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.Sikhs believe in the holy book, the Adi Granth, and ten masters, Guru Nanak the first one and Guru Gobind Singh the last one.No one knows what the gurus really looked like, but in calendars they appear as if lost in deep meditation, unaware of the bright halos behind their Sufi-style turbans.Their beards are black or gray, but always long and flowing gracefully.In Kashmir I tried to buy the Prophet Mohammed calendar.There was no such thing, I was told.It was hard to conjure him up.Every time I tried he would resemble one of the Sikh gurus.In Srinagar, in the mosque with a single minaret, there was a strand of the Prophet’s hair.It had been transported in a vial to Kashmir (in the luggage of a holy man) two or three centuries ago.Thousands of people gathered every year on a special day to be blessed by the holy relic.At first I thought the hair in the vial belonged to the head of the Prophet, but Chef corrected me.It comes from the Prophet’s beard, he said.If I have forgotten certain details from that time it is because I rarely got any sleep those days.The mosque was the holiest in Kashmir, but it had been hijacked by a group of militants, who used to gather in the hamaam to talk azadi.The vial was kept under heavy security.But one day it disappeared.We read about the theft in the papers.The Kashmiris took to the streets in millions demonstrating against our country, blaming our leaders.Government buildings and vehicles were set on fire and the situation got out of hand.My thoughts during those days of demonstrations kept turning to the colonel’s wife.On the third day of the demos I gathered the courage to walk again to her residence, but the orderly told me that Memsahib was in the living room taking dance lessons from an instructor.I waited on the lawns.Their dark forms, visible through the window, whirled and spun, but I could not hear the steps.‘Kip,’ she beckoned me finally on the verandah.I folded my hands by way of greeting.‘Why did you come?’‘Are you disappointed?’ I asked.‘No, no.’‘I have come to talk to you.’‘Talk to me?’‘Yes.’ I hesitated for a moment.‘You don’t look happy,’ I said.‘Perhaps you have come to look at my kitchen?’‘Yes, yes, Memsahib.’‘Come in then.’We passed through the living room.On the sofa a familiar man was sitting, the General’s ADC.Seeing him my heart froze with terror, but I saluted anyway.He was wearing a French-cuff shirt and his shoes looked expensive and gleamed with confidence.‘Kip has come to inspect our kitchen,’ she told him.‘I see,’ he said, staring at me.I followed her.There was nobody in the kitchen.She stood next to the fridge and I next to the sink.‘We don’t have much time,’ she said.‘Now tell me –’‘Yes, Memsahib.’‘What have you heard about me?’‘Nothing,’ I said.‘Tell me.’‘Nothing.’‘Liar,’ she said.‘Your father was different.’‘So far nothing, Memsahib.’‘In that case soon you will start hearing things.’‘Yes, Memsahib.’‘I am like your Aunty,’ she said.‘Yes, Memsahib.’‘Understand?’‘I do.’‘What did you hear?’‘If I hear things about you I will shut my ears.’‘You will shut your ears?’‘Yes, yes, Memsahib.’‘Show me how.’I put fingers in my ears.I felt like a child.‘Shut your eyes as well,’ she said.I did exactly as I was told.I closed my eyes.I heard her steps approaching me.Yet I felt uncertain.Then I felt her sari touch my shirt, and for a brief second she stabbed me with her pointed breasts.Then she stepped back and started slapping my face with the back of her hand.Left cheek.Right.Left again.‘Aunty!’ I opened my eyes.‘Don’t return,’ she said.‘You are like a son to me.’She rushed to the next room and said something inane to the ADC and they resumed the dance lessons.I took the long way home to General Sahib’s residence.Wet inside my pants, I felt like running.Instead, I slowed down.The chants and slogans of the Kashmiris demonstrating in the city kept insulting my ears, and I could not shut them out.Two days later in the kitchen.I watched from behind the curtain, General Sahib was alone in the dining room with the colonel’s wife.She was looking beautiful, her voice carried on waves of laughter.The colonel was supposed to be there, too, both had been invited, but Sahib dispatched him for an emergency law-and-order meeting with the Police Chief and the Governor.The English they were speaking was fluent, with good idiom.Lunch was ready.Kebabs and rumali rotis.They were about to start when the red phone rang.Chef, he was standing close to the phone, answered.‘General Kumar’s residence.’Sahib: ‘Who is it?’Chef: ‘Sir, the Prime Minister’s secretary is on the line.the PM would like to talk to you.Matter is urgent, sir.’Sahib: ‘Is he on the line?’Chef: ‘Sir, the secretary will now tell the PM you are available.She has asked me, sir, to tell you not to move away from the phone, sir.’For ten minutes there was absolute silence in the residence.It was hard for the colonel’s wife to remain silent, but she too was silent.Chef walked to the dining table on the tips of his toes to cover the dishes.That was the loudest sound during those ten minutes.The secretary called again.Chef: ‘PM is on the line, sir.’He stood glued to the dining table during the phone coversation.Later Chef shared with us in the kitchen the key details.The PM had basically told the General to locate and restore the holy relic to its proper place within forty-eight hours, no questions asked.The police failed to deliver so I am asking the army to take over, the PM had said.Never before had the General looked so worried and anxious, Chef told us back in the kitchen.Sahib’s face acquired the look of a man who had just been ordered (for the first time in his life) to slaughter a little goat.He scratched his head, plucked his hair while talking on the phone.‘Sir,’ said the General to the PM.‘We will do our best, sir.Yes, sir.No, sir.It will be done, sir.’ Right after the call ended he picked up the kebab on the table and for a long time kept moving the thing from left to right in his mouth without swallowing it.‘What now?’ asked the colonel’s wife.Sahib kept working on the kebab.No one to this day knows how and where the vial containing the relic was found.But after forty-eight hours calm was restored.The army faced one more hurdle.Before the relic could be installed in the mosque, it had to be validated.The mosque named five holy imams to validate the holy relic.They were flown to Srinagar on DC-3 Dakota planes.Their job was to determine if the hair in the vial was authentic.The General’s ADC asked us in the kitchen to prepare a proper meal for the clerics.It is important to make them appreciate the high quality of our dishes.The ADC stared right through me during the conversation.Chef told me after: this is your real test, kid.The recruitment test was a fake.At this critical moment in my career and your career and General Sahib’s career, and at this critical juncture of Kashmir’s relationship with India, what food would you prepare?‘Authentic Kashmiri,’ I suggested.‘In that case,’ he said, ‘we will have to become Muslims.’‘Convert to Islam?’‘Of course.Yes.’‘Chef is not serious.’‘Chef is serious.’‘If cooking Muslim food in the kitchen is going to establish peace in the country then I am willing to convert for a day,’ I said.‘Bewakuf,’ he said.‘Idiot.’Chef cooked Muslim Kashmiri delicacies with his own hands passionately and with great care, like a wazwan.Who taught him? I asked.Later, he said, I will tell you later, you Sikh.But he never did [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]