From the bus I saw the General’s private car. The driver was holding my name written in huge letters. I am cancer, and I have arrived in Kashmir. I sat in the front seat and the driver checked with me if I was comfortable there, and I nodded, and asked him to drive slowly. His face looked vaguely familiar. The sun was setting. There were plane trees on both sides of the road. The car sped up as it looped around the army camp on the slopes of the mountain. I turned in my seat and tried to locate the spot where the army had put up the tents to court-martial me.
Schoolchildren were playing there, at the exact same spot. They did not know a thing. Neither about me, nor about the court martial. Troops were marching outside the camp. One-two-three. One-two-three. I must have been lost in deep thought because I didn’t notice when the car started winding up the hill to the Raj Bhavan. There was a deep mist in the mountains, not much was visible. I must have looked towards the Mughal garden with longing, and perhaps that is why the driver turned to me and said, ‘Stop first at the garden, sir?’
‘Yes, yes,’ I said, surveying the ruins.
But then I changed my mind, and asked him to hurry to the Governor’s residence. On the way I noticed lots of checkposts and military bunkers and (to my surprise) beauty parlors. Dal Lake had more weeds now, and the signs by the road said that the weeds were being removed by a Swiss company. The golf course, on my right, was deserted. The chenar trees looked ancient, bare, ready to receive snow.
The car passed between the two gateposts and guards, and stopped in front of the Raj Bhavan. The flag of our country was fluttering on the post. The servant who was standing by the entrance saluted me and rushed to the car to pick up my trunk and bag. I told him not to, but he picked up the two items anyway, and dashed indoors. A hospital jeep was parked by the fence. I hit a stone on the way to the house, and stumbled for a while.
‘Where are you going, sir?’ asked a voice. I was heading towards the rear entrance, but the voice made me yield to it. He was the General’s new ADC. Suddenly it occurred to me how much time had passed, and for no reason I touched the stone pillar at the front.
The ADC asked me to wait in the living room. The room looked both strange and familiar with its carpets, fireplace, rashtrapati furniture, and glass cabinets. I occupied the walnut chair in the corner, and looked out the window.
‘Who is that lady with a little dog and a cell phone?’ I asked.
She was standing on the terrace of the Guest House.
‘Her name is Mrs Ramani, sir. She is the previous Governor’s daughter.’
‘Yes, yes, I know.’
Her peace paisley silk was fluttering in the wind. She had climbed up the stairs of the Guest House for a clear cell phone reception, and was yakking away. So this is Bina after fourteen years, I said to myself. Still beautiful but no longer the same one whose wedding banquet I took care of.
‘What is she doing here?’ I asked.
‘Bedding guest, sir.’
‘Bedding guest?’
‘No, sir. Bedding guest.’
‘Wedding guest?’
‘Yessir.’ Sitting in the walnut chair I felt very tired. I felt like my journey had come to an end and yet had come to nothing. I felt like returning to Delhi.
‘Ready-made tea, sir?’
‘Sorry?’ I asked.
His fingers were grubby. He was the new Chef’s assistant.
‘Ready-made chai, sir?’
‘No milk and sugar in my tea.’
‘Sir.’
‘Wait,’ I said.
‘Sir.’
‘What is that white slab in the lawn?’
‘The dog, sir.’
‘When did it happen?’
‘Don’t know, sir.’
He left tea and Marie biscuits on the table in front of my chair. The tea was horrible, no cardamom and excess ginger.
Sipping tea I asked myself if my need to cling to life was so enormous that I had forgotten my morals. I thought of all the people who will attend the wedding banquet dressed in peace silk and paisley, and they will talk as if all was well and all will be well. They will eat tandoori chicken and mint chutney and mango pudding and drink Bailey’s chai. And the things they will say about Rubiya’s choice of a husband. They would have said things anyway, they always do, but this time they will say more as if they were entitled, and the few who will fly in from Pakistan will display their suave French-cuff shirts, and they will wine and dine and dance and repeat the same worn-out phrases – ‘Give us your Bombay actress Madhuri’ and ‘Take our Kashmir!’ and no one will pay any attention to people like Irem. People like her do not matter. Damaged people like her do not matter at all. Even when they leave the hospitals they remain sick. Even when they leave prisons they remain trapped. Their sickness is being alive. Their crime is that they continue to exist.
