"Chef" - читать интересную книгу автора (Singh Jaspreet)

2

I must have fallen asleep. I am woken up by a tap on my shoulder. ‘Is this bag yours, is this one yours?’ Two police-wallahs in our compartment. ‘Yes, that one is mine,’ says the civilian man occupying the aisle seat, the girl no longer there. One police-wallah sticks labels on already identified luggage. ‘And the brown suitcase on the rack belongs to my missus,’ the man says.

‘Whose is this big trunk?’

‘Mine,’ I say.

‘You don’t look like a commissioned officer.’

‘It used to belong to a general.’

‘Show me your ID card.’

‘I forgot my card.’

‘What is the name of the general?’

‘He is retired now.’

‘Name?’

‘He is the new Governor of Kashmir.’

‘Name?’

‘General Kumar.’

The police-wallahs look at me with contempt. They have rifles slung around their necks. The younger one turns on his flashlight.

‘What things are there inside?’

I do not respond. I take pity on their contemptible tasks.

‘Open it.’

One of them transfers the heavy trunk to the aisle, and I hand him the key. He is rough-handling the bottles, and he does not read the labels. His face resembles the face of people who don’t take responsibility for their actions.

‘What is all this?’

‘Don’t you see?’ The middle-aged woman sitting close by comes to my rescue. ‘This is heeng and that one is cinnamon… cardamom, coriander, cloves, fenugreek, crushed pomegranate, poppy seeds, rose petals, curry leaves, nutmeg and mace.’

‘Why so many spices?’ asks the first police-wallah.

‘Are you a woman?’ asks the second.

Chuckles from the two of them. ‘Carrying an entire kitchen on the train?’

‘The only reason we will let you go is because your trunk is not a real coffin,’ one of them says from the other end of the bogie, making eye contact with me, staring.

They chuckle louder after making that odd remark, and leave.

Then silence. Only the sound of the train.

Outside I see India passing by. I readjust my glasses. It is raining mildly, and I am glad it is raining because India looks beautiful in the rain. Rain hides the melancholy of this land, ugliness as well. Rain helps me forget my own self. I see a face reflected in the window. Who is that man with spots of gray in his hair? What have I become? But certain things never change. I have the face of someone who is always planning serious work, someone who does not know how to take time off. Now even that will be snatched away from me.

None of my fellow passengers understood the police-wallahs when they said, ‘The only reason we have let you go is because your trunk is not a real coffin.’ Our country is a country with a short memory. They don’t remember the coffin scam which took place in the army during the war with Pakistan and cost the General his promotion. Because of the scam he could not become the chief of army staff. He was innocent really. Officers below him, jealous of Sahib’s abilities, screwed him. Sahib did not get the respect he deserved. There is no way I am going to explain to the civilians the coffin scam. Even if I tried they would not understand.

The middle-aged woman is surveying me, looking at me from the corners of her eyes. She is eager to ask me thousands of questions. Her face resembles a plate of samosas left overnight in rain. The man sitting across the aisle just said he is proud of the Indian army. After the police-wallahs left, he asked me, ‘What did you do in the army, sir?’

‘I kept the top brass healthy and cheerful.’

‘What is it exactly you did, sir?’

‘I was the General’s chef for five years.’

‘Oh, you were a cook,’ he said and controlled his smile. His wife could not control herself. She looked up from the glossy magazine, laughed. The middle-aged woman could not control her laughter either. Civilians.

Then suddenly as if to break silence, he asked: ‘Have you ever won a woman’s heart with your cooking, sir?’

I did not reply.

‘But you must have?’

‘There are no women in the army,’ I said.

‘But sir. Women fall for men in the army. You, sir, had the biggest weapon in your hand. Cooking. Did you ever make someone fall in love, sir?’

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I am looking for a chai-wallah. Did you hear a vendor selling tea?’

‘Oh, we have tea in our thermos. Please pour some for sir.’

‘No, no, thank you very much.’

I turned to the window and the conversation stopped. The view outside the window was far more interesting.