Chef. Part 11

'Shahbash,' said the colonel.

He beckoned me inside.

The officers, in proper uniforms and black boots, looked at me in relief as if I had just saved them. The captive lay on the bed. He was a she. The first enemy I ever saw was a she, and already I had apologized to her moments ago on two counts. The first thing I noticed was the unconscious movement of her head. Rapid breathing. Terror in eyes. Peasant feet. The toe ring gleamed in flourescent light. There was a cut on the left foot.

The colonel asked me to occupy the chair next to the enemy's bed. I took a deep breath, then the interrogation began. It was my first time as an interpreter. I asked the questions slowly, she stammered her responses. I do not recall the many unintelligible things she brought to her lips. But the essence has stayed with me.

Name?

Nav?

Irem.

Father's name?

Moul sund nav?

Maqbool b.u.t.t.

Citizenship?

Shehriyat?

Kashmiri.

Colonel: Ask again.

Citizenship?

Shehriyat?

Kashmiri.

Married?

Khander karith?

Awaa.

Yes.

Husband's name?

Khandaraas nav?

Raza Nomani.

Any issues?

Kahn mushkil?

Khandras manz che mushkilat aasani . . .

She says, sir, all marriages have problems.

No, what we mean is, does she have children?

Bacchi chhoi kanh?

Na.

No issues, sir.

There was a pause.

Mrs Irem, why are you in India?

Irem, tse kyazi koruth border cross?

Khooda yi chhum guanha sazaa.

She says, G.o.d is punishing her for sins.

The enemy woman started breathing more heavily. The colonel muttered something. She was gasping for breath. The nurse offered her a gla.s.s of water. But.

The woman fainted.

The doctor held her wrist for a few seconds, then let it go.

In that entire ward (especially on her bed) my eyes could not locate Chef's red journal. Small insects were climbing up the wall by her bed. I antic.i.p.ated a trial, a long court martial, at least an inquiry. Empty-handed I returned to the General's kitchen, and my spine shivered with panic when the ADC phoned me: 'General Sahib would like to see you, Kirpal. Report right before golf. Fifteen-thirty hours.'

With great anxiety I walked to the golf course. I had committed a serious crime. But the General looked in a beautiful mood. He was dressed in civilian clothes. He asked other officers to leave us alone. He was holding an expensive golf stick, and he picked up a white ball.

'You see this, Kirpal.'

'Golf ball, sir?'

'Good.'

'Sir.'

'You see the dimples, Kirpal?'

'See them, sir.'

'Why is the ball dimpled?'

'No idea, sir.'

'Guess?'

'To make it go slower, sir?'

'Faster.'

'Sir is joking.'

'I do not joke, Kip.'

'Sir.'

'Colonel Sahib phoned me. He reported this morning's proceedings at the hospital.'

'Sir.'

'Good job.'

'Thankyousir.'

'Now is your chance to pick up your second rank, and maybe a medal.'

'Sir.'

'Understand me?'

'Not exactly, sir.'

'Find out everything about that enemy woman.'

'How, sir?'

'You are a smart chap.'

'It is an unusual a.s.signment, sir.'

'Delicate a.s.signment, Kirpal.'

'Certainly, sir.'

'Certainly.'

'Sir, if I may, when will I go to the glacier?'

'Things are shaping up. I'll look into this personally. And, Kip '

'Sir?'

'Everything must remain confidential.'

'Sir.'

'What did we talk about?'

'b.a.l.l.s, sir.'

'Dismiss.'

He narrowed his eyes and hit the ball with his club and I clicked my heels. On the way to my room I thought about all the b.a.l.l.s that get lost from the golf course. How many lost golf b.a.l.l.s belonged to the army? I wondered. If dimples allowed the b.a.l.l.s to go faster, was there a way to make them go slower? Suddenly I started thinking about fast fast and and slow slow. Fast and slow in cooking. Fast and slow in the kitchen. This is exactly what we were trying to do in the kitchen.

17.

Men in the barracks already knew more about her than I did. She had crossed the river from the enemy side to our camp. One version said she was a suicide bomber, and that her target was schoolchildren. Another version was that she worked for ISI, the enemy spy agency. A third version claimed that she had come to incite the youth of Kashmir to become militants.

I returned the next day. She was wearing a loose pheran, and a third of her body was thickly bandaged. Her head was covered by a scarf. She looked beautiful even in sickness.

'There is a cut on your foot,' I said. 'Why is it not bandaged?'

She stirred her feet as if to say, I know. She withdrew her feet into the blanket as if they were little rats.

'Who did it?'

She did not say anything, so I turned and walked towards the window.

Outside, the troops were marching in the parade ground and the air was dusty.

'In Pakistan you people eat dogs,' I said.

Dust was rising on the road outside. The troops: one-two, one-two, one-two one-two, one-two, one-two.

'You people eat dogs,' I said loudly.

'No,' she said.

I turned.

Her gaze was fixed on the floor.

'You eat chicken feet . . . snakes . . . lizards . . . you crave . . .'

Chef Kishen had written that the enemy ate cows and buffaloes, and the most repulsive dish on their tables was made by slow cooking a young bull's t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es.

'I know why you are here,' she broke her silence.