'Sir, I thought, sir, music would ease the tension. General Sahib had asked me, sir, to conduct interrogations delicately, sir.'

'The interrogations are over, Kirpal.'

'Sir.'

'This was a serious breach of order, Kirpal. I am giving you the last warning. General k.u.mar knew your Father Sahib. I knew him too. He was our finest officer. You have been pardoned because of your father. This must never happen again. Understand?'

Then he buried his face in the file again. I looked at the tea and coffee circles on the desk, and his cap. After a while I coughed.

'You are still here?'

'Sir, where is the woman sir?'

'Woman?'

'The enemy woman, sir?'

'Not here.'

'Sir.'

'Dismiss.'

I now know the name of the music she heard. Chef Kishen had received that tape from Chef Muller in the German emba.s.sy during his training, but he did not know the t.i.tle of the music. For many years I did not know the t.i.tle either. It was only last year I found out. I visited the German emba.s.sy in Delhi. The yellow-haired girl at the emba.s.sy sent me to Goethe House, where the music librarian asked me to sing that piece of music.

I tried.

TUH-dee TUH-deeTA-deeee TA-deeeeTUH-dee TUH-deeTA-deeee TA-deeee 'Try again,' she said.

Daam Dum De-daaam De-daaamDaam Dum De-daaam De-daaam 'One more time,' she said.

'This one goes slowly,' I said.

Daaah Daaah Da Daaah It VitDaaah Daaah Da Daaah It Vit 'More,' she said.

'The tune is almost a military march,' I said.

TUH-dee TUH-dee TA-deeee TA-deeeeTUH-dee TUH-dee TA-deeee TA-deeee 'This sounds Turkish to me,' she said. 'There is no such thing. In German tradition there is no such thing.'

'But, I have heard the music,' I said.

My hands moved up in the air, then down and up again. I found myself conducting just like Chef Kishen had done on the glacier as I sang or tried to sing that music.

Da Da Da DaDa Da Da DaDa Da Da DaDeee da Daaa 'The Ninth.' She jumped from her seat.

'The Ninth?'

'Beethoven,' she said.

'Bay-toh-behn?'

'Beethoven,' she said.

'Beethoven.'

'Yes.'

'He wrote that music just like that?' I asked.

'No,' she said. 'It took him thirty years to write it. He made many errors. But, finally he found perfection.'

She gave me a headset and I listened to the complete Ninth at the booth. She told me where to buy works by Beethoven.

'But I am only interested in the Ninth,' I answered.

'Maybe.'

She gave me a book, so I read it. The man was completely deaf when he wrote that piece of music. Tuh-dee Tuh-dee Ta-deeee Ta-deeee Tuh-dee Tuh-dee Ta-deeee Ta-deeee. I simply could not believe it. It is like a cook who can't smell or taste trying to create a new dish to make millions of people happy. Tuh-dee Tuh-dee Ta-deeee Ta-deeee Tuh-dee Tuh-dee Ta-deeee Ta-deeee. This has stayed with me all these years. The Ninth has stayed. It is not just music. It is real real. My whole wretched life is embedded in it. And I do not care if it comes from Germany. I am dying, but I have heard the music. My fear, my fury, my joy, my melancholy everything is embedded in this piece. The Ninth is real real. It penetrates my body like smells, like food. And yet: it is solid solid and ma.s.sive like a glacier. Shifting. Sliding. Melting. Then becoming air. When I listen to this music so many places penetrate me. So many times. So many sounds. Voices. The voices do a tamasha, and I am able to say it for the first time. The Ninth is and ma.s.sive like a glacier. Shifting. Sliding. Melting. Then becoming air. When I listen to this music so many places penetrate me. So many times. So many sounds. Voices. The voices do a tamasha, and I am able to say it for the first time. The Ninth is real real. It is the kiss, the most powerful and delicate kissforthewholeworld.

Da Da Da DaDa Da Da DaDa Da Da DaDeee da Daaa

22.

In November General Sahib was approved by Delhi to become the next Governor of Kashmir. Sahib was a good choice for the post. He was the 'Hero of Kargil' and the 'Hero of Siachen Glacier'. The State needed urgently a gentleman-soldier at the very top to restore order. Sahib arranged to take me (and the gardener Agha) along to the Raj Bhavan, his new residence in Srinagar. It was a rare honor. Kishen would have been proud to see me occupy the highest kitchen in Kashmir.

