'Sir.'

His breathing grew heavier.

'I wanted Rubiya to be here. In a way it is good she is not here. G.o.d knows where she is. After all I have done to you, will you still be kind enough to be the chef at her wedding? Civil wedding. It is going to be a small affair. Twenty, thirty people. The boy's family is coming by bus from the Pakistani-occupied Kashmir.'

'Of course, sir.'

'Everything must be perfect. This is Rubiya's wedding. Everything must be ek-dum perfect.'

'Sir, you have my word. But.'

'I knew there was a BUT.'

'No, sir. I would just like to have a word with Ms Rubiya. Regarding the menu, sir.'

27.

The general's private car has just dropped me at Hotel Liward. My legs are stiff and my whole body is aching. I am thinking about the long bus journey after the long train journey. Every part of the bus rattled for eleven hours on the mountain road. Every window. Now every bone in my body is protesting. The bus to Srinagar took eleven hours, and for eleven hours my body had to suffer. Perhaps I should say my body behaved unusually well on the way. A man, much younger than me, vomited six or seven times, but my body cooperated, and I threw up only two or three times, or perhaps this is just a lie. It is impossible to lie to oneself. Just like it is impossible to tickle oneself. Only mad people tickle themselves. I am not mad. I made a big mistake to set out on this tedious journey.

It is for Rubiya's sake really I am here. Otherwise I would not have come to the valley. Yet. It is for my own sake really I am here. I know once I do the perfect banquet, General Sahib will refer me to top specialists in the military hospital, and they will start treatment right away.

On the road to Srinagar, a sign said: This is neither a race, nor a rally.Drive safely in Kashmir valley.

These people are real jokers. I hear the bleak laughter of Kashmiris everywhere. Even in the hotel room.

My room is big and it has a large hot brazier and a mirror on the wall. The bed is neatly made; there is an extra quilt in the closet. I complained (about the small room 'S' they had allotted me earlier) and the manager moved me to this VIP room: 'N'. (The rooms are not numbered. I wonder why they are lettered?) Climbing up the stairs made me breathless. I unlocked 'N' and took off my cap and overcoat. On the wall two hairline cracks and the oval mirror. Looking inside, a sudden memory returned to me of that day when Father had helped me untie my shoes after a long journey. I was four or five years old then. My eyes fluttered, reliving the memory. I felt a lump in my throat as I undressed. Then I stepped into the bathroom and washed my hands and face.

I am unable to sleep. I walk to the window. I open it and shut it properly. Chilly outside. I see a Sufi shrine and a post office. The light is dim. The post office is closed. I want to say something. The word does not come to my mouth. What was it I would like to say? What exactly is wrong with my brain? The b-u-s. I wonder why I spoke to the woman in the bus?

We were sitting next to each other. Me: on the window seat. In the beginning we did not exchange a word, but the driver's rash turns on the winding road made her say something and I nodded and then we could not stop talking. For five and a half hours, almost half of the way, we were silent to each other, lost in our own worlds, and then suddenly we started talking, and I overexerted myself. There was no need to do it. I even offered her my window seat, but she said the aisle was better.

She was a Kashmiri Hindu woman, returning home after a gap of thirteen years. She said her situation was a bit like the exiles in the epic Mahabharata. I apologized for my limited knowledge of Hindu epics. I grew up in the Sikh tradition, I confessed. She studied my face carefully. So why, sardar-ji, sardar-ji, have you cut your hair and removed your turban? have you cut your hair and removed your turban?

I said nothing.

My husband had a travel agency in Srinagar, she told me, and I used to teach biology in school, cla.s.ses 6, 7 and 8; but we were forced out of the city by the militants. Deep down all Muslims are pro-Pakistan, she said. Our servant was an exception, she said. He would send us letters about the house, now the house is with the militants, he would write, and now it is with the army or paramilitary, but in the last letter he told us that the house was empty, and the roof of what used to be the kitchen and the bedroom had fallen in.

