Now this is killing me.
The reason I wanted to read the papers and watch TV was to find out how his parents and loved ones had responded. Not to get the details I already knew, but to find out about his family. I walked to the hospital, and I saw the nurse in white. She was always in white, but that day the color took special significance.
She knew he was gone. And she was expecting me. She asked me if Chef had mentioned her.
I did not respond.
She wept. She held my arm and wept.
‘He talked about you a lot,’ I said. ‘He only talked about you.’
‘Was the fire an accident?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ I lied, ‘it was a kitchen accident.’
‘What a way to die,’ she said.
She was grieving him. But I do not think anyone should grieve him. For once he did exactly what he felt like doing. He had designed the complete menu. It was a perfect glacier meal. Chef dared to question the universe.
He questioned the Siachen coffin scam and the ration scam, which ran into five thousand crore millions of rupees, I didn’t tell her. The colonel, the brigadier, the major general and other senior officers involved in the scams were not even charged. Instead they received early retirement with full pension and benefits. Now they run big hotels and malls, and reside in fashionable glass towers and drive yellow Hummers. Two or three represent our country in foreign lands as ambassadors. Isn’t this the biggest shame on this earth that the man who wanted to improve the army is forgotten, not even acknowledged, and the men who destroyed it every month receive fat pension checks and benefits? Why was I born in this country?
The cancer that has grown inside me is not my fault. This country caused it. Despite that it has no shame. There are voices inside me, voices of people close to me, and they keep saying that I am personally responsible for bringing the disease and illness on myself. But it is not my fault at all.
I walked to the ladies ward. There was no one inside. Normally when Irem was not there, her shoes or at least her few belongings were visible under the metal bed. Now the ward was empty. I stood by Irem’s bed. Her name and number were gone and insects were climbing the wall. The nurse told me that the captive had been moved elsewhere.
‘Where?’
She did not know.
‘They are looking for you.’
‘For me?’
‘You must report at the colonel’s office.’
There was a fog and I followed the gravel road to the khaki office building. The colonel was alone in the room, so I did not have to wait long. His office orderly announced me, and although the colonel didn’t look up I marched in anyway. His cap was lying on his desk, and he was reading a thick file.
‘Jai Hind, sir,’ I said.
No response.
I noticed the circles left on his desk by cups of chai and coffee.
I coughed.
Suddenly he raised his head, stared at me and snapped his fingers and asked the office orderly to bring the thing. I noticed the colonel’s trussed jacket, his curly hair. Coconut oil glistened on the curls.
The orderly unlocked the Godrej almirah in the room, and pulled out the thing.
‘Play it.’
The orderly played my tape recorder.
‘We confiscated this from the enemy woman in the hospital ward,’ said the colonel.
‘Sir.’
‘You gave the enemy woman this American music?’
‘German music, sir.’
‘Yes, yes, I know. The enemy played it again and again for two full days – very loud – this music. Why did you give it to her?’
‘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 Kumar 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 embassy during his training, but he did not know the title of the music. For many years I did not know the title either. It was only last year I found out. I visited the German embassy in Delhi. The yellow-haired girl at the embassy sent me to Goethe House, where the music librarian asked me to sing that piece of music.
I tried.
TUH-dee TUH-dee
TA-deeee TA-deeee
TUH-dee TUH-dee
TA-deeee TA-deeee
‘Try again,’ she said.
Daam Dum De-daaam De-daaam
Daam Dum De-daaam De-daaam
‘One more time,’ she said.
‘This one goes slowly,’ I said.
Daaah Daaah Da Daaah It Vit
Daaah Daaah Da Daaah It Vit
‘More,’ she said.
‘The tune is almost a military march,’ I said.
TUH-dee TUH-dee TA-deeee TA-deeee
TUH-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 Da
Da Da Da Da
Da Da Da Da
Deee 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. 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. This has stayed with me all these years. The Ninth has stayed. It is not just music. It is 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. It penetrates my body like smells, like food. And yet: it is solid and massive 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. It is the kiss, the most powerful and delicate kissforthewholeworld.
Da Da Da Da
Da Da Da Da
Da Da Da Da
Deee 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.