Chef. Part 18

'No Problem,' he says.

'This might work,' I say, handing him the bottle of acid I normally use to polish the sink.

'Good,' he says and picks up an old rag and starts work on the nozzle.

His presence makes me uneasy. He keeps muttering poetry while polis.h.i.+ng.

'Now you may leave,' I say.

'No Problem,' he says.

He does not leave.

'Do you have a minute?' he asks.

'It has to be quick,' I say.

'Why did you remove your turban?' he asks.

'Yes,' I say. 'My hair is short now.'

'What will your father say?'

'He is dead, Agha. He is buried in the glacier.'

The gardener stops polis.h.i.+ng.

'Fathers never die,' he says.

I lift my hand to my face. The beard is gone now, my cheeks are smooth. The turban is no longer on my head, but I sense its weight. It was a big part of me and I removed it. I look at my hands. All the muscles of my hands. The pores of my skin. The tips of my thumb and middle finger. The whorls, the roughness, the cuts. My hands are freezing. They start shaking. I strike a match. It doesn't work. Agha helps me light up the stove.

'Do you still have a minute?' he asks.

He has no patience.

'Please be quick,' I say.

'No Problem,' he says.

'Yes, yes, be quick.'

'My son disappeared two days ago.'

'He will come back,' I say.

'No,' he says.

'Did he become a militant?' I ask.

'He simply disappeared.'

'Sorry, I must get back to work.'

The nozzle is s.h.i.+ning now, reflecting Agha's face.

'No Problem,' he says and walks slowly to his old shoes and shuts the door behind him. A cold draft hits my cheeks.

Later in the evening when I am done with the dinner I spot him sitting by the marigolds in the garden, smoking a hookah. His breath stinks of nicotine.

'No Problem,' he says.

He looks more dead than alive.

'What do you mean?' I say. 'Your son.'

'He is gone.'

'No, no. But how do you really feel? Not just about your son, but the situation in Kashmir?'

'Bad things are expected during the turmoil turmoil,' he says. 'Why should the most beautiful place on earth be spared bad things? People are turning mad here. This place is becoming a pagal-khana, a lunatic asylum.'

'Where do you suspect your son is?'

'They should stop stop torturing our boys,' he says. torturing our boys,' he says.

'They?'

'Military,' he says.

'Where?'

'In the hotels,' he says.

'You are a joker, Agha,' I say.

'No Problem,' he says.

His words disturbed me a lot. I found it difficult to cook. Difficult to sleep. It was true. Our army had occupied many hotels in Srinagar. But they were the new residences for our officers and jawans, I had not imagined them as sites of torture. I decided to visit. Part of me wanted to disprove Agha. Barring a few bad apples our army was basically good. The only way it was possible for me to access the hotels was by taking extra initiative. General Sahib was pleased by my proposal, and he granted me the permission to inspect kitchens in all the army-occupied hotels. I became a part-time inspector of kitchens.

Hotel Athena. Hotel Duke. Hotel Nedou. Oberoi Palace. More than thirty-six hotels now belonged to the army. Before inspection, I would read the tourism department's write-up for that particular site, then a special vehicle would take me to the hotel (cycling was no longer safe) and I would arrive unannounced just before meals and taste the food and inspect the kitchen hygiene, and then excuse myself for a few minutes, and during that brief time I would hurriedly check the rooms.

Agha was wrong.

Our army was out shooting films. Everything was being done in the open, there was nothing to hide, the rooms were clean, certain scenes were being shot inside the hotels, others outdoors. Light. The most important ingredient in cinema is light. One needs the right kind of light to screen a film, just like one needs the right kind of light to shoot a film. (I remember, in Grade 3, I watched a film shot in Kashmir. The hero fought the villains first in the Mughal garden, then in the colonial-style hotel with red s.h.i.+ngles. There was something magical about the quality of light in Kashmir.) Because of the new a.s.signment I witnessed the shootings of many films. I was able to understand the connections between light and cinema. I was also able to compare the art of filmmaking with the art of cooking. A dish does not last more than a meal, but a film is for ever. Some people give up eating meat after watching the slaughter of a goat. But no one gives up the movies after witnessing a shooting.