The wedding guests will say, The curry did not have right enough masala. While others after a few bottles will say, Curry karari thee, bahout khoob sahib, bahut khoob. Gazab ka korma. Subhan Allah, the Hindus will say. Some will speak English with English accents and some will display polished American accents and say, The curry was not done yet, or some other infantile thing, like the curry was fun-tastic, very good hanh. Someone else in broken English will say, Ever since my wife die-vorced me I have not had this kind of curry, and then someone will correct the man, It is ‘divorce’ not ‘die-vorce’. Yes, yes, that is what I meant, the other would say. Why am I here? What am I doing here? I asked myself in the walnut chair.
Soon the ADC led me to the General’s room. The corridor was unusually cold. He walked fast, and I walked slow, but finally both of us stood in front of the door. The curtains were swaying.
It must have been a slight hesitation on my side that made the ADC literally push me inside. General Sahib was standing in front of the window, hands crossed behind his back, one hand trembling.
On the little circular table not far from his bed a cigarette – half-consumed and hurriedly extinguished – released a few threads of smoke.
Not knowing what to do, I clicked my heels. The General turned and said, ‘Jai Hind’ and walked towards me and shook hands and then he almost hugged me, but something made him change his mind. His hand started trembling violently.
‘Kirpal, how is your mother?’
‘Not well, sir.’
He sat at the edge of his bed and pointed towards the armchair.
‘Please sit down.’
This was the first time I had received such an honor, and perhaps that is why I hesitated again.
‘Sit down,’ he said, ‘Sorry there is smoke in the room. I have just seen the doctor. After the doctor leaves I always have to smoke.’
‘No problem, sir.’
‘We knew.’
‘Sir.’
‘You would come. You would not fail us.’
‘Sir.’
‘Rubiya will be pleased,’ he said. ‘You came because of her?’
I sensed that the General wanted to have a long conversation, but his breath was coming out with a wheeze.
‘Take your bath. Drink water. Rest. Don’t forget you are in the mountains now. We will have dinner together.’
He rang the bell.
The servant appeared.
‘Keep the bags in the Guest House.’
‘Sir,’ I said, ‘if you don’t mind I am staying in a hotel.’
‘Your room is ready.’
‘Please, sir. If you do not mind.’
‘In that case, Kirpal, my car will take you there.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘We must have a quick word.’
‘Sir.’
‘Rum?’ asked the General.
‘No, thank you, sir.’
On the way to the Raj Bhavan I had thought of the possibility of facing him alone, and I knew he was waiting for it and I tried to predict his questions. I, too, had questions. So much time had passed and the questions had acquired a huge weight. Looking at the frail form of General Sahib now I felt like delaying them. Things had to sort out between us, but not right away. Looking at the plane trees outside the window, bare tops swaying in the wind, I felt like experiencing one last bright moment of Kashmir, it was enough for that day of my arrival. ‘After you left did your cooking change?’ he asked.
‘Very right, sir. I have discovered that simplicity is the main principle of cooking. My dishes are growing simpler and simpler.’
‘So I will begin with a simple question,’ he said. ‘Why did you leave, Kirpal?’
He looked through me and I was unable to say a word.
‘For all official purposes it was the health of your mother, Kirpal. The court martial cleared your name. The army sent an official apology and compensation afterwards. The circumstantial evidence said that you were guilty. But that enemy woman said you were not guilty.’
‘Her name is Irem, sir.’
‘Yes, yes – I know. She had not even filed charges against you. So why did you leave?’
I was not able to say a word.
‘I think I know why you left,’ he said. ‘All these years I have tried to answer this question, but I want to ask you if there is an iota of truth in this. You were like my son, Kirpal, and your father was well-liked. He was my finest officer. I know why you left. I know it. You fell in love with her. You were in love with that woman. That is why you left.’