Listening to her I thought of those moments lost to time, my first arrival in Kashmir when Chef took me on long bike rides, plane leaves rustling under the tires, ruins on left, and ruins on right, and so many empty houses, and once or twice he had said that the city without the Kashmiri Hindus looked incomplete. Why, Chef?

'Without the Hindus (who have been forced to flee by some Muslim extremists) this valley looks exactly like Swiss cheese Swiss cheese,' he said.

'Cheeze?'

His comment initially left me confused. Cheeze Cheeze means a 'thing' in my mother tongue. Punjabi, the only language in the world made entirely out of puns . . . means a 'thing' in my mother tongue. Punjabi, the only language in the world made entirely out of puns . . .

I am talking about paneer, Kirpal. Swiss cheese Swiss cheese is a strange variety of paneer with holes in it. In school they taught us: is a strange variety of paneer with holes in it. In school they taught us: Kashmir India ka Switzerland hai Kashmir India ka Switzerland hai. Well, this place has certainly become the 'Swiss cheese of India'. When I look at the empty Hindu houses in the valley, Kirpal, I realize there is no bigger tragedy for a land that forces its own people out and makes them wander from place to place, and leaves them damaged with an intense longing to return home.

The woman changed her seat. She found one next to a peasant girl just before the bus entered the three-mile-long tunnel. Whenever a woman sitting next to me changes seats I ask myself if I did something wrong. She had a plastic bag full of cherry tomatoes, and she kept eating them one by one. She did not offer me a single tomato. Did I misbehave? Did I offend her with a swear word? Do I have bad breath? Did I utter something very lucid? Islands of lucidity are forming inside my brain. Did I mutter something on love? I have wasted the years of my life being too much in love. Love that was not even returned. Love for the wrong person or a thing. Love is a dish that is either overcooked or undercooked. Love never tastes right. Love smells like the inside of a garbage bag. Love has the odor of decay. Throw it away.

I unpack my suitcase. Breathless again. There is a little package for Rubiya. And a gift for someone else. My clothes have all tangled up in each other. The jacket and pants and the tie I brought along from Delhi need ironing. They will look good on you, Mother had said. They will look good on you, Kip.

I don't deserve to wear these things. They are too b.l.o.o.d.y new.

I have the breath of death, I say to myself in the hotel room. Women sense it more than men. And they do not want to get closer. In a way I felt relieved when the woman moved because I was able to stretch, but an old man occupied the empty seat minutes after she vacated it. She never once looked back and kept eating her tomatoes. She did not notice her replacement. He was a Muslim man, conical cap on head. Hooked nose. He was using a toothpick to clean his teeth. As he settled on the seat, the man asked, What time is it, jenab? I noticed he had a watch on his wrist, and I a.s.sumed it must have broken and I told him the time, and he thanked me shoorkriya jenab, he said but right after the tunnel in bright light I noticed the man's watch was showing the correct time.

Inside the Jawahar tunnel we had to shut the bus windows. The driver feared a militant grenade or an improvised explosive. Inside the tunnel water kept dripping from rock. The tunnel is three miles long. For three long miles yellow sodium lamps lit the road. Then the light of Kashmir appeared. Blue mountains. Bright numinous light reached out to touch us. The driver, that idiot, put the bus in neutral and coasted all the way downhill. Coasting saves him diesel. Just before hitting the valley he asked us, the pa.s.sengers, to look towards the right. Verinag, he said. This is where the river begins, he said. As if we did not know.

The bus was coasting down. The tunnel disappeared behind us in the crack of the mountain. A few miles later it reappeared. I looked upwards from the window seat and noticed the arch of the tunnel. The happiness and unhappiness of so many people depends on the tunnel and the road, and the road to Kashmir is not so bad. The buses are, the drivers are, the checkposts are. If there is one thing right about our country it is the road.

From my hotel window I can see the Hindu houses. They have been empty for so long, the roofs are falling in. It has been ages since someone burned fire in those rooms. No smoke rises out of chimneys. Time is mocking the chimneys. In one of those kitchens I would like to cook for both Hindus and Muslims.

