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.’The two men look at the colonel’s wife.‘What does Pakistan say?’ asks the General.She wants to say something, but decides against it.She smiles tactfully, changes her seat.Her heels click when she moves next to Gen Sahib on the sofa.Sahib sips his drink.‘But to us, Patsy, you are the one most beautiful,’ he says.The General touches her naked arm.Then he laughs and she, too, giggles and squeezes his hand.The colonel chews his lips.‘A thing of beauty is a joy forever,’ he says after a long pause.The curtain flaps on my face.‘What do you think about Memsahib?’ asks Chef, wiping the knife with his apron.‘She is all right,’ I say.She is wearing a low-cut blouse.Observe the shape, whispers Chef.She drinks two or three glasses of port and, I observe, the drinking is making her sad.The two sahibs raise their voices reminiscing about younger days when they were in the Military Academy, where they had been trained alongside batch-mates who were now running the enemy army in Pakistan.Memsahib’s nails are long and red and her hair is red too because of henna.Chef wipes his hands on my apron and takes a mirchi and chops it like a surgeon and garnishes the Wagah biryani.Smell it, kid.Jee, sir.He applies a sizzling tarka to dopiaza and yells at server: Is the table ready? Chef hurries back to his position behind the curtain and with his finger makes me taste his new invention, the Mhow chutney.Then he puts his arm around my shoulder.Memsahib flips through a foreign magazine, which has many photographs.She is comparing herself to the photos.It is our time to come to existence, Chef tells me.We come to existence only to carry out orders.He parts the curtains briefly and enters the drawing room.There is a rhythm in his legs.He clicks his heels.‘Dinner is ready to be served, sir.’‘Dinner, Memsahib.’Gen Sahib and India-Pakistan move to the table.Back in the kitchen, ghee sizzles and the air tastes pungent and Chef orders the assistant to start slapping more naans in the tandoor and phulkas on the griddle.Perfect puffed-up circles.No maps of India, he warns.Yessir.The guests keep an eye on the General’s plate.When he eats fast, they eat fast.When he slows down, they slow down.Sahib keeps an eye fixed on Memsahib’s face, even while chewing the lamb.He is liking the Rogan Josh.Sometimes his fork makes circles in the air, sometimes his knife hits the plate like artillery.But, he is liking the lamb.She eats with her mouth shut.She stops chewing now and then and flashes a smile.Memsahib will stop eating only when he stops, says Chef.The General is aware of this.So he will keep eating until he is sure that Memsahib is almost finished.They talk about classical music, beekeeping, carpets, silkworms, diameter of the most ancient plane tree, absence of railways in Kashmir, loathsome Kashmiris, and picnics in the Mughal gardens.Also about Nehru when he was the PM: an army helicopter would fly to his residence in Delhi with Kashmiri spring water.They pause just before their conversation drifts towards hometowns, educational institutions, well-settled brothers and sisters.Then one of them mentions death: the soldier who killed his own sergeant, the Major who hanged himself at the border, and the young Captain killed recently during the Pakistani shelling on the glacier.‘Excellent biryani.’The napkin touches the General’s lips.Chef shoves the server in, bearing finger bowls.He returns for the dessert tray.Halva.Ashrafi.Jalaybee.Crescents of watermelon, and aloobukharas and peaches and strawberries.The colonel’s wife has become unusually silent.She closes her eyes and breaks out of silence slowly.Not a single Kashmiri fruit can make me forget the taste of a mango, she says.‘The best way to eat a mango is to suck it,’ says the colonel.‘Yes, yes,’ says Gen Sahib.‘Every time I eat a mango I think of Major Iqbal Singh’s Partition story,’ she says.‘And that Muslim woman who saved his life.’Memsahib stops talking in mid-sentence.The two men avoid the subject.(Father never told me anything about someone saving his life in 1947.)I look at Chef.Those real Pakistani women can’t even save a dog, he says.Memsahib watches too many films, he whispers.The three of them are sitting on the sofas again.‘More dessert for Pakistan?’ asks the General.‘No,’ she says.‘Pakistan must have more?’‘No, no,’ she says.General Sahib starts the records.Time passes.It passes very quickly, then slows down.Music makes time pass slowly.How could the woman save my father’s life? I ask myself.Sahib raises his voice.‘Kishen,’ he beckons.Chef dashes in with fennel seeds and tea on tray.‘Food was all right, Sahib?’ he inquires.‘Excellent trout and biryani.’‘Was it Hyderabadi?’‘A-One Rogan Josh!’‘Good brinjals!’‘Local produce?’‘Many things came from our own vegetable garden, Memsahib.’‘I have only one complaint,’ she says.‘Yes, Memsahib?’She is stirring her tea.‘Did the knife touch meat? I smelled non-veg in paneer.’The General stares at Chef.‘Sorry, Memsahib.If you would allow me, I will check with the trainee cook.’‘The Sikh chap?’ asks the General.‘Sir.’‘Sir, my wife has a sharp nose,’ says the colonel apologetically.He wipes dust off his green regimental blazer.The General is not looking very happy.Chef dashes back to the kitchen.He pulls me up by holding my ears and stares at me angrily and drops me on the floor with a thud.I murmur an apology.He shoves me towards the tandoor, parts the curtain, and returns.‘Separate knives were used, Memsahib,’ he assures her.‘The trainee says he added mushroom water.The non-wage taste was coming from mushrooms.’I breathe a sigh of relief.‘Who is this Sikh in the kitchen?’ asks the colonel’s wife.‘Major Iqbal’s son,’ says Gen Sahib, hesitating.‘Our Iqbal’s boy in the kitchen?’‘Don’t worry.He is on the fast track.’‘I see,’ she says.I watch the ayah enter the room with Rubiya.The child is in a pink frock, looks sickly.The ayah forces Rubiya to say good evening, uncle, good evening, aunty.She acts shy.Sahib scolds her not to be shy.Only a minute ago you were going to commit suicide, and now, my sweet pisti, what happened to your tongue? Suddenly the girl says: Colonel, uncle can help me! Uncle can help me! How? Asks Sahib.Uncle is a fat man, says Rubiya.Bad manners, says Sahib.Uncle has thick fingers, he can choke me to suicide.Don’t talk like that, says Sahib.‘He is fat, uncle is fat.’‘Sing the National Anthem, Rubiya,’ says ayah.The girl pauses, then does exactly what she has been told.She sings jana gana mana in a baby voice and runs and hides under the table.Memsahib wants to say something to her husband but changes her mind and turns her gaze towards the curtain.She starts walking towards us.Pakistan is going to invade the kitchen, whispers Chef.He shoves me towards the clay oven and parts the curtains and smiles a fake smile.Memsahib would like to have a word with the trainee.I lift my hands and fold them to say namasté.My brain fogs up.I bow.She says something in Hindi, I respond in good English.My attention moves from her feet to her ringed finger.She is standing very close to me now, a very tough moment, and Chef doesn’t utter a word, he observes with tiger eyes.Memsahib in her convent accent inquires about my hometown and education and thousand other things, including, if I was really Iqbal Singh’s son, and I feel like talking to her more and more, and I want to ask her about my father’s Partition story, but meanwhile I am liking her feminine presence in the kitchen, and the old vaccine mark on her upper arm.She is wearing a sleeveless blouse, but abruptly she turns, her sari spins like a top, and her high heels start clicking and it hits me hard the sound of her heels clicking as she returns to the drawing room [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]