He looked at me again in the eye.
‘You loved her the way Rubiya loves this man from Pakistan. I had told Rubiya no matter what happens the boy will not step inside this house. What right does Rubiya have to act on her desires the way she did? Tell me. When you were completely in love with that enemy woman, when you could control your desires, then why not Rubiya?’
Because I was at a loss for words the General continued.
‘Sometimes I think the desire for the enemy is more than the desire for our own. No one knows this better than you. And that is why you left. That was the real reason. You did not want to act on your desire. You did not want to. You saw a villain or two. And that was the easy way out. You saw the villain and left. And you did not even have the courage to tell me the truth. But how could you have told me? I was the one more powerful. I was like your father, Kirpal. But you used your ailing mother to deal with something you could not deal with. Your mother’s sickness became the veil to hide behind. And because you did not talk about the problem you thought the problem did not exist. Now say something.’
‘Sir.’
His breathing grew heavier.
‘I wanted Rubiya to be here. In a way it is good she is not here. God knows where she is. After all I have done to you, will you still be kind enough to be the chef at her wedding? Civil wedding. It is going to be a small affair. Twenty, thirty people. The boy’s family is coming by bus from the Pakistani-occupied Kashmir.’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘Everything must be perfect. This is Rubiya’s wedding. Everything must be ek-dum perfect.’
‘Sir, you have my word. But.’
‘I knew there was a BUT.’
‘No, sir. I would just like to have a word with Ms Rubiya. Regarding the menu, sir.’
The general’s private car has just dropped me at Hotel Liward. My legs are stiff and my whole body is aching. I am thinking about the long bus journey after the long train journey. Every part of the bus rattled for eleven hours on the mountain road. Every window. Now every bone in my body is protesting. The bus to Srinagar took eleven hours, and for eleven hours my body had to suffer. Perhaps I should say my body behaved unusually well on the way. A man, much younger than me, vomited six or seven times, but my body cooperated, and I threw up only two or three times, or perhaps this is just a lie. It is impossible to lie to oneself. Just like it is impossible to tickle oneself. Only mad people tickle themselves. I am not mad. I made a big mistake to set out on this tedious journey.
It is for Rubiya’s sake really I am here. Otherwise I would not have come to the valley. Yet. It is for my own sake really I am here. I know once I do the perfect banquet, General Sahib will refer me to top specialists in the military hospital, and they will start treatment right away.
On the road to Srinagar, a sign said:
This is neither a race, nor a rally.
Drive safely in Kashmir valley.
These people are real jokers. I hear the bleak laughter of Kashmiris everywhere. Even in the hotel room.
My room is big and it has a large hot brazier and a mirror on the wall. The bed is neatly made; there is an extra quilt in the closet. I complained (about the small room ‘S’ they had allotted me earlier) and the manager moved me to this VIP room: ‘N’. (The rooms are not numbered. I wonder why they are lettered?) Climbing up the stairs made me breathless. I unlocked ‘N’ and took off my cap and overcoat. On the wall two hairline cracks and the oval mirror. Looking inside, a sudden memory returned to me of that day when Father had helped me untie my shoes after a long journey. I was four or five years old then. My eyes fluttered, reliving the memory. I felt a lump in my throat as I undressed. Then I stepped into the bathroom and washed my hands and face.
I am unable to sleep. I walk to the window. I open it and shut it properly. Chilly outside. I see a Sufi shrine and a post office. The light is dim. The post office is closed. I want to say something. The word does not come to my mouth. What was it I would like to say? What exactly is wrong with my brain? The b-u-s. I wonder why I spoke to the woman in the bus?
We were sitting next to each other. Me: on the window seat. In the beginning we did not exchange a word, but the driver’s rash turns on the winding road made her say something and I nodded and then we could not stop talking. For five and a half hours, almost half of the way, we were silent to each other, lost in our own worlds, and then suddenly we started talking, and I overexerted myself. There was no need to do it. I even offered her my window seat, but she said the aisle was better.