On the night of his appointment General k.u.mar delivered a speech on radio and TV.

My fellow Indians,This troubled and beautiful land is ready for peace. Our task is not going to be easy, many challenges lie ahead, but together we will find a solution. In my opinion the first thing we must tackle is the question of governance and power. How will I, as your administrator, use power? Let me rea.s.sure you that I will act in an enlightened, just, and humane way. I will lead by reason and cooperation and set an example not just for the poor countries, but also for the rich . . . Thomas Jefferson once said, let me quote: 'The less power we use the greater it will be.' I convey my warm greetings to all of you and wish you peace and prosperity. Jai Hind.

This speech made a great impression on me. Those first few days I worked even harder to please Gen Sahib. One day he asked me especially to cater the wedding banquet for the preceding Governor's daughter. Her name was Bina. The girl was stunningly beautiful and well-educated. She had spent years in London and New York and was getting married to an Indian boy who had also spent time in New York and London. Both had moved back home home because they did not want to be treated because they did not want to be treated second cla.s.s second cla.s.s in those foreign lands. Bina took great interest in Indian art, buildings and food. She had even gotten involved with the Department of Tourism to write glossy brochures for foreign visitors. She handed me, during our second meeting, a brochure she had written herself about the Governor's residence. in those foreign lands. Bina took great interest in Indian art, buildings and food. She had even gotten involved with the Department of Tourism to write glossy brochures for foreign visitors. She handed me, during our second meeting, a brochure she had written herself about the Governor's residence.

More than anything else I remember the smell of wood inside the Raj Bhavan. The richly decorated papier-mache ceilings. The fifty-five rooms. Dimly lit corridors. Red curtains. Crystal chandeliers. It was easy to get lost in the labyrinths of the building. The interiors were done entirely in walnut and deodar and rose, and the kitchen was large, airy, always filled with light. From the west window it was possible to see the ruins of the Mughal garden on the slopes of the mountain, also General Sahib's old residence.

Bina's tourist brochure was an elegant piece of work, and whenever I try to describe that residence I bring it to mind. For me describing buildings is harder than detecting the ingredients in an exotic dish and certainly more difficult than describing human faces. People hide their true selves behind a face, but buildings hide even more. The Raj Bhavan, Bina had written, is perched on the beautiful Zabarwan hill and quivers with the fragrance of crocuses, and irises, and narcissi. The steep road to the compound is lined by majestic plane trees (also known as bouin bouin or or chenar chenar). The mansion commands a stunning view of the Dal Lake, the ancient ruins, the snow-clad mountain ranges, and the Hazratbal Mosque. On the east side is a large cherry orchard, and on the west the Royal Springs Golf Course.

The banquet, I must say, was my best accomplishment to this date. We had a pre-banquet dinner as well, which I cooked on a small scale for eight chosen guests the old Governor and his daughter met me before the dinner to decide the menu and I had to use some tact to convey that most of their choices were simply wrong, and whenever the old Governor started insisting on a dish, Bina (like Rubiya) would wink her eye and smile as if saying to me, just ignore him, he is being fussy for nothing.

Bina took me aside and said if I could give the banquet a paisley paisley theme she would do anything for me. I did not know what theme she would do anything for me. I did not know what paisley paisley was, and she told me that it was the pattern on the blouse she was wearing. You mean that tear-shaped thing? I asked. It is also a comma, she said. It can be seen as a mango. It can be many things. Touch it, she said. You mean you want me to touch your blouse? Yes, she said. Is this silk? I asked. It was very soft. She said it was different from the silk people bought in showrooms. This is called was, and she told me that it was the pattern on the blouse she was wearing. You mean that tear-shaped thing? I asked. It is also a comma, she said. It can be seen as a mango. It can be many things. Touch it, she said. You mean you want me to touch your blouse? Yes, she said. Is this silk? I asked. It was very soft. She said it was different from the silk people bought in showrooms. This is called peace silk peace silk. This silk is made without killing the silkworms.

In the kitchen I thought about paisley paisley for a long time, and thanks to Bina I finally found out the name for the embroidery I had seen on Irem's pheran. Her pheran had paisley all over, not just on the borders. for a long time, and thanks to Bina I finally found out the name for the embroidery I had seen on Irem's pheran. Her pheran had paisley all over, not just on the borders.

