Chef

Back in the kitchen, I stood by the window. The plane trees were bare now. The words she had uttered doesn’t look nice and what are you talking about and it looks cool left me anxious and happy at the same time, for there was still hope, for I had not lost her completely, for despite her lukewarm response she had not said a complete no and I felt a deep desire to transform the slim hope to reality.

That night in our bedroom Chef poured beer into two tall glasses. The beer was not bad at all. We clinked the glasses the way officers do. Cheers, I said.

‘You speak such good Inglish,’ he said. ‘Were you trying to impress the nurse?’

‘I was only talking.’

So he had seen us together.

‘Nurses do not like softies. Inglish or no Inglish.’

‘Me?’

‘You still don’t know how to handle a knife.’

‘Sir, I will… work hard.’

‘Look at me in the eye. Certain things ca

‘Like what, sir?’

‘Kashmiris,’ he said. ‘Badboo -’

I ignored him. To distract him I said, ‘Sir, I would like to cook like you!’

He tasted the foam of beer, and flexed his muscles and the veins of his right forearm bulged. There was a tattoo on his arm, his name in green letters in Hindi. He wore a khaki shirt, the buttons open, underneath no banian and the hair on his chest was a forest of black-and-white curlicues.

‘Do you want to replace me?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Replace me,’ he said. ‘I want you to learn all I know. The day your training is over, Gen Sahib will promote me. He has promised.’

‘What rank would that be, sir, when you become an officer?’

‘That of a captain,’ he said, and put his tattooed arm around my shoulder, and stroked my cheek.

‘When will my training end?’ I asked.

Chef hopped on to his bed.

‘The day you lose your virginity,’ he said.

‘Pardon me, Chef?’

‘The smell of a woman is thousand times better than cooking the most sumptuous di

‘I would not know, Chef.’ I felt embarrassed.

‘Come sit next to me,’ he said.

He took another swig of beer.

‘Have you ever gone down on a woman?’

I lowered my gaze. He slapped my thigh.

‘You see, when I was younger I found the smell down there disgusting. Now I have overcome that repulsion, in fact I have come to love the very same smells I hated when I was young.’

I gulped down my glass of beer without stopping for breath. He pulled his red journal from under the pillow and showed me a dirty picture.

‘Look at this,’ he said.

Below the sketch there were long passages in Hindi and Punjabi.

‘Chef, what have you written in there?’

‘None of your business,’ he said. ‘Pay attention to the picture!’

‘I am looking,’ I said.

‘She is a memsahib,’ he laughed.

‘Yessir.’

‘Did you ever kiss a memsahib?’ he mumbled. ‘Give me another Kingfisher.’

When he fell asleep I surveyed the empty beer glasses. Chef groaned in his bed. His naked chest heaved up and down. There was a strange rhythm to his muscles. I spent the night eating berries. In Kashmir everything tastes of fruit. The days tasted of apples and the nights of bittersweet berries. I ate them very slowly, one by one.

7

We were preparing mutton yakhni. Dipping fingers in the marinade. The air in the room carried the scent of star anise. Turn the flame on high, he said. Now, he said. One by one I dropped the half-brown, half-crimson pieces of meat into the degchi. Stir, he said. The mutton must never stick to the bottom. Chef, when do I add yoghurt? Not now, he said and explained the difference between precision and estimation. Then he wiped his hands on my apron. I felt uncomfortable, but kept stirring. Cook without fear of failure, Kirpal. But you must never fail. Take good care of your hands, Kirpal. He stared at my hands while teaching. If you lose the use of your hands you will be useless in the kitchen. Don’t ever think of touching a memsahib. If you want to keep your fingers intact simply keep away from memsahibs. Observe them from distance only.

Now, he said. Now you add the yoghurt to the pot. Yessir. I followed his command, and covered the degchi with a lid. He stroked my cheek and started humming German music. The music was beautiful. His hands moved up and down as if they were guiding invisible instruments. Then he stopped. I mean it, Kip. Take good care of your hands, kid. Not like the Sikh guitarist. The guitarist? I asked. Yes, yes; he cleared his throat. The Sikh guitarist belonged to 72nd Battalion, 5th Mountain Division. The man was blessed with the most elegant fingers, and he used to play for Colonel Tagore’s wife at the colonel’s house. The colonel, said Chef Kishen, was keen on young men and he used to hang out at a special room in the Officers’ Mess and he had no problems leaving his young wife alone with the guitarist who would play for her till the wee hours of the morning. They had no children, the colonel and his wife, but in the begi