She was a Kashmiri Hindu woman, returning home after a gap of thirteen years. She said her situation was a bit like the exiles in the epic Mahabharata. I apologized for my limited knowledge of Hindu epics. I grew up in the Sikh tradition, I confessed. She studied my face carefully. So why, sardar-ji, have you cut your hair and removed your turban?
I said nothing.
My husband had a travel agency in Srinagar, she told me, and I used to teach biology in school, classes 6, 7 and 8; but we were forced out of the city by the militants. Deep down all Muslims are pro-Pakistan, she said. Our servant was an exception, she said. He would send us letters about the house, now the house is with the militants, he would write, and now it is with the army or paramilitary, but in the last letter he told us that the house was empty, and the roof of what used to be the kitchen and the bedroom had fallen in.
Listening to her I thought of those moments lost to time, my first arrival in Kashmir when Chef took me on long bike rides, plane leaves rustling under the tires, ruins on left, and ruins on right, and so many empty houses, and once or twice he had said that the city without the Kashmiri Hindus looked incomplete. Why, Chef?
‘Without the Hindus (who have been forced to flee by some Muslim extremists) this valley looks exactly like Swiss cheese,’ he said.
‘Cheeze?’
His comment initially left me confused. Cheeze means a ‘thing’ in my mother tongue. Punjabi, the only language in the world made entirely out of puns…
I am talking about paneer, Kirpal. Swiss cheese is a strange variety of paneer with holes in it. In school they taught us: Kashmir India ka Switzerland hai. Well, this place has certainly become the ‘Swiss cheese of India ’. When I look at the empty Hindu houses in the valley, Kirpal, I realize there is no bigger tragedy for a land that forces its own people out and makes them wander from place to place, and leaves them damaged with an intense longing to return home.
The woman changed her seat. She found one next to a peasant girl just before the bus entered the three-mile-long tunnel. Whenever a woman sitting next to me changes seats I ask myself if I did something wrong. She had a plastic bag full of cherry tomatoes, and she kept eating them one by one. She did not offer me a single tomato. Did I misbehave? Did I offend her with a swear word? Do I have bad breath? Did I utter something very lucid? Islands of lucidity are forming inside my brain. Did I mutter something on love? I have wasted the years of my life being too much in love. Love that was not even returned. Love for the wrong person or a thing. Love is a dish that is either overcooked or undercooked. Love never tastes right. Love smells like the inside of a garbage bag. Love has the odor of decay. Throw it away.
I unpack my suitcase. Breathless again. There is a little package for Rubiya. And a gift for someone else. My clothes have all tangled up in each other. The jacket and pants and the tie I brought along from Delhi need ironing. They will look good on you, Mother had said. They will look good on you, Kip.
I don’t deserve to wear these things. They are too bloody new.
I have the breath of death, I say to myself in the hotel room. Women sense it more than men. And they do not want to get closer. In a way I felt relieved when the woman moved because I was able to stretch, but an old man occupied the empty seat minutes after she vacated it. She never once looked back and kept eating her tomatoes. She did not notice her replacement. He was a Muslim man, conical cap on head. Hooked nose. He was using a toothpick to clean his teeth. As he settled on the seat, the man asked, What time is it, jenab? I noticed he had a watch on his wrist, and I assumed it must have broken and I told him the time, and he thanked me – shoorkriya jenab, he said – but right after the tunnel in bright light I noticed the man’s watch was showing the correct time.
Inside the Jawahar tunnel we had to shut the bus windows. The driver feared a militant grenade or an improvised explosive. Inside the tunnel water kept dripping from rock. The tunnel is three miles long. For three long miles yellow sodium lamps lit the road. Then the light of Kashmir appeared. Blue mountains. Bright numinous light reached out to touch us. The driver, that idiot, put the bus in neutral and coasted all the way downhill. Coasting saves him diesel. Just before hitting the valley he asked us, the passengers, to look towards the right. Verinag, he said. This is where the river begins, he said. As if we did not know.
