‘Tonight, from behind that curtain, I will show you the real thing.’ Chef cleared his throat. ‘The real memsahib,’ he said.
‘Tonight?’
‘Yes, observe her attitude. She speaks polished Inglish. And observe her nakhra. The way she holds a fork.’
8
Everything is ready, almost ready, in the kitchen. Fumes are rising from simmering pots. Soup is cream of corn. Starter is sheekh kebab. Main course is seven items, including pork in mango-coriander sauce. Memsahib is vegetarian, Chef tells me. Navrattan paneer and dal makhni have been prepared especially for her. Lady Fingers are also for her. Biryani, kakori and fish are for the colonel. Trout is ready – from Dachigam in the morning.
Evening approaches. Tonight the real memsahib is coming. The sun reddens the kitchen walls before it sets in the enemy’s land.
Everything is ready.
General Sahib stands on the verandah, hands clasped behind him. He is an inch or two above six feet and he always stands in this manner. The black American suit gives him a stately air, the red scarf on his neck depicts a leaping leopard. There is a fresh shaving mark just below his left cheek. His skin has an oily sheen, no wrinkles yet. Everything about him is what I had imagined to see in a General, even his eyes, which are at once intimidating and filled with compassion. He bends his neck, listening to the sound of footsteps on the gravel path. The guests are approaching.
The colonel, a short man wearing a black beret, walks a little ahead of his wife. She has Bombay actress good looks, but he is a bit on the heavier side. He looks restrained but angry as if already tonight someone has offended him deeply.
The two men shake hands firmly.
Sahib kisses the memsahib on her cheek, which is red because of make-up. She giggles. Says something in English.
‘ India and Pakistan all right?’ asks General Sahib.
‘Both of us are very well, sir!’ says the colonel.
‘I don’t believe a word!’ says Sahib.
‘No. Please don’t believe him,’ says Memsahib and giggles.
‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ Sahib guides them to the living room.
‘More fire power,’ says the colonel, now looking more relaxed.
‘Darling, stop it,’ she says with a sparkle in her eyes.
She is wearing silk. The sari clings to the curves of her body, tight, as if purely out of desire.
Inside, Chef explains the meaning. ‘Gen Sahib calls all married couples as India and Pakistan.’
‘But who is Pakistan?’
‘Women are.’
There are three sofas in the drawing room, and a grand fireplace with glowing red coal. The painting of the dead woman looks down at the guests from the wall. Not far from the painting there is a glass cabinet. The artillery mementoes inside the cabinet demand one’s attention. Next to the mementoes are bottles of finest quality rum and scotch, and Kingfisher beer.
She sinks in the sofa, the real memsahib.
Chef and I are standing just behind the gap in the curtain. He is holding a sharp knife; he keeps wiping the blade with his apron. Now and then he points a finger. At first I find it hard to observe the colonel’s wife properly. All I can see clearly is the back of her blouse.
‘Where is the little one?’ she asks.
‘Rubiya, your Aunty and Uncle have arrived,’ says Sahib a bit loudly.
Rubiya is in her room with the ayah.
‘Papa, I am trying to commit suicide,’ she shouts from her room.
General Sahib laughs.
‘She learns these words. Don’t know from where. She doesn’t even know the meaning of “suicide”. Two days ago she told the ayah that her mother actually committed a suicide.’
India and Pakistan laugh.
The colonel rubs his hands.
‘Whiskey?’
‘With soda, sir.’
The colonel clears his throat.
‘Your wife was very beautiful, sir.’ He admires the painting; so does the memsahib.
‘She was a coastal woman.’
‘The beauty of Kashmiri women, sir, is overrated. Real beauty belongs to Indian women, especially from the coastal regions, as you very rightly said. Coastal women are real. They have real features. They may be darker, but with impressive features. That is why they get crowned Miss World, and Miss Universe also. Our Aishwarya Rai, sir!’
‘Kashmiri women here have a delicate beauty,’ says General Sahib. ‘The kind of beauty hard for Indian women to match. They are fair, they are lovely. What else can I say? I disagree with you, colonel.’
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.