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Chef: A Novel
Chef: A Novel
Chef: A Novel
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Chef: A Novel

Rating: 3.5 out of 5 stars

3.5/5

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Kirpal Singh is riding the slow train to Kashmir. With India passing by his window, he reflects on his destination, which is also his past: a military camp to which he has not returned for fourteen years.
Kirpal, called Kip, is shy and not yet twenty when he arrives for the first time at General Kumar's camp, nestled in the shadow of the Siachen Glacier. At twenty thousand feet, the glacier makes a forbidding battlefield; its crevasses claimed the body of Kip's father. Kip becomes an apprentice under the camp's chef, Kishen, a fiery mentor who guides him toward the heady spheres of food and women.
In this place of contradictions, erratic violence, and extreme temperatures, Kip learns to prepare local dishes and delicacies from around the globe. Even as months pass, Kip, a Sikh, feels secure in his allegiance to India, firmly on the right side of this interminable conflict. Then, one muggy day, a Pakistani "terrorist" with long, flowing hair is swept up on the banks of the river and changes everything.
Mesmeric, mournful, and intensely lyrical, Chef is a brave and compassionate debut about hope, love, and memory set against the devastatingly beautiful, war-scarred backdrop of occupied Kashmir.
LanguageEnglish
Release dateMay 1, 2010
ISBN9781608192908
Chef: A Novel
Author

Jaspreet Singh

Dr. Jaspreet Singh, Senior Research Officer, Riddett Institute, Massey University, New Zealand. Dr. Singh's research focuses on characterising future carbohydrates to develop novel and healthy food products. He leads several research projects on potatoes, starch, cereals and supervises graduate and post graduate students at the Riddet Institute. He has characterised Taewa (Maori potatoes) of New Zealand to develop new and nutritionally rich food products. Collaboration is a key part of his research and he works in collaboration with food chemists, engineers, nutritionists, and the food industry. He is committed to sharing research with others and has published research papers in international journals, written book chapters and presented his work at international conferences.

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Reviews for Chef

Rating: 3.3986486783783785 out of 5 stars
3.5/5

148 ratings55 reviews

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  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Thanks to Bloombury and GoodReads for the Giveaway copy.