The bus was coasting down. The tunnel disappeared behind us in the crack of the mountain. A few miles later it reappeared. I looked upwards from the window seat and noticed the arch of the tunnel. The happiness and unhappiness of so many people depends on the tunnel and the road, and the road to Kashmir is not so bad. The buses are, the drivers are, the checkposts are. If there is one thing right about our country it is the road.
From my hotel window I can see the Hindu houses. They have been empty for so long, the roofs are falling in. It has been ages since someone burned fire in those rooms. No smoke rises out of chimneys. Time is mocking the chimneys. In one of those kitchens I would like to cook for both Hindus and Muslims.
The difference between Hindu cuisine and Muslim cuisine is very easy to explain. In Kashmir the Hindus avoid sexy onions and garlic; they love the taste of heeng (asafetida) and the non-incestuous fennel and ginger. Muslims find heeng (and its sulphurous odor) unbearable. They adore garlic, green praans, garam masala, and on certain occasions, mawal flowers. So there is a ‘Hindu’ Rogan Josh, and a ‘Muslim’ Rogan Josh. Over the years I have developed my own recipe, a Rogan Josh inspired by these two great traditions. I have perfected the dish, and I can say without hesitation that it is my finest accomplishment. Rogan Josh is red because of Kashmiri chilies, which are ten times more red than the ordinary Indian mirchis. I know this from Irem. I must discuss the menu yet with Rubiya, but I will manage to persuade her to allow me to prepare this delicacy at the wedding.
Rogan Josh
900g lamb (shoulder cut, with or without bones), well rinsed and sliced into one-inch rectangles
5 tablespoons ghee
1 cup dahi
6 cloves, crushed finely
2 tablespoons Kashmiri red chili powder
1 cinnamon stick
½ teaspoon turmeric powder
1 onion, finely chopped
1 tablespoon ginger-garlic paste
4-5 garlic cloves, minced or finely sliced
2 teaspoons ginger powder
2 teaspoons fennel powder
1 teaspoon cumin seeds
¼ teaspoon cumin powder
¼ teaspoon crushed cardamom
1 teaspoon garam masala
½ teaspoon heeng
14 strands of saffron
Marinate the lamb for two hours. Coat the pieces with ginger-garlic paste, cumin powder, crushed cardamom, and turmeric. Sprinkle salt (to taste).
Heat ghee on high flame in a large heavy-bottomed pot (for best results, use degchi).
Add cloves, cumin, heeng, and cinnamon. Sauté for 2 minutes.
Add onion. Sauté until golden.
Add garlic. Sauté for 2 minutes.
Add lamb. Sear until dark brown on all sides. Oily juice will come out of pieces.
Stir till all liquid in the pot becomes vapor. Make sure the meat pieces don’t stick to the bottom.
Add dahi (well whisked) one spoon at a time, stirring constantly.
Cook for 15 minutes on medium heat.
Stir constantly till the sauce becomes very thick. Make sure the meat pieces don’t stick to the bottom.
Now add Kashmiri red chili ‘liquid’ (chili powder dissolved in 2 cups of hot water). Stir well.
Switch to high heat.
Add ginger and fennel powder. Stir and bring the pot to boil.
Cover and cook on low heat till the lamb is tender (approximately an hour).
Now add garam masala.
Cook for 2 or 3 minutes more.
Now add ‘liquid saffron’ and stir well. To prepare the liquid: Crush the saffron threads and mix with two tablespoons of hot water.
Rogan Josh is done.
Serves 6
Rogan Josh is done, I say to myself on the bed in the hotel room. Dinner is ready, Sahib… Drinks are served, Sahib… Applause… Shabash… Applause… I recall with absolute clarity that Sunday, five years ago, when the army honored me for my culinary contributions at the Military Academy in Dehradun. After the ceremony I delivered a small talk on Kashmiri cuisine for trainee chefs, jawans and officers and their wives, which was very well received, so many stood up and gave me genuine heartfelt applause. Standing ovation, as Sahib would have said.