The difference between Hindu cuisine and Muslim cuisine is very easy to explain. In Kashmir the Hindus avoid s.e.xy onions and garlic; they love the taste of heeng (asafetida) and the non-incestuous fennel and ginger. Muslims find heeng (and its sulphurous odor) unbearable. They adore garlic, green praans, garam masala, and on certain occasions, mawal flowers. So there is a 'Hindu' Rogan Josh, and a 'Muslim' Rogan Josh. Over the years I have developed my own recipe, a Rogan Josh inspired by these two great traditions. I have perfected the dish, and I can say without hesitation that it is my finest accomplishment. Rogan Josh is red because of Kashmiri chilies, which are ten times more red than the ordinary Indian mirchis. I know this from Irem. I must discuss the menu yet with Rubiya, but I will manage to persuade her to allow me to prepare this delicacy at the wedding.

Rogan Josh900g lamb (shoulder cut, with or without bones), well rinsed and sliced into one-inch rectangles5 tablespoons ghee1 cup dahi6 cloves, crushed finely2 tablespoons Kashmiri red chili powder1 cinnamon stick teaspoon turmeric powder1 onion, finely chopped1 tablespoon ginger-garlic paste45 garlic cloves, minced or finely sliced2 teaspoons ginger powder2 teaspoons fennel powder1 teaspoon c.u.min seeds teaspoon c.u.min powder teaspoon crushed cardamom1 teaspoon garam masala teaspoon heeng14 strands of saffronMarinate the lamb for two hours. Coat the pieces with ginger-garlic paste, c.u.min powder, crushed cardamom, and turmeric. Sprinkle salt (to taste).Heat ghee on high flame in a large heavy-bottomed pot (for best results, use degchi).Add cloves, c.u.min, heeng, and cinnamon. Saute for 2 minutes.Add onion. Saute until golden.Add garlic. Saute for 2 minutes.Add lamb. Sear until dark brown on all sides. Oily juice will come out of pieces.Stir till all liquid in the pot becomes vapor. Make sure the meat pieces don't stick to the bottom.Add dahi (well whisked) one spoon at a time, stirring constantly.Cook for 15 minutes on medium heat.Stir constantly till the sauce becomes very thick. Make sure the meat pieces don't stick to the bottom.Now add Kashmiri red chili 'liquid' (chili powder dissolved in 2 cups of hot water). Stir well.Switch to high heat.Add ginger and fennel powder. Stir and bring the pot to boil.Cover and cook on low heat till the lamb is tender (approximately an hour).Now add garam masala.Cook for 2 or 3 minutes more.Now add 'liquid saffron' and stir well. To prepare the liquid: Crush the saffron threads and mix with two tablespoons of hot water.Rogan Josh is done.Serves 6 Rogan Josh is done, I say to myself on the bed in the hotel room. Dinner is ready, Sahib . . . Drinks are served, Sahib . . . Applause . . . Shabash . . . Applause . . . I recall with absolute clarity that Sunday, five years ago five years ago, when the army honored me for my culinary contributions at the Military Academy in Dehradun. After the ceremony I delivered a small talk on Kashmiri cuisine for trainee chefs, jawans and officers and their wives, which was very well received, so many stood up and gave me genuine heartfelt applause. Standing ovation, as Sahib would have said.

During the little break (just before my talk) I wandered off towards the beautiful lawns of the Academy, and there under a tree I saw a cadet in uniform reading a book. I was filled with curiosity and inquired about the t.i.tle, and he said it was a book of poems, and it was called In Different Hours In Different Hours. I flipped through the book, looked at the author's name, and found myself saying out loud: So our Rubiya has become a poet.

'You know the poet, sir?'

'Of course. She used to taste my food. Rubiya was the taster of my preparations. I am so happy she has become a poet.'

'I can't believe you know her, sir,' the cadet said again, somewhat stunned.

'Yes, yes, General k.u.mar's daughter has become a poet.'