    As beautiful as the Kashmiri setting, as savory as the subtle dishes described. A wonderful debut novel and highly recommended.
  • Rating: 2 out of 5 stars
    2/5
    I wanted to like this book, but the narrator was too annoying and nothing much happened. I got through about 1/3 of it before giving up -- I skimmed a bit further along, but I saw no signs that it was about to become interesting. I'd thought I would like it because I'm interested in food and the narrator was nearly my age, but coming from a very different place, but yeah, I just didn't like the guy.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    A look at a time and place I've never read about before - always interesting for me to read about India and its people.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    This book had great potential. I enjoyed the story of a young chef and his shaky allegiances. The language was vivid and poetic. The scenery lush. I yearned to know more of the supporting characters and their backstories. I could have loved this book, except that it fell flat when it came to its main characters. They were good characters--Kip, Kishen, et al--well, possibly. The truth is, I didn't get to know them enough to know what I truly thought of them. I didn't understand their drive, or who they were. They felt closer to cardboard cutouts detached from the sweeping novel than to people I should care about deeply. Unfortunately, for a book such as Chef, character development is a vital ingredient. Without strong characters, the end result is rather flat.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    One of the ways we learn about the world is by travelling, whether in person or by being armchair travellers. Literary and historical fiction is my preferred method of travel, and Jaspreet Singh's Chef is a crash course in Kashmir, an area of the world that is rarely mentioned when the history of the larger subcontinent and the issues that require resolution are discussed. Partition probably created as many problems as it solved.This is a beautifully written, fascinating novel - highly recommended.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    This book was interesting for its descriptions of Indian history and culture. The plot was slow-moving as it was written as memoirs of the entitled Chef and described his experiences in the Indian Army. The writing style was good but I just couldn't engage with the main character.
  • Rating: 2 out of 5 stars
    2/5
    I am late to review this book - I received as an Early Read.I didn't enjoy the book and didn't finish it. I put more effort than I would typically of a book I just wasn't 'in to' but still wasn't able to finish the book. While I don't have a lot of experience with the Indian culture or books set in India, I was very curious to learn. The prospect of the story - memoirs of a chef, in the Indian army - seem quite good. However, the story was very slow to evolve. The author has a great narrative style (6+ months since I began reading the book), I can still picture the scenes he describes. I, unfortunately, just couldn't get through the book.[We moved 4 months ago, half way across the country and this book was packed, along with the MAJORITY of the books we own, into low priority boxes. Until we move into our home, currently under reno, in Sept, this book won't emerge from the plethora of book boxes. I may try it again at that time. The author's style is quite good - the plot just couldn't hold my attention.]
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    I enjoyed reading this book. I learned some stuff and I liked the author writting style. The book was just ok for me because it got a little boring and daunting however I think I would recomend it.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    I enjoy reading books about Indian culture/history and cooking culture, and partially because of this, I enjoyed reading this book. In addition the author explores more universal themes on the destructiveness of war on humans and does a good job at this also. Although I can't put my figure on it, something is missing from making it a great book, but it's well worth reading.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    I read Chef a few weeks ago and am just now getting time to write a comment. By coincidence, headlines in the Guardian January 4, 2011: "The influential governor of Pakistan's Punjab province, Salman Taseer, has died after being shot by one of his bodyguards in the capital, Islamabad." Reading the newspaper articles about this most recent assassination and the comments from readers, especially from Pakistani people, reveals how complicated and destructive politics is in that country/region.Chef is a work of fiction which brings some of the complications of India/Pakistan politics and military friction to life in the main characters--Kirpal Singh "Kip", and his former teacher, Chef Kishen--in a flash-back return to Kashmir from India. Even Death is personified in Kip's reflection on his own mortality (he has cancer), as he returns to the desolate, war-ridden region of northern Pakistan. There is much at work in this lyrical novel, much think about, and it was very effective in raising my interest to know more about this region and its seemingly endless conflict.