During the little break (just before my talk) I wandered off towards the beautiful lawns of the Academy, and there under a tree I saw a cadet in uniform reading a book. I was filled with curiosity and inquired about the title, and he said it was a book of poems, and it was called In Different Hours. I flipped through the book, looked at the author’s name, and found myself saying out loud: So our Rubiya has become a poet.
‘You know the poet, sir?’
‘Of course. She used to taste my food. Rubiya was the taster of my preparations. I am so happy she has become a poet.’
‘I can’t believe you know her, sir,’ the cadet said again, somewhat stunned.
‘Yes, yes, General Kumar’s daughter has become a poet.’
‘Sir.’
‘Only yesterday she was playing with toys in the garden.’
‘I would like to write to her, sir. Please would you be kind enough to introduce me to the poet?’
So I wrote a little note of introduction for the young man, and jotted down my own address on a sheet of paper. I do not know how he got hold of her address or if he received a response, but to my surprise I received a response from Rubiya. She sent me two new poems as well, and a cutting of the newspaper article she had written after a recent trip to Pakistan. When I read the article I knew that the fate of Kashmir was going to change. I said to myself that this was the right approach. Not what Chef Kishen did. Chef’s approach was wrong. The path that Rubiya is following is the correct one, I had said to myself, and I say it again to myself, now, in this hotel room. When I read that article by Rubiya I knew that from now on the fate of Kashmir was going to change.
Before I flew to Pakistan, every day I had to deal with my fear of the border. The day I turned 5, Father drove us on a jeep to the border. It was a flag meeting, which is usually rare at that most unforgiving border. I was afraid, unable to articulate my fear. I found it difficult to cross the Line to Pakistan. ‘If you cannot make up your mind,’ said the guard on the Indian side, ‘then run back to the jeep.’ I still remember the paralysis I experienced standing in the gravitational field of the Line. Now and then I am able to recall the distance between the line (on the ground) and my foot (right above the line) frozen in air. My father had already crossed to the other side, the wrong side, and I was engulfed with strange and familiar fears. ‘Come, come,’ beckoned the enemy guard with a smile. But I could not overcome the terror, which kept swelling inside me. I ran back to the jeep. From the jeep I saw my father talking to enemy uncles and aunties as if they were his half-cousins.
Rubiya wrote a monthly column in the paper. I started reading her articles regularly. She never once mentioned me in her writings. I was a little bit hurt. Especially by the original article she had sent me in the letter. She had completely omitted me. I had accompanied her and General Sahib on that trip to the border. I had comforted her, given her her favorite badam kheer to eat. Not her ayah. The ayah was sick that day. And I had taken care of Rubiya that day. Only after reading the article the third or the fourth time I stopped feeling hurt. I know she did not mention me because it was to protect me. I was, it is safe to say, very important in her upbringing. I think she knows this so well she does not want to embarrass me with outwardly praise.
Rubiya and I, a long time ago, had developed a special understanding, which goes beyond words. (Am I repeating myself?) Sometimes when General Sahib was a little annoyed with my performance, Rubiya would wink or give me a look, which meant, I understand, don’t worry, my father is a bit out of his mind. He is a bit fussy, that is all.
I was not even seven when my mother died. At first things were difficult, she was absent and present everywhere I went, wounding me. Father was sad too and we would walk hours on end without talking to each other. Few months later he and I watched a movie at the open-air cinema in the army campus. Soon this became a ritual. He would accompany me to watch old Bollywood films. Seating at the cinema was strictly according to one’s rank. The chairs close to the screen were earmarked for officers and their families. Non-commissioned officers and combat soldiers and orderlies and cooks and gardeners could watch only from behind the screen. They sat cross-legged on grass, facing the projectionist, in strange lotus postures. Men in hobnailed boots guarded the border between the two sides. Once the heroine on the screen nearly drowned in monsoon rain. This scene was so intense, it left the guards leaning on their rifles, and I walked to the other side.
