet. The shops were closed because of the curfew, so we knocked and woke up the shopkeepers one by one, and I told them not to worry because we meant no harm, and if they refused to charge I paid them anyway.

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 ambassador and his black secretary and the chief of the World Bank. Business tycoons. 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, 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 glass cabinet in the drawing room. General Sahib pointed at the famous photo from the ’71 India-Pakistan 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 documents.

‘I was present during the surrender, sir,’ said General Kumar Sahib. ‘Gen Niazi looked absolutely humiliated.’

‘Kumar 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 glass cabinet and the pistol passed through several hands.

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

‘But we know the reliable way to contain 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. Bloody bastard, I said. The dessert is still not ready. Bina was a bit worried about my ability to tackle Italian desserts, but I reassured 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 blowjob. After some time he spread his semen on her fair skin and milk-white breasts. 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 whore, 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. At that point I could not ask for anything better.