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Another one received for review from LT. Unfortunately, it was not a great choice this time. I completely missed the point of this book. I found the subject (or lack thereof) uninteresting, it seems that nothing happens in this book. The language is also difficult to grasp- did the author intend to use an incorrect English (as spoken in India by the book characters)? Is this a book about food? If so, the Indian food names and the recipes are uselful only if you are Indian or have a broad knowledge about Indian cuisine. Is it about an unspoken love story? Maybe it's a historic novel? Not sure. Fact is that although the book was shortlisted for few literary awards, this book did not talk to me.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    well, this book will stick with me for some time! Kashmir has been the center of a dispute between India and Pakistan for a long time. Following in his father's footsteps, the protagonist of the story goes into the army where his father was a hero. Set as the assistant to the general's chef, he weaves himself into the household and the town. His thoughts focus on the local gossip as well as several women, but he is unable to fully participate in either romance or intrigue. At the end of his life, he returns to ask questions that will set his heart at ease, but find that living is a messy and unanswerable business.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Kirpal "Kip" Singh is a former army officer and assistant chef to a high ranking military general in the Indian Army, who has been summoned by his former commander to prepare a wedding meal for his beloved daughter. Kip was unceremoniously dismissed from the military 14 years previously, and has just learned that he has an incurable brain tumor. His return is a bittersweet one, as he returns to the beauty and tragedy of the disputed region of Kashmir, where his father had a celebrated career in the Army and where he learned the craft of cooking from Chef Kishen, who was Kip's mentor and closest friend.Kip recalls his time in the army, most notably his relationships with Chef Kishen, General Kumar and his daughter, Rubiya, the bride of the upcoming wedding. However, his most meaningful relationship is with the captured Pakistani who Kip is ordered to interrogate, as his repeated interviews of the prisoner permit him to understand the futility and meaninglessness of the Kashmir conflict, which cost the lives of thousands of Indian and Pakistani civilians and soldiers, and only served to advance the careers of high ranking military officers and politicians.Unfortunately, despite the interesting topic, [Chef] was a disappointing novel, as the major characters were thinly developed and portrayed, and I quickly lost interest in them and the story. It is a quick read, and the descriptions of the beauty of Kashmir and the effects of the war there were well done, but it would have been a great novel had it been written by a more talented and insightful writer.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    The story starts a little slow, but soon demands full immersion, emulating the train journey the main character is on. There's a strong feeling of loss (of innocence, hope) ; what remains is that we essentially remain the young person we once were throughout life.Sensual and hypnotic prose echo a multiple of sensory elements in the story. There is a juxtaposition of sterility and richness, isolation and belonging, cold and heat.A melancholy vein of sadness runs through the story, an almost helpless anger at war, prejudice and abuse.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    [Chef] is an intriguing and deceptive little story told with that very subtle rhythmic language so often found in stories by Indian writers. The book takes us back with Kip as he reflects on events that, although they are long past, have left him scarred and scared. The writing is elliptic and creates a certain distance between the reader and the characters, although I felt that I got to know Kip quite well. On the surface, it seems that since Kip is a cook, the book is mostly about cooking and how it relates to life. That, I think, is a misreading of the text.There is a quote at the beginning of the book: "They make a desolation and call it peace." And that's what is at the heart of [Chef]: the destruction and misery left behind by war. "Did they all die for a big nothing?" is asked repeatedly by different characters. The reader is left believing that maybe, indeed, all wars are fought for a big nothing. Singh gives the reader a lot to think about.Recommended.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    An army chef returns to Kashmir, where he spent his entire military/cooking career, to cook for the wedding feast for his commander's daughter. He now has brain cancer, and as he makes the journey by train, he recounts his days spent in Kashmir, as well as his relationships with the chef he apprenticed under, a female Pakistani woman considered an enemy of the state, and the Governor (his commander). Honestly, I was a bit bored by this book. Character development wasn't very deep for any of the characters, including the narrator. Included were many lists of foods and ingredients, but cooking wasn't tied into the story much at all. There are lots of events that *should* be interesting and exciting, but somehow they aren't. I kept reading because the book is short (around 260 pages). Forgettable.