'Sir.'

'Only yesterday she was playing with toys in the garden.'

'I would like to write to her, sir. Please would you be kind enough to introduce me to the poet?'

So I wrote a little note of introduction for the young man, and jotted down my own address on a sheet of paper. I do not know how he got hold of her address or if he received a response, but to my surprise I received a response from Rubiya. She sent me two new poems as well, and a cutting of the newspaper article she had written after a recent trip to Pakistan. When I read the article I knew that the fate of Kashmir was going to change. I said to myself that this was the right approach. Not what Chef Kishen did. Chef's approach was wrong. The path that Rubiya is following is the correct one, I had said to myself, and I say it again to myself, now, in this hotel room. When I read that article by Rubiya I knew that from now on the fate of Kashmir was going to change.

Before I flew to Pakistan, every day I had to deal with my fear of the border. The day I turned 5, Father drove us on a jeep to the border. It was a flag meeting, which is usually rare at that most unforgiving border. I was afraid, unable to articulate my fear. I found it difficult to cross the Line to Pakistan. 'If you cannot make up your mind,' said the guard on the Indian side, 'then run back to the jeep.' I still remember the paralysis I experienced standing in the gravitational field of the Line. Now and then I am able to recall the distance between the line (on the ground) and my foot (right above the line) frozen in air. My father had already crossed to the other side, the wrong side, and I was engulfed with strange and familiar fears. 'Come, come,' beckoned the enemy guard with a smile. But I could not overcome the terror, which kept swelling inside me. I ran back to the jeep. From the jeep I saw my father talking to enemy uncles and aunties as if they were his half-cousins.

Rubiya wrote a monthly column in the paper. I started reading her articles regularly. She never once mentioned me in her writings. I was a little bit hurt. Especially by the original article she had sent me in the letter. She had completely omitted me. I had accompanied her and General Sahib on that trip to the border. I had comforted her, given her her favorite badam kheer to eat. Not her ayah. The ayah was sick that day. And I had taken care of Rubiya that day. Only after reading the article the third or the fourth time I stopped feeling hurt. I know she did not mention me because it was to protect me. I was, it is safe to say, very important in her upbringing. I think she knows this so well she does not want to embarra.s.s me with outwardly praise.

Rubiya and I, a long time ago, had developed a special understanding, which goes beyond words. (Am I repeating myself?) Sometimes when General Sahib was a little annoyed with my performance, Rubiya would wink or give me a look, which meant, I understand, don't worry, my father is a bit out of his mind. He is a bit fussy, that is all.

I was not even seven when my mother died. At first things were difficult, she was absent and present everywhere I went, wounding me. Father was sad too and we would walk hours on end without talking to each other. Few months later he and I watched a movie at the open-air cinema in the army campus. Soon this became a ritual. He would accompany me to watch old Bollywood films. Seating at the cinema was strictly according to one's rank. The chairs close to the screen were earmarked for officers and their families. Non-commissioned officers and combat soldiers and orderlies and cooks and gardeners could watch only from behind the screen. They sat cross-legged on gra.s.s, facing the projectionist, in strange lotus postures. Men in hobnailed boots guarded the border between the two sides. Once the heroine on the screen nearly drowned in monsoon rain. This scene was so intense, it left the guards leaning on their rifles, and I walked to the other side.There were more insects on the other side and they bit me hard, but what struck me the most was that the image on the screen looked utterly different. Some mysterious power, I felt, had transformed the symmetry on the screen. Our 'left' was their 'right', and our 'right' was their 'left'. Fundamentally, nothing changed; rain did not become saliva, the coin-sized mirrors on the heroine's sari did not turn to fire, and yet after that incident never have I been able to look at moving images without hearing sounds of soldiers marching, and never have I been able to walk without thinking about the symmetry or the break in symmetry.Now, many years later, I think the border between India and Pakistan is a bit like the white film screen that belonged to the open-air cinema. Both sides happen to be watching the same film, sometimes projected from India and sometimes from the Pakistani side, and our left is their right, and our right is their left.

