Her Kashmiri had a strong Muslim inflection. (The Kashmiri I had learned sounded more like the Kashmiri of pundits.) 'Why?' I asked.

Her eyes were red. She pulled Chef's journal from her blanket. I walked to the head of the bed, and grabbed it from her.

'Did you read?' I was angry at her.

'The person who wrote this,' she said, 'is sometimes very angry and sometimes extremely happy.'

'The journal is written in Hindi.' I raised my voice. 'You lied yesterday. You know Hindi.'

She looked afraid as I uttered those words, raising my voice.

'No, Saheb,' she said.

'You Pakistanis cannot be trusted,' I said.

'I never attended school, Saheb,' she said.

'What does that mean?'

'I cannot read and write, Saheb.'

'Do not call me sahib,' I said. 'Just answer me. If you did not read it, then how can you say that he was sometimes angry and happy?'

'The pen moves fast, then sometimes slow. One can tell,' she said.

Her speech was almost inaudible, and she spoke very slowly. Her words, like a damaged ca.s.sette in the tape recorder. This angered me, but I continued to let her speak.

'You do not need to know the language, Saheb, to figure out if the writer of words is angry, sad, or happy.'

'Good,' I said. 'You are illiterate.'

She could not read and write and this made me happy. Her face was intelligent, but she could not read from left to right or right to left and this made me happy. She had no access to Kishen's intimate thoughts. But as I was walking back to the General's kitchen I felt sad that so many people in our land and in the land of our enemy cannot even read and write. I felt pity for her. She was a smart woman but really she was leading the life of a donkey.

She had not touched the tray of food next to her bed. On the wall behind her there were more crawling insects than last time.

'The food, Saheb,' she said, 'is not fit for humans.'

Then. I do not know what made me say: 'I will make sure that you eat well. I will make sure you find out the meaning of real Indian hospitality.'

The opportunity to prepare her a proper meal arrived very soon. General Sahib flew to Delhi to meet the COAS, the Chief of Army Staff; and the doctor was away on Internal Security duty. I persuaded the nurse to unlock the doctor's room in the hospital. The room had a beautiful view of distant mountains. They looked completely blue, the Pir Panjals, casting no shadow. Things that are far away always look blue for some unknown reason. Blue is the color of our past. Blue is the color of our wretched past, I say to myself.

It was not my finest accomplishment, but I did my best to feed the 'enemy woman'. I cooked in the General's kitchen, and served her in the doctor's room in the hospital with the nurse present. I do not understand why she still is the 'enemy woman'. To this day, sometimes the phrase slips out of my mouth.

Her name was Irem.

She removed her shoes before stepping on the thick carpet in the doctor's room. Like most Kashmiris she gave the carpet the respect it deserved. The nurse on the other hand kept her dirty shoes on, and I remember the condescending look she gave her patient. There was an open-air cinema not far from the hospital, and most of the staff and guards and non-critical patients were watching a Bombay film there. So the hospital was half empty. The nurse had a shot of rum, and for Irem I made lemonade, and watched from the window.

Music from the open-air cinema wafted into the room. The song playing was about the fickle anger of beautiful women. Irem hesitated to sit on the sofa. So she sat on the carpet, her gaze fixed on the patterns of spiders, lizards, and scorpions embroidered on the beautiful carpet. The colors of the carpet came from vegetable dyes made of roots and berries. The green and indigo and red, although a bit faded, drew me towards them.

The nurse started talking to me in English. I am sleep starved, she said. As if she was the only one who didn't get to sleep. Irem felt increasingly uncomfortable in the room, I could tell. She held her gla.s.s as if it was the only thing that could comfort her. Terror was loose in her eyes still. It seemed to me that her lips were moving slightly. There was a cut on her upper lip. She wiped away the condensation with her hand and rolled the lemonade gla.s.s the way Buddhists roll prayer wheels in Ladakh.

The nurse stared at her, and the patient started staring at the wall.

There is a photo on the wall.

Irem rises to her feet, and without paying attention to us walks slowly towards the wall and stands before the big black and white photo.

