Kaukab turns back to the pans set on the hobs. “We are not celebrating anything. My children were coming home after a long time, so I thought I’d cook something. . Then I started thinking about the favourite dish of each one of you. .”
“Did you, even for a moment, stop to think that it might be a little inappropriate — your seven spiced-and-saffron’d dishes, and tandoori chicken, with a choice of chappatis and rice?”
“Ujala, please stop it.” Mah-Jabin takes a step towards him. “Mother has been working on this for two whole days now.”
Kaukab is frowning. “As I said it’s not a feast. Only a few dishes I cooked. It’s not a party. And yes, when someone mentions saffron you are bound to think the meal is luxurious and special, but I’ve always put a little saffron in my rice, a festive occasion or ordinary day.”
“Let’s hope you stop at saffron and don’t start putting any other ingredients in the food,” Ujala says.
“What does that mean?” Mah-Jabin looks over her shoulder. She turns to Kaukab: “What is he talking about?”
Kaukab too is puzzled: “What other ingredients? It’s Charag who doesn’t like cumin seeds in his food, you eat everything. .”
“I was thinking of that powder a Muslim cleric gave you, after you had gone to him to tell him how unruly your son Ujala was, how he had done nothing but quarrel with you ever since he entered his teens. Remember?” He smiles contemptuously at Kaukab. “The holy man read special verses of the Koran over some powder and asked you to secretly mix it into your son’s food. ‘With Allah’s help the child will be obedient within thirty days,’ he said, or something along those lines.”
Kaukab looks ashamed. “I didn’t know what else to do. I. . I. . How did you find out?”
“You put things in my food!” he shouts. “If you lot had tails they would wag every time you approached a man with a beard.”
“I asked Allah to help me through that holy man. And it worked, thanks to His blessing. After I started putting the sacred salt onto your plate, you did become very kind and affectionate, mindful of the respect you owed your elders. But then, for some reason, you disappeared and I haven’t seen you since then. And I have felt you moving and walking about in the world the whole time. They take the baby out of the mother but not all the way out: a bit of it is forever inside the mother, part of the mother, and she can hear and feel the child as he moves out there in the world.”
“Do you want to know why I left? Do you?”
“I do know now. You must’ve seen me putting that blessed and consecrated salt in your food.”
Mah-Jabin approaches Ujala and places a hand on his shoulder. “What difference does it make, Ujala? It’s all harmless and it makes her happy.”
Kaukab looks fiercely at the girclass="underline" “Don’t patronize me, Mah-Jabin.”
Ujala removes Mah-Jabin’s hand from his shoulder. “Yes, I saw you putting that thing into my portion of the food but I didn’t leave because of that.” He turns to Mah-Jabin: “I did think it was all harmless at first, but then I found the place where she had been hiding that stuff and had it checked out. It was a bromide, the thing they put in prisoners’ meals to lower their libido, to make them compliant. That was when I left.”
Mah-Jabin gasps and looks at Kaukab.
“It was just some salt over which the cleric-ji had read sacred verses,” Kaukab says. “And it worked. His behaviour was exemplary then. Any decent mother would have been proud of his conduct during those days. .” She talks but cannot ignore the horror in Mah-Jabin’s eyes, and asks: “What’s a libido? What’s a bromide, Mah-Jabin?”
Ujala crosses the kitchen and goes out of the house, leaving Mah-Jabin and Kaukab where they are.
“Mah-Jabin, go after him. Take his coat and go after him. Bring him back. . Yes, yes, put on your own coat too. .”
“Mother, did you know what that powder was?”
“I told you it was just ordinary salt over which some verses of the Koran had been read. What is a bromide?”
“I’ll tell you later. I’d better go after him.”
Alone, Kaukab suddenly sees for the first time the amount of food in the kitchen. There are bowls, plates, saucers, basins, katoris, pots, kamandals and glasses on every surface, full of ingredients large and small, black cardamoms, green cardamoms, clove, cinnamon, mace, cumin, coriander seeds, saffron, yoghurt raita, green chilli, red chilli, onion, red onion, garlic, honey, gram flour, wheat flour, chicken pieces, mutton cubes, potato wedges, cauliflower florets, peas, beetroot, kebabs, basmati rice, bitter-gourds, vermicelli, cream, sultanas, dry coconut, lemons, fruits, dates, pink-husked pistachios, rose essence (the sweat of Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him), lettuce leaves detached whole and curling like seashells, salted butter, unsalted butter, clarified butter. She feels shame for having forgotten that all this might appear inappropriate so soon after the confirmation of Jugnu and Chanda’s death. How insensitive would she — and therefore all Pakistanis and Muslims as a result — appear to the white girl Stella? A rush of blood to the head had resulted when she realized that her family would be together under the same roof for the first time in many months — many years. But now it is a possibility that Ujala would disappear again. What had she added to his food? What is a bromide? Is it some kind of poison?
She lets out a whimper.
She switches off the gas from under the pots and begins to clear some of the surfaces, thinking fast about how she can scale down tonight’s meal, her mind occupied by the complex culinary algebra. Just the mutton-and- potato curry and the pilau rice? But the white girl Stella doesn’t eat meat. So: the cauliflower-and-pea curry and pilau rice? But Shamas doesn’t like cauliflower, so she would have to fry the shami kebabs for him. She could freeze the almost-ready mutton-and-potato curry and use it at a later date. . What had she fed her son? Is he ill as a result of it? She leans her head against the wall. There would be no fruit salad and the vermicelli would have to go without the sparkling gold leaf that the grandson would have enjoyed looking at. . She reminds herself that her plan was to put the immersion heater on around about now so that the water could warm up for when the guests needed to wash their hands. Slowly she climbs the stairs and goes into the bathroom to switch it on. In the hatch she finds the piece of crumpled up paper and pulls it out, puzzled. Flattened, it looks like a soft square popadum. The handwriting looks like little black ants stuck to the popadum. . It is a story of love. . She doesn’t know who this paper belongs to.
The Television keeps informing us in the news bulletin that we are defeated yet again. The newspaper headlines scream. They say we are defeated, irrelevant, finished. And the reins are now in the hands of those who neither say their prayers nor keep the fast. On Allah’s vast earth, we small and humble Muslims are everywhere in ruins. Our lives and our lands lie like a pile of rubble. Our women have become disobedient like Western women. Our children seduced by the West into being strangers.
The heads that had never bowed before anyone but Allah are being cut off.
Kaukab frowns at the page. It reads like the text of a Friday sermon at a mosque. But what is it doing here?
It is a story of love. The caravans of the lovers of Allah are being ambushed again and again and looted. Those talking — they who “claim” to be the possessors of wisdom — say, “We should realize that we are weak and should bow down before the strong.”