Her bold articles in the paper gave me courage, a lot of courage, and perhaps that is why I finally wrote to her about Irem. After that I did not hear from Rubiya for a long time. She skipped her weekly column in the paper, and this made me worry. But a huge piece appeared three weeks later focusing entirely on Irem. In the article she had changed Irem's name. She had called her Soofiya. She had found Irem in a prison.

I felt overjoyed and yet I felt very sad. Because I had written my note to Rubiya six years too late.

Rubiya's article on Irem was very long. But there are fragments which keep coming back to me over and over again. She wrote: Soofiya found that she was pregnant. She was offered an abortion, which she refused. She gave birth to a baby girl she named Naseem, which means the morning breeze.Soofiya served out her sentence for 'entering India illegally' but no one told her that now she was free to go. The story got out because of an ex-army man's anonymous letter to an Indian NGO. The letter was forwarded to the World Human Rights Protection Council. Because of the intervention, the Indian authorities sent Soofiya and Naseem on a police-escorted vehicle to the Line of Control. But the Pakistani border guards refused entry. 'We will allow Soofiya in,' said the guards. 'But we will not allow the girl she, like her "father", is really an Indian citizen.'Four more attempts were made. With similar results. In the meantime Naseem has started the prison school in Indian Kashmir. She is a bright kid br.i.m.m.i.n.g with curiosity. Soofiya fully approves of her daughter's education; at times she brags before the prison immates about Naseem's ability to read and write. The last few days all I have thought about is this . . . That time is running out . . . The rough muscular talk between the Hindu fundamentalist leaders of my country, India, and the Pakistani dictator, General Musharraf, has escalated beyond comprehension. Both sides are promising a 'total' war. In 1998 when the two countries had tested nuclear weapons in the desert sands the same leaders had promised that atomic weapons were really a deterrence . . . Last week the two armies marched to the border again, a million men in combat-ready positions. Anti-personnel and anti-tank mines have been planted all along the 1800-mile border. The air smells of the end of the world . . . During times like these it seems foolhardy to focus on an ordinary woman and her daughter.And yet. I feel the story of Soofiya and little Naseem is the story of the whole of Kashmir.

28.

What hurts a person into poetry? I ask myself. What made Rubiya a poet? The plane leaves? Snow, or night, or the death of her mother? Or the food she ate? What are the things one must do for the sake of a single poem? Where does poetry come from? As a child she was always hiding from grown-ups. She would make herself small, hiding under the bed or the table, hiding from her father. She sat under a dark table reading books. She played with the black dog. She tried to catch b.u.t.terflies in the lawn, separating herself from the rest. She refused my meals. The ayah would not allow her to enter the kitchen. Was she becoming a poet then? Did she write her first poem when she first heard about the glacier?

Where are you headed, Papa?To the glacier.Who lives there?Our men, the soldiers.It is funny, Papa. It must be so easy to slide down.

When exactly does one become a poet?But, Dad?Yes, Rubiya.If the glacier is moving, then how do the two armies draw the line?What do you mean?How do India and Pakistan tell where the border is precisely?

When exactly?

Just before her wedding, when I would meet her alone I would ask her all these questions. I would tell her: Rubiya, your poems have made me happy. You will make so many people happy. Millions in our country, and also in the 'enemy' country, will be comforted by these words.

'Are you going to write a poem about your father?' I would ask her.

'Chef Kirpal,' she would respond, 'poetry is not cooking. Poets do not get to choose. It is the poem that chooses the poet.'