There are five or six women in Islamic garments standing on a sheer cliff. Only their backs are visible. Two or three are praying; one is looking at the immense sky, another is surveying the valley below the poplars, the willows, the plane trees, the fruit orchards, the lake, and the timber-framed houses. Another stands barefoot, her arms uplifted, palms open in prayer. A ribbon of a cloud is pa.s.sing by, and it is unclear if the cloud is touching her palm or the folds of the mountain.

It's strange, I am looking at Irem's back and she is looking at the women in the photo. Perhaps there are more than six women. The tall one is hiding the short one, and they are all standing on a cliff. Irem moves slightly to her right; now I see more clearly. At the bottom left corner, a lonely shoe. One small push and it would fall into the valley.

Slowly Irem is becoming a part of that work of art. I do not feel like disturbing. But my breath is becoming heavy.

The nurse begins tapping her feet.

'Irem ji,' I say, switching to Kashmiri, 'I have cooked Rogan Josh for dinner. Halal for you. Non-halal for us.'

No response.

So I start telling her about the recipe I had followed, and then I recall at precisely that moment she turned and muttered something. I ask her to repeat it, and she says: One never uses tomatoes in Rogan Josh.

The nurse asks me to translate.

No tomatoes in Rogan Josh.

This makes her laugh. She laughs at me, the nurse. The enemy doesn't laugh.

'How is that possible?' I say. 'A dish without tomatoes is like a film without sound.'

'No tomatoes,' says Irem.

'Irem ji, please write down your your recipe of Rogan Josh for me.' recipe of Rogan Josh for me.'

But as soon as I open my mouth, I realize my mistake.

'I am sorry. You cannot write.'

The nurse stares at us.

'But, why is the Rogan Josh so red? If there are no tomatoes then why is it red?'

Irem remains silent.

'Tell me,' I insist. 'Please.'

'The color comes from the mirchi.'

'But why is the dish so intensely red?'

'Redness comes from the Kashmiri chilies,' she says. 'And mawal flowers.'

'I accept. But, in the absence of tomatoes where does the khatta taste come from?'

'Khatta is due to curds only.'

'I am hungry,' the nurse roars in English, unable to comprehend Kashmiri.

Irem would not sit on the sofa or in the chair. She sat on the carpet. So I spread a white calico sheet on the carpet and transferred the dishes there, and that is how it all began. She closed her eyes and lifted her palms and said a small prayer to Allah and started eating slowly, then picked up speed. Suddenly she remembered she was not alone in the room and slowed down again. She used her left hand to eat, and once or twice licked her fingers.

During dinner she opened up to us and shared her story. She was no longer hesitant.

She had jumped into the river to end her life. To end one's life is against religion, she said. It is a sin. But the life she was leading was worse than death. Her husband and his mother criticized her constantly for not being able to bear a child.

It was a sunny October morning, she told us, and there was taste of bitter almonds in my mouth and suddenly I knew knew what I was going to do. I walked to the high rock by the river, and jumped in. Before I jumped I saw a vision of angels and prayed to Khuda to please kill me. Now, I am being punished by him for wanting to commit what I was going to do. I walked to the high rock by the river, and jumped in. Before I jumped I saw a vision of angels and prayed to Khuda to please kill me. Now, I am being punished by him for wanting to commit khud-qushi khud-qushi.

I did not drown. Instead I floated down the river to the Indian side, where I was fished out by a border guard. I told the guard that I was from border-cross border-cross and that I was not a rebel. Where is your pa.s.sport and visa? he asked me. Why have you entered the country illegally? he asked me. It was then he handed me over to the military, and the military sent me to this hospital, she said. and that I was not a rebel. Where is your pa.s.sport and visa? he asked me. Why have you entered the country illegally? he asked me. It was then he handed me over to the military, and the military sent me to this hospital, she said.

Irem's pheran had a strange embroidery on it. She had jumped into the river wearing that very pheran, and it had clung to her body during her journey journey from the enemy's land to our land. That night, after listening to her story, I biked to the General's residence not only with the tiffin-carriers and cutlery, but also with Irem's pheran. She had stained the pheran during dinner, and the nurse had asked me to drop the garment at the washerman's hut on the way. from the enemy's land to our land. That night, after listening to her story, I biked to the General's residence not only with the tiffin-carriers and cutlery, but also with Irem's pheran. She had stained the pheran during dinner, and the nurse had asked me to drop the garment at the washerman's hut on the way.