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    The premise of the story, "person traveling back to a place he left a long time ago, reflecting on things that happened there" is not particularly original. And the author does a good job of establishing the character of Kirpal/Kip, an Indian chef who spent his formative years in the army and now is traveling back to his old post to cook for the general's daughter's wedding.I agree with a previous reviewer who wrote that the characters and events are flat, lacking emotional punch. You want to care about Kip and get personally invested in his coming-of-age story, his struggles with political and religious philosophy, and yes, even his desperation to lose his virginity ... you want to, but you can't, because the writing, while nicely crafted, is keeping you at arm's length. I found the story interesting, but I didn't find myself particularly caring about the characters. Afterward, I wondered whether that distance in the writing might be deliberate -- since the whole story is, of course, being told from the point of view of the twenty-years-older Kip. But in the end it doesn't really matter. The book just didn't grab me.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    The premise is certainly interesting: a terminally ill ex-soldier recalls his turbulent years as a cook in the Indian army as he travels back to Kashmir. But I found the protagonist, Kirpal, difficult to care about, and the supporting characters flat. Events that should be telling or at least exciting-- death on the glacier, love for a suspected terrorist, a military rebellion ending in immolation-- have an odd, shiny, impenetrable quality to them, as if we're observing them through layers of soundproof glass. It's not that the scenes lack sensual detail, but that we never understand the character's motivations except in the most scantily drawn of terms. Much of the book hints at great roiling emotion behind each turn, but it never seems to let us glimpse it. Except, perhaps, expressions of Kirpal's sexual frustration, which border on silly.Other people have called the prose "lyrical," and to be sure, it has its moments. But the prolonged lists of exotic foodstuffs and the many overwrought cooking metaphors made me think that this book could have spent less time in workshops and been better for it.I'm giving it three stars because it's not lightweight junk or poorly written, but no more than that because I won't think of a single character or phrase from it after I put it down.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Chef is the story of a chef, Kirpal, returning to Kashmir, where he was stationed as a young man in the Indian army as the chef for a general. Now dying of cancer, Kirpal is going back at the general's request to cook for his daughter's wedding. On the journey, he reflects on his youth spent in the troubled region, the events that caused him to leave and the people who most influenced his life: the chef who mentored him, the Muslim woman he fell in love with and his father, an officer who died on the glacier there.Kashmir is a fascinating region, caught between India and Pakistan and perpetually in turmoil, yet one of the most beautiful places in India. As I read Chef, I found myself wishing Singh would show me more of his setting and its history. Likewise, I wished I could have learned more about the food of India and Pakistan, which plays such a symbolic role in the book -- but without a thorough understanding of the food culture, I often felt I was missing the deeper meaning.I also found it difficult to connect with the various characters that influence Kirpal's life, who Kirpal often refers to by title rather than name, making it difficult to keep them straight. The young Kirpal is hopelessly naive and unworldly, but unfortunately, because he so often misses things, I worried that I might be missing them too. Chef's greater theme is about the ceaseless, hopeless conflict in Kashmir, but without more grounding in its history, I'm afraid much of the novel's potential impact was lost on me.In short, Chef was a novel that left me wanting more, which perhaps is not such a bad thing.This was a review copy I received through LibraryThing Early Reviewers.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    This novel is about Kirpal Singh's return journey from Dehli to Kashmir after more than a decade away. Throughout the journey we got back in time to see what brought Kirpal to Kashmir in the first place and how it moulded who he is and his reasons for such a long absence from Kashmir. I found the novel hard to get into but as I went on I really started to enjoy Kirpal and how he expressed himself and viewed things around him. The descriptions of Kashmir, the people, places, as well as social and politcal interactions were all from an interesting perspective. For me there seems to have been a deeper side of Kirpal that was alluded to but never explored. His true feeling about his father, mother, medical condition, women and even his chosen profession could have been explored much more to deepen the novel.
  • Rating: 2 out of 5 stars
    2/5