Afterwards Then you will go to Kashmirin no hurryand hear not a single fireThe blessed womenwill paintsaffron on your skinand you will build a house there,and weave a basket for pomegranates,and glaze pots in fireThe jagged mountainswill no longer weepslow muddy tearsor tremble behinddwarf trees anymore.Sit. There on encrusted ice they will ask you Look how it gleams, feel it moving.Dust the nozzlesof fountains in Shalimar Baghin the ruined Nishat Bagh they will ask you Plant paisleyin one or two cemeterieswhere shade bitesthe sun. The womenwill lead you to damp greenshrines of Noor-u-din. Thereyou will locate one or two eggs in nestsand mounds of cricket b.a.l.l.sand lost men, too, andschoolchildren.Bright smileswill mark them from the rest, just likethe tattoo on your skinmarked you. In autumn you will write long lettersaddressed to your old self a profusion of dots and dashes . . .Old photographs, defeats, loves, recipesyou will move the entire atticto an unfinished roomand hirea strong houseboat and help.Yes, your old forgotten self the stranger will paddle youto the shadows of neverprunedplane trees. There in autumn in Kashmirthe two of you would meet. By the rootsand barks andTechnicolor leavesand millions of dead.Don't just sit there. Smell them.

On the second day of my arrival the eighth of December when I woke up in the hotel room I read in the paper that just after eleven o'clock the previous night General k.u.mar had killed himself. He had eaten dinner with Rubiya, and after saying goodnight to her he returned to his room. The servant served tea, and the General took his medication; half an hour later he shot himself. He used the defeated Pakistani general's pistol from the gla.s.s cabinet, and fired only once through his left jaw to do the job.

The paper made no mention of Rubiya's wedding plans or the postponement of the wedding. The front-page editorial talked about his sickness, the battle with disease, and praised the Hero of Kargil and the Hero of Siachen Glacier for exceptional leadership and vision.

He took over the Governorship of Kashmir, the editorial said, when the State was going through a particularly difficult time.

General Sahib was cremated on the slopes of the hill overlooking the river, not far from the ruins of the Mughal fort. Thin layers of ice on the banks of the river turned orange, reflecting the flames. A three-minute silence was observed before Rubiya offered her father's body to nothingness. The battles stopped on distant mountains and transistor radios stopped and vehicles stopped on the roads and cooking and eating stopped. People paused, interrupted whatever they were doing.

During those three minutes I heard restrained sobbing coming from the Kashmiri houses. Then agni, the burst of flames. The shadow of rising smoke flickered on the hard ground. The December chill disappeared temporarily. A can of c.o.ke fell from an old woman's hand and rolled towards the black boots of troops in ceremonial dress.

The military band was part of the ceremony. Men in kilts played mournful bagpipes and snared the drums. Troops from 1 Sikh 1 Sikh gave a twenty-one gun salute. Two or three dogs kept running by the ice, absolutely oblivious of the flag of our country, flying at half-mast. And all those who stood there, the officers and jawans and their wives, they had no idea about the battles the General was really fighting. They spoke in cliches, and they stared accusingly at Rubiya as if she had caused her father's death. There are decent boys in our own country, their faces said, Why don't you marry one of our own? Colonel Chowdhry and Patsy Chowdhry were absent, but so many others were there. Bina was there, holding a paisley hanky, weeping profusely. For nothing. gave a twenty-one gun salute. Two or three dogs kept running by the ice, absolutely oblivious of the flag of our country, flying at half-mast. And all those who stood there, the officers and jawans and their wives, they had no idea about the battles the General was really fighting. They spoke in cliches, and they stared accusingly at Rubiya as if she had caused her father's death. There are decent boys in our own country, their faces said, Why don't you marry one of our own? Colonel Chowdhry and Patsy Chowdhry were absent, but so many others were there. Bina was there, holding a paisley hanky, weeping profusely. For nothing.

'General Sahib, good man dee lal-tain good man dee lal-tain,' I raised my voice. 'General Sahib, Emperor of Kulfi.'

'What are you saying, sir?' asked the young officer standing next to me.

'Nothing. Gibberish. Bakwas.'

Three days later I met Rubiya in the Mughal garden. I had arranged to meet her at three in the afternoon, but I got delayed.

She was looking at the children playing in snow as I walked in. The children had on two or three layers of heavy woolens and they were making b.a.l.l.s of ice. There was snow on the ground, on trees, on ruined walls and fountains. Everything sparkled.

