‘Here comes the famous Brigadier Pash.’ Sahib shook his hand in the drawing room.
From behind the curtain I overheard the conversation between the two men.
‘Is there an evidence?’
‘Not on paper -’
The glasses tinkled and plates clattered and spoons rattled, but I can’t forget the syllables of Gen Sahib’s crisp voice.
‘The man is innocent,’ he told the presiding officer. ‘Make sure his career is not stained.’
‘But, sir,’ said the Brigadier. ‘I am assuming the army wants to know. Even if we are not interested – the whole thing has been recorded on a spy camera. Three press reporters posing as arms dealers from the UK and the USA visited Colonel Chowdhry’s residence and offered him bottles of whiskey. If you are going to bribe me chutiya, the colonel told them, at least bribe me with 5 crore rupees and Blue Label. Black Label won’t do. Then there is the coffin scam -’
‘This is a set-up, Brigadier Pash,’ said General Sahib. ‘Don’t you see? Images these days can be manipulated by technology. There is no written evidence, no real evidence against him. The colonel would never sell our boys for the price of Blue Label.’
The civilian papers were filled with news of Col Chowdhry of 5 Mountain Division. He had been involved in several scams, the latest one being the coffin scam. The colonel had bought hundreds of aluminum coffins from an American company at 200 dollars apiece. He had charged the army 1800 dollars apiece. More dead Indian soldiers at the front meant more profits for the colonel and his politico friends in Delhi and Washington. One or two papers held General Sahib responsible for the coffin scam. But Sahib was innocent really. The colonel had taken advantage of Sahib’s trust. Despite that, Sir was trying to save the man.
‘Do keep him under a watch. But don’t start anything new. He is clean. Let him go.’
‘But, sir, are you asking me to lie?’
‘We must protect the morale of our army.’
‘If I lie, sir, I’ll feel bad. And if I tell the truth, I’ll feel bad. What should I do, sir?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing, sir?’
‘Eat the food, Brigadier. Do you like the saag?’
‘Excellent, sir.’
It rained for thirty-nine days. Then it stopped and one night it started raining again. From the kitchen window I heard the sounds and inhaled the smell of falling leaves. During day the trees looked wet and bare and dead, but at night the pointed branches moved as if alive. Rain fell on the yellow lights of Alpha Mess and the Quarter Guard where the court martial was to take place. The trials didn’t mean much to me then, I am embarrassed to admit, not as much as sleep, and sleep was a rare commodity in the army.
Something happened in the hospital.
Irem found a strand of hair in the dinner I sent her a week before the Eid. The guards told me: The enemy woman wept uncontrollably, Major. The nurse had to give her a needle. The enemy took that strand of hair out of the bowl of dal, Major. She raised her hand high and held it in the light and looked at it like a detective and then she started weeping, Major.
I didn’t know what to do with Irem. While cooking, I listened to Chef Kishen’s German music. It went fast, then slow. Fast, and slow again. The notes swelled and shrank, and made me move deeper and deeper inside something beautiful. Then I was rising like a fish in a dead lake, the ripples spreading. During break I walked down to the hospital with the tape recorder in my kit. Troops were marching in the rain. They were marching on the muddy road, too, lined with military vehicles. Drops were dancing on the license plates. I did not care about my fears. It seemed natural to go to her. I stepped into the ward. She had fewer bandages and looked stronger sitting up in the metal bed, her head covered by the same scarf, and for the first time I realized that her features resembled the Bombay actress Waheeda. The same chiseled face, the same nose, the same cheeks. In Irem’s left hand there was a golf ball. She was concentrating on the ball. Outside the window rain was falling on bare trees. I figured the ball must have entered the room through the window. She was examining the ball’s dimples. Without moving her eyes she greeted me.
‘Salaam.’
‘Salaam,’ I said.
She kept studying the ball.
‘With balls like these,’ I explained, ‘the sahibs play golf on the lawns.’
Her fingers tried to squeeze the ball gently the way people squeeze fruits before buying.
‘The dimples are there for a reason,’ I said.
‘I know,’ she said.
‘You know?’
‘They make the ball go faster.’
‘Who are you?’ I asked.
She smiled but stopped short of responding to me. Outside the trees looked dark and wet and naked.
‘Listen,’ I said. ‘You are a smart woman. But there are things you do not know. And that is why you waste your tears. I have come to reveal something about myself to you. If you do not know it already, then you must get to know it,’ I said. ‘In one single breath I would like to tell you. Here. Look at my face.’
She fixed her gaze on my boots, not my face.
‘Look at my face,’ I said.
It seemed natural to do what I did next. I removed my turban. I revealed the knot of hair on my head. She raised her eyes and surveyed me curiously.
‘I have long hair.’
I don’t recall if she dropped the ball or it fell on its own from her hand. The ball bounced several times on the floor before rolling and then coming to a stop, becoming absolutely still.
My hair tumbled to my knees.
‘That is why you found the strand in the dal,’ I explained. ‘You wept for one big nothing.’
‘So they inform you of everything about me.’
‘Because I would like to know you,’ I said.
‘Liar.’
‘No.’
‘What do you want to know about me?’
‘Everything.’
She eyed my long hair with enormous curiosity. It was the first time she looked right through me.
‘There are women who envy me,’ I said, ‘because I have hair longer than theirs.’
She continued gazing at me with the same curiosity. She looked right through me, and slowly her hands unknotted the scarf on her head. Slowly she let it go.
‘Hair,’ she said.
My gaze followed the movement of the scarf as it fell on the floor.
Then I heard her forced, convulsive laughter. I raised my eyes and observed: they had shaved off her hair. She broke out laughing before she wept. Like a child. Why did they shave off her hair? I asked myself. Why did we shave her head?
My eyes, too, welled up. Me, wearing very long hair, and this woman mourning the loss of her hair. Her scarf on the floor, and my turban on the table. I felt as if the two things, the scarf and the turban, were talking to each other.
Before I walked back to the kitchen I retrieved the tape recorder from my kit and left it by her bed.
‘I am leaving this music machine for you,’ I said. ‘The top is broken, so be careful. Look at my fingers. Here. This is the button you push to play. Push the last button to eject. Like this.’
Her gaze remained fixed on the broken top.
I pressed the button.
She listened to the music. A bit startled at first, the expression on her face changed many times until she smiled. I noticed again the small insects climbing up the whitewashed wall by her bed. The insects were vibrating too. I wanted to ask her many questions, and I had imagined she would request in that Muslim Kashmiri inflection of hers ‘Play it again! Play it again!’, but listening to those sounds she fell asleep.