    The writing was not terrible, but in spite of the occasional passage of great beauty, I think the best part of this book was the recipes. There were only a few, but they look good. Unfortunately, there were a few too many comparisons between people and food. I also felt that the transitions from present to past were rough, I did not care much for the characters, and any point the author was trying to make was lost in the effort of making the point. I was interested in reading a book about the conflict between India and Pakistan, for me, this was not it.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    'Kirpal Singh is riding the slow train to Kashmir. With India passing by his window, he reflects on his destination, which is also his past: a military camp to which he has not returned for fourteen years.' sets the stage for a book which another online reviewer described as "the reason we readers READ."I truly concur as CHEF is one of the finest novels I have 'experienced' in quite a while. A marvelous tale of our contemplative hero Kip and his fate as he returns home to Srinagar. We encounter Lyrical flashbacks as the author weaves this layered story of self discovery. Along this journey, the reader is treated to refreshing personal tour of the region and a general political overview via an army insider as realizations are made amidst HOPE & SORROW.............Do give this debut novel a chance if any of this interests you and also seek out the authors first publication, a delightful collection of short stories titled ''Seventeen Tomatoes: Tales from Kashmir" which came out in 2004.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    A subtle and fascinating story, beautifully told. I wish I could have read this on a long trip - on a train. This has been a hard read for me because I had to set it down frequently, busy in other areas of life. I really appreciate that this story is about a chef, but not about food; about the military, without being overtly political. The story is excellent and not what I was expecting. If you can, read it on a train, over one long day.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Writing about Kashmir means to write about beauty and about brutality. It also means to write about the smells and aromas that emanate from its fields and from its fruits and its vegetables and meats. Kashmir is a place of many fine traditions, impeccable beauty and tragic violence. Jasbir Singh captures all this in a memorable way in his book "Chef". I felt transported at times. Singh has produced a well written book with an engaging narrative. This is neither the best book on Kashmir I have read, nor the most touching, but it is a compelling, moving book. Singh seems slightly preachy at times and a tad bit didactic, but if you can overlook these minor flaws, "Chef" is a good read. More than anything else, I felt saddened by the complete cynicism in social systems and governments that people eventually must arrive at in order to reconcile the harsh realities of their life with the fictional storytelling of politicians around them. The notions of a "heroic" military, or of a "just cause" are swiftly brushed aside in this book with a dose of real-life trauma and hopelessness. The only thing that makes the tragedy tolerable is the immense beauty of nature, of cuisine, of culture and of happenstance. I give this book an A-.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    It is difficult for me to characterize why I came away with a positive impression of this book. The plot is not memorable, nor are the characters ones to which I am naturally drawn. The time sequence is challenging - it is not linear or always easy to follow - which occasionally had me initially wondering when particular events were occurring. Nothing is tied up with neat little bows. There are many loose ends, many unanswered questions, many aspects which allow interpretation and supposition. Perhaps it was the language used and images conveyed. By the end I was won over - again, not by plot or characters, but by the feelings evoked, the sensations experienced as I read. There is a sadness to this book that felt real - a sadness for Kashmir, for those at war and experiencing war, for those with desires and dreams that do not match their reality. Fitting that a book about a chef may be an acquired taste, but I believe it is. Not for everyone, but I, for one, am glad to have invested the time in reading it.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    More often than not, for me, if the first page grabs my attention - it is going to be a good read. This novel moved me from the start. And the more I read it the more it moved me. Written from the first person, with the author skillfully placing himself in the protagonist's shoes, the story, going back and forth in time, portrays the inner mind workings of a young Sikh coming of age on the background of the harsh reality of Kashmiri conflict. The idea how vulnerable we all are comes through with touching poignancy. Infused with unforgettable allegory of cooking terminology (for the young man is a General's private chef), interlaced with lovely and yet abused Kashmiri landscape ("Kashmir was a beautiful place and we have made a bloody mess of it"), the story flows with pain (and yet reads effortlessly) through the mind of a man returning to Kashmir after many years of absence, with questions to be answered and a heavy load of doom due to a merciless diagnosis he has just received.... "It is a waste of time to be prejudiced. A waste of breath".
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    I found the book fascinating in several ways. The history of India and Kashmir, the culture of the military world that Kip lived in, the food!, oh the food, and Kip's own personal history which was devastating. Such a story of loss. Compelling and very moving.