There were more insects on the other side and they bit me hard, but what struck me the most was that the image on the screen looked utterly different. Some mysterious power, I felt, had transformed the symmetry on the screen. Our ‘left’ was their ‘right’, and our ‘right’ was their ‘left’. Fundamentally, nothing changed; rain did not become saliva, the coin-sized mirrors on the heroine’s sari did not turn to fire, and yet after that incident never have I been able to look at moving images without hearing sounds of soldiers marching, and never have I been able to walk without thinking about the symmetry or the break in symmetry.
Now, many years later, I think the border between India and Pakistan is a bit like the white film screen that belonged to the open-air cinema. Both sides happen to be watching the same film, sometimes projected from India and sometimes from the Pakistani side, and our left is their right, and our right is their left.
Her bold articles in the paper gave me courage, a lot of courage, and perhaps that is why I finally wrote to her about Irem. After that I did not hear from Rubiya for a long time. She skipped her weekly column in the paper, and this made me worry. But a huge piece appeared three weeks later focusing entirely on Irem. In the article she had changed Irem’s name. She had called her Soofiya. She had found Irem in a prison.
I felt overjoyed and yet I felt very sad. Because I had written my note to Rubiya six years too late.
Rubiya’s article on Irem was very long. But there are fragments which keep coming back to me over and over again. She wrote:
Soofiya found that she was pregnant. She was offered an abortion, which she refused. She gave birth to a baby girl she named Naseem, which means the morning breeze.
Soofiya served out her sentence for ‘entering India illegally’ but no one told her that now she was free to go. The story got out because of an ex-army man’s anonymous letter to an Indian NGO. The letter was forwarded to the World Human Rights Protection Council. Because of the intervention, the Indian authorities sent Soofiya and Naseem on a police-escorted vehicle to the Line of Control. But the Pakistani border guards refused entry. ‘We will allow Soofiya in,’ said the guards. ‘But we will not allow the girl – she, like her “father”, is really an Indian citizen.’
Four more attempts were made. With similar results. In the meantime Naseem has started the prison school in Indian Kashmir. She is a bright kid brimming with curiosity. Soofiya fully approves of her daughter’s education; at times she brags before the prison immates about Naseem’s ability to read and write. The last few days all I have thought about is this… That time is running out… The rough muscular talk between the Hindu fundamentalist leaders of my country, India, and the Pakistani dictator, General Musharraf, has escalated beyond comprehension. Both sides are promising a ‘total’ war. In 1998 when the two countries had tested nuclear weapons in the desert sands the same leaders had promised that atomic weapons were really a deterrence… Last week the two armies marched to the border again, a million men in combat-ready positions. Anti-personnel and anti-tank mines have been planted all along the 1800-mile border. The air smells of the end of the world… During times like these it seems foolhardy to focus on an ordinary woman and her daughter.
And yet. I feel the story of Soofiya and little Naseem is the story of the whole of Kashmir.
What hurts a person into poetry? I ask myself. What made Rubiya a poet? The plane leaves? Snow, or night, or the death of her mother? Or the food she ate? What are the things one must do for the sake of a single poem? Where does poetry come from? As a child she was always hiding from grown-ups. She would make herself small, hiding under the bed or the table, hiding from her father. She sat under a dark table reading books. She played with the black dog. She tried to catch butterflies in the lawn, separating herself from the rest. She refused my meals. The ayah would not allow her to enter the kitchen. Was she becoming a poet then? Did she write her first poem when she first heard about the glacier?
Where are you headed, Papa?
To the glacier.
Who lives there?
Our men, the soldiers.
It is funny, Papa. It must be so easy to slide down.
When exactly does one become a poet?
But, Dad?
Yes, Rubiya.
If the glacier is moving, then how do the two armies draw the line?
What do you mean?
How do India and Pakistan tell where the border is precisely?
When exactly?
Just before her wedding, when I would meet her alone I would ask her all these questions. I would tell her: Rubiya, your poems have made me happy. You will make so many people happy. Millions in our country, and also in the ‘enemy’ country, will be comforted by these words.
‘Are you going to write a poem about your father?’ I would ask her.
‘Chef Kirpal,’ she would respond, ‘poetry is not cooking. Poets do not get to choose. It is the poem that chooses the poet.’