If I were asked to give a collective t.i.tle to all the films our army was shooting in the hotels, it will be called Masters of Light Masters of Light or or Colonel Madhok's Diary of a Bad Year Colonel Madhok's Diary of a Bad Year. There was a scene which involved a man tied with a rope to an iron pillar. A captain shoved a cricket bat up the man's a.n.u.s. Light was warm and soft in the room. There was a boy crawling like an infant in a pool of his own s.h.i.+t and urine. There were naked men in the semi-darkness of sparkling Diwali lights. Two or three German shepherds snarled at their privates, men's p.e.n.i.ses squirming. In Hotel Nedou I discovered men standing under light so harsh and bright it burned their skin, and a machine kept emitting sounds like ping, ping, ping ping, ping, ping while giving shocks to the t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es of a Kashmiri tied to a wet mattress. In Hotel Athena I found hair and nipples and electrodes in cold outdoor light. Downstairs, close-up of a detached hand in underexposed light. Blackout. Pigs. Blood. s.e.m.e.n. In Oberoi Palace four male nurses were force-feeding two men in the fading light of the evening. There were tubes stuck up their noses and into their throats. But, I was not looking for men. while giving shocks to the t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es of a Kashmiri tied to a wet mattress. In Hotel Athena I found hair and nipples and electrodes in cold outdoor light. Downstairs, close-up of a detached hand in underexposed light. Blackout. Pigs. Blood. s.e.m.e.n. In Oberoi Palace four male nurses were force-feeding two men in the fading light of the evening. There were tubes stuck up their noses and into their throats. But, I was not looking for men.

Only one person.

Irem.

From the tourist department I got a list of all the hotels in the valley, and finally I visited every single one, but I failed to find her.

Then something else happened. Sahib did not go for his morning walk that day because of light rain. When the rain stopped Sahib stepped out and sat on the bench in the garden. He ordered tea. Through the open kitchen window I observed everything.

The ayah took the tea tray and the daily paper to the garden. I had added ginger in the tea. Normally I would add a clove and crushed cardamom, but that morning I added ginger as well.

Sahib motioned with his hand, as if to say, leave the tray on the bench.

She planted the tray and placed a roll of paper between the tray and Sahib's crossed legs. He unfolded the Times Times.

'Please ask Agha to see me.'

She walked to the edge and beckoned the man raking the leaves in the garden. Not far from the yellow pile his transistor radio was playing rag malar. He stopped and literally ran to the bench.

'Salaam, Sahib.'

'Agha, how is the garden?'

'The begonias have bloomed, Sahib, and the faulty fountain nozzle has been repaired, but it is no longer like the old one.'

'Something more important?'

The gardener's canvas shoes dropped a cake of mud as he s.h.i.+fted on green, neatly trimmed gra.s.s. He kept his eyes downcast.

'Your son is dead, Agha,' General Sahib raised his voice. Sahib rarely raised his voice.

The gardener remained still.

'Do you hear me?'

The gardener still didn't move.

'You didn't even tell?'

Agha held his face between his hands.

'Show him the paper.' Sahib turned to the ayah. 'He can't read, but he knows the photo.'

Agha studied the front page.

'Look at your son. Is he in heaven now? Overnight he made you the father of a martyr. Thirty-seven people inside the bus terminal, Agha all Kashmiris.'

'My son DEAD, Sahib.'

'The bus was to leave for Pakistani Kashmir. Fifty-six miles after fifty-six years. Fifty-six wasted years, Agha. And your son plants a bomb. Shabash.'

'Pa.s.senger not hurt, Sahib.'

'Pa.s.senger not hurt, Sahib,' he mimicked. 'Two majors, just out of the academy, killed. Finish. Khatam.'

'Sahib '

'From this bench I used to watch your son. Only a few months ago he watered the trees in this garden. But one thing I will not say, I will not say he was misguided. He well knew the consequences.'

The gate opened. The guard posted outside the Raj Bhavan opened it. The nurse from the army hospital entered, and propped her bicycle by the fence. By the time General Sahib looked over his shoulder she had disappeared into the house.

'You were going to lose your pension as well, Agha. But I have urged the colonel to reconsider.'

'No, Sahib?' He stood up.

'Agha, the army fears for my life. We must let you go.'

'But, Sahib, I am not my son.'

The General stood up. He turned and started beckoning the uniforms. The ADC rushed to the bench.

'Talk to Agha.'

Agha would not leave. Two of the guards forced him to pack his things and threw him out. His feet crushed red and yellow leaves on the narrow path he followed.

The General walked to the gate and looked at the bend in the road for a long time until Agha disappeared.

Later he entered the mansion and climbed the stairs over the kitchen and walked slowly through the dimly lit corridor. In the bedroom he sat in a chair not far from the huge painting on the wall. The dead woman looked down at him from the painting.

I served breakfast in the bedroom.

Porridge. Upma. Papaya.

Orange-pomegranate juice.

Toast with unsalted cheese.

His daughter was lying on the bed. Rubiya was on a special diet. The kitchen had to prepare two separate dishes. One for sir and one for the girl. The nurse examined the girl. Sir moved his chair close to Rubiya and checked her pulse.

'What is my daughter's wish?' he asked.

'Papa,' she said. 'I want to grow up fast.'

'And,' he asked, 'what will she she become as a grown-up?' become as a grown-up?'

'Emperor,' she said.

'Emperor or Empress?'

'Emperor,' she said.

'His Highness!' He saluted her.