Cycling to the General's residence I kept returning to everything that had transpired during the dinner. It was like replaying a black and white film again and again. Every attempt was unsatisfactory. So I would start again. Fail again. Start again. I took the pheran to my room. When my a.s.sistant was not around I smelled the garment. It smelled of the sweat of a beautiful woman. The embroidered pattern on the hem was almost like a leaf. I did not know the name of the pattern, but a few months later a different woman would reveal to me the name of it. It is called paisley paisley, she would tell me. Back in those days (and nights) the more attention I paid to paisley, the more I felt that the pattern ought to be a symbol of something.

That was the first night Kashmir felt like home to me. Despite that I lay in bed with my shoes and uniform. The a.s.sistant reminded me once or twice to change my clothing, but I asked him to b.u.g.g.e.r off, and I kept recalling the five minutes I spent absolutely alone with Irem. The nurse had stepped out to attend a patient in the ward, and I had spent five full minutes alone with Irem.

'I am sorry,' I said. 'This morning I raised my voice.'

'No problem,' she said.

'Is there something you would like me to do?'

'No.'

'I would like to help you.'

'No.'

'Please tell me.'

'If possible, bring me the Qur'an.'

'But?'

'But what?'

'You cannot read.'

'I can hold the Qur'an.'

There was an awkward silence. Her eyes were red. She needed the book more than she needed my food.

'There are many varieties of Muslims?' I asked. 'I have heard about the Shia, the Sunni and the Sufi. What kind of a Muslim are you?'

'Homeless,' she said.

Her response eased some of the tension between us.

'You see that mountain up there, where the bright lights are?' I pointed through the window. 'That is where my room is.'

She nodded.

'I have lived there, in the barracks, for a while now. Sometimes when I am down in the valley, or here in the hospital at night, the mountain up there looks like a huge aircraft. When the lights are turned on in the evening it appears as if the aircraft is ready to depart.'

She remained silent. I kept talking. Now that I think about it what a fool I made of myself. To this day I have not figured out how to stop talking when in the presence of a beautiful woman.

'On certain nights,' I said, 'I hear the sound of sirens, ambulances rushing towards this hospital, and I feel as if the aircraft is about to explode.'

She moved closer to the window, carrying her plate of Rogan Josh. There was a slight limp in her walk.

'You talk like men in Bombay films.'

The way she said this so fearlessly, so unexpectedly, impressed me a lot.

'The mountain is visible from our side also,' she continues. 'From the other side of the river, we too get to see it. The children in our village point at the memorial at the very top of the mountain. Have you been there?'

'No,' I say.

She turns. She is so beautiful. I can't point at a concrete detail of her face and say that is why she is beautiful that is why she is beautiful. I just turn away my eyes.

'Mihirukula's memorial,' she says.

I force my gaze and desperately try to find a flaw in that beauty. I fail. Then, I succeed. There are big gaps between her teeth. Her teeth are not beautiful.

'Mihirukula?'

'The White Hun's memorial,' she says.

'The Hun?'

She speaks very slowly, revealing her teeth. She tells me something women don't usually tell men they have just met. There was a garden in our village. Now it is a ruin. The White Hun came with a huge army of elephants. Elephants? I clarify. Yes, she says. Elephants. One of them fell from the cliff, 10,000 feet below. The Hun loved it. He was amused by the shriek of the falling animal. With one little finger he commanded his men to kick off four hundred elephants purely for his amus.e.m.e.nt. Trumpet-like sounds. For days afterwards my ancestors heard the echoes of dying creatures.

Then all was silence.

In my village the ambulance sirens remind us of elephants, she says.

Why did you tell me this?

She tries to sit down. The plate falls from her trembling hand, staining her iridescent pheran. Then the spoon lands in slow motion on the carpet. Why did you tell me? You Kashmiris from top-man to bottom-man are all anti-India. Her eyes turn red like a brick. Saheb, I am not like that, she stammers. Some militants in our village are planning to kill. But I don't want Kashmir back if most of us end up dead.

'Who are the men going to kill?'