At first I saw only her back. Then I climbed up the stairs and saw her from the pavilion. She was looking at the children as if she wanted to tell them that the world was not what they had thought it was. I did not feel like disturbing her.

When she turned towards me the first thing she said was, 'Chef Kirpal, you smell of rum.'

She looked younger than her age, and very sad.

She told me that her fiance, Shahid, and his parents had been denied visas at the border, so she was heading to Pakistan on the evening bus.

But I am really here to tell you about Irem, Chef Kirpal. Irem and her daughter are back in Pakistan now. After many years the Pakistani authorities have allowed them to return home.

I don't know why at that time I did not tell her about my cancer. Or the fact that my feet were very cold.

Instead I found myself talking about a cooking show on television, but as soon as I did that I was worried for her, and I wanted to urge her to stay. I worried Rubiya would not be safe in Pakistan, just like Irem was not safe in India.

'Before you go,' I asked her, 'is it possible to apologize for my behavior?'

'Why?'

'Because I waited for very long to write to you about Irem.'

'You have done nothing wrong,' she said. 'You are the nicest person I have come across.'

'No, I am not nice,' I said.

'Please, what are you trying to say?'

'Something has been bothering me, Rubiya. This thing happened on the way. I took the bus. The driver was very rash on the winding road. You know the way they drive. He was off the road most of the time and almost ran into an army convoy. Soon afterwards the bus collided with a pack of sheep, badly wounding an animal. The animal was squirming in great pain. It was dying. The gujjar shepherds yelled at the driver from the road, and began knocking. But all the pa.s.sengers inside wanted the driver to hurry up. No one cared about the animal. I, too, wanted the bus-wallah to hurry. We all had something important important to get to, and there we were aimed in a great rush, and no one thought of slowing down. No, Rubiya. I am not very nice. I am more like my countrymen. That makes me more, not less, ashamed of them.' to get to, and there we were aimed in a great rush, and no one thought of slowing down. No, Rubiya. I am not very nice. I am more like my countrymen. That makes me more, not less, ashamed of them.'

'Chef Kirpal,' she said, 'I sense you have some other thing to tell me.'

'There is one question that has been growing inside me for the last fourteen years. May I ask?'

She nodded.

'It is a question that has acquired the weight of a glacier,' I said. 'And I don't say it lightly. When I try to ask the question, I feel paralyzed. Words freeze in my mouth. Rubiya, do you understand me?'

She wanted me to continue.

'Please, this is really a question for Irem. But I must ask you because you know a lot of things about her. If Irem were walking here with us today, I would have asked her the same question.'

Irem was pregnant, I said. There were visible signs. It took me a while to open my eyes, but the signs were there. I saw them. She was pregnant. The court martial took place in the Badami Bagh camp. She told the presiding officer that I was not guilty. She had not even charged me. The legal officer had charged me. She withdrew the false charges. The court martial presiding officer cleared me. But the question remained. Someone did that thing. Who? Why? The press published the story that in a way closed the case. The papers reported that the 'prison guard' would enter her room every night and take advantage of her. The 'prison guard' was a Muslim, the papers said. Irem received a letter from him after the court martial, the papers said. 'If she promises not to take me to the court, I am willing to marry her,' the guard had written. I wanted to believe this. But I could not. If she knew it was the guard who did it, then why did she not charge him earlier, during my court martial? She knew that I did not do it, and when the court saw me as guilty she withdrew all the charges. But she refrained from naming the real culprit. To be honest, when I pleaded not guilty, I suspected the General himself, and a few other officers, were guilty. But I did not say a word. I was not sure.

Rubiya and I were walking in the garden when it started to snow. Dry symmetrical crystals started falling on her black coat. Slowly, then fast. The children were far away from us, happy, playing in the snow. At first we did not seem to mind. But soon took shelter in a tea stall by the gates of the garden.

'Two cups,' I ordered.

'I am paying,' she said.