The ruins of the Mughal garden, as I said before, were visible from the kitchen window, and they, too, for some unknown reason (in my mind) became a.s.sociated with paisley. Sometimes wild animals appeared in the upper terraces and made strange sounds. While cooking I would ask, How is it possible for such beauty and such extreme forms of cruelty to co-exist? I would think about the beauty of the gardens in Kashmir and the Mughals who had built them. The Emperors were such learned men, scholars they were, they kept journals and ate good food. They took cuisine to perfection. They took architecture to perfection. They built the Taj, and yet how cruel they were. Not just cruel to others, but son to father, and brother to brother. How could these two things co-exist in the same person, in the same kingdom, and I felt there must be something wrong about Chef Muller's theory. Muller had told Kishen that it was possible to identify the qualities of a person from what they ate. How can people who eat the finest delicacies commit the most horrible crimes? I would ask myself.

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 a.s.sistants 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 amba.s.sador and his black secretary and the chief of the World Bank. Business tyc.o.o.ns. 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 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 gla.s.s cabinet in the drawing room. General Sahib pointed at the famous photo from the '71 IndiaPakistan 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 doc.u.ments.

'I was present during the surrender, sir,' said General k.u.mar Sahib. 'Gen Niazi looked absolutely humiliated.'

'k.u.mar 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 gla.s.s cabinet and the pistol pa.s.sed through several hands.

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

'But we know the reliable way to contain them 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. b.l.o.o.d.y b.a.s.t.a.r.d, I said. The dessert is still not ready. Bina was a bit worried about my ability to tackle Italian desserts, but I rea.s.sured 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 b.l.o.w.j.o.b. After some time he spread his s.e.m.e.n on her fair skin and milk-white b.r.e.a.s.t.s. 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 wh.o.r.e, 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 people. At that point I could not ask for anything better.

23.

I am such a pea.

I don't like mutters mutters.

Mutter-paneer, mutter-aloo, mutter-gobi.

There is a small area the size of a pea in our brains. I read it in the paper. This area is just behind the eye. Compa.s.sion and empathy lie in this area. When the area gets damaged we torture others more easily, and with less mess to ourselves.

In Delhi, while on leave, I could not stop thinking of Kashmir. I would shut my eyes or try distracting myself, but the more I tried the more forcefully the images flashed before me.

When will you get married? Mother would ask, and the question would annoy and sadden me. All my uncles and aunties wanted to hear were tales about the heroism heroism of our soldiers at the border, and I found the June heat unbearable, and the June mosquitoes unbearable at night. Images of mountains and mosques and Raj Bhavan disturbed my sleep. Sometimes I would think about Irem. Sometimes the beauty of the valley and Sufi music filled my dreams. I would see Kashmiri women in pherans pounding dried red chilies. I cut short my holiday and returned on this very train. of our soldiers at the border, and I found the June heat unbearable, and the June mosquitoes unbearable at night. Images of mountains and mosques and Raj Bhavan disturbed my sleep. Sometimes I would think about Irem. Sometimes the beauty of the valley and Sufi music filled my dreams. I would see Kashmiri women in pherans pounding dried red chilies. I cut short my holiday and returned on this very train.

Srinagar had become a war zone during my absence.

The streets trembled with armored vehicles.

Militancy was at its peak again.

The enemy was training more men and brainwashing more boys, and wave after wave crossed into Kashmir to set off bombs at public places, even inside army camps. Fifty new battalions were raised by our army to contain the insurgents. For every four civilians we had one soldier. But things were going badly. During those dark days no one on the General's staff was a Muslim. The only Muslim in the Raj Bhavan was the old gardener, Agha.

Nothing is ready. Nothing.

It is early, no fire in the kitchen yet. I am still planning the day. There is a knock. I see a wrinkled hand. The rear door opens. Agha, the gardener, is standing in front of me. Teeth gone. Skullcap on head, three-day stubble like a dusting of snow. A rag of a sash around his neck.

As usual he doesn't step in.

'Do you have something to polish this with?' he asks.

He is holding an old fountain nozzle. The metal is layered with green patina.

'Come in,' I say. 'It is getting cold.'

To my surprise he starts removing his shoes.

'You can keep them on.'

He ignores me and walks in bare feet. The kitchen floor is so cold he is standing on the tips of his toes.