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    The atmospheric detail of Jaspreet Singh's novel Chef is charming, and his use of language and word-play can be interesting, but the progression of the story itself is extremely disjointed. It seemed at times as if this was intentional on the part of the author, as it would be logical for the recollections of an elderly man to not be wholly linear and seamless; and being told from the first person, a stream-of-consciousness narrative would make sense. However, if intentional, Singh seems to have outdone himself to the detriment of the story. We're not given the opportunity to get to know any of the supporting characters more than superficially since they appear only sporadically. And since Kip, the narrator and main character, is always musing on something new and unrelated, we are never given a sense that he cares much about any of the characters he claims to find so important, including Rubiya, the girl he is willing to leave his ailing mother for and travel vast distances just for the opportunity to cook for her one last time. Likewise Kip's obsession with sex feels pasted-on rather than genuine. He mentions it repeatedly, but never seems to have much vested interest in it because he never discusses it for more than a sentence or two at a go, and because it is so out of character from everything else that occupies his life. Like many of the details in this story, the novel would probably have benefited from leaving that one out altogether. The only truly solid impression I felt I was left with of Kip and his life was that of Kip as a weak, indecisive personality who accepted the opinions and lines of thought handed to him by others unquestioningly, who rarely acted under his own agency, and whose own mental faculties could at best be described as ditzy. Not exactly the kind of character who can ably serve as the central focus of an entire novel.Chef was a fast but mediocre read. I ended the novel rather disappointed, as I suspect it could have been a much more dynamic story if Singh had opted to tell the story from the perspective of some of the more active, interesting characters like Irem or Chef Kishen. I felt as disinterested in the life and destiny of Kip as he seemed to be in everything going on around him. There are plenty of strong, absorbing books about the political and religious conflicts between India and Pakistan, but this is not one of them.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    I found the book A quite nice airport read. The pace of the book has a good measure, slowing just enough at places to allow the reader to absorb the nesc details about the characters. I felt that there was a short story vibe to the book, much like James Joyce's stories in The Dubliners. I particularly liked that there was not a sense of complete closure, the author did not feel the need to tie up all loose ends, rather just enough to move the story along. The incousion a the poetry and recipes had a restrained touch that aided the novel. Three stars for a good read, though i do not think that i would keep coming back to this book for rereading. I look forward to further writings from this author.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    I had a really hard time getting through this one. I just couldn't relate to, understand, or empathize with the narrator, Kirpal "Kip" Singh. Were he a real person, I don't think he and I would get along very well, he being much too sort of melancholy and poetic for my taste. He seems very disconnected from the rest of humanity and everything else, which makes it difficult to relate to what he says. I feel like I somehow missed the significance of many of the details of the story because I didn't get the character recounting them (and I'm sure some ignorance on my behalf of Kashmiri culture). The story itself is also very slow and understated, quiet. The language used to write it was beautiful, with very loving descriptions in particular of different foods and dishes, but for me it just wasn't enough. I leave you though, with my favorite quote from the book (which is in some ways very representative and in some ways not at all representative of the rest of the book), "Ideally, I wanted to become a vegetable. The vegetables were not afraid of anything. The carrots were f*cking the earth! The carrots and onions were having better sex than me. Zucchini made scandalous love to paneer, mushrooms, garlic, and tomatoes. Basil coated the deep interiors of fully swollen pasta, with names sexier than shapes. R-i-g-a-t-o-n-i! F-u-s-i-l-l-i! C-o-n-c-h-i-g-l-i-e! Gulmarg salad licked walnut chutney in public."(p.95)

Book preview

Chef - Jaspreet Singh

One

1

For a long time now I have stayed away from certain people.

I was late getting to the station and almost missed the Express because of the American President. His motorcade was passing the Red Fort, not far from the railway terminal. The President is visiting India to sign the nuclear deal. He is staying at the Hotel Taj and the chefs at the hotel have invented a new kebab in his honor. All this in today’s paper. Rarely does one see the photo of a kebab on the front page. It made my mouth water.

Not far from me, a little girl is sitting on the aisle seat. A peach glows in her hand. Moments ago she asked her mother, What do we miss the most when we die? And I almost responded. But her mother put a thick finger on her lips: Shh, children should not talk about death, and she looked at me for a brief second, apologetically. Food, I almost said to the girl. We miss peaches, strawberries, delicacies like Sandhurst curry, kebab pasanda and rogan josh. The dead do not eat marzipan. The smell of bakeries torments them day and night.

Something about this exchange between mother and daughter has upset me. I look out the window. The train is cutting through villages. I don’t even know their names. But the swaying yellow mustard fields and the growing darkness fills me with disquiet about the time I resigned from the army. I find myself asking the same question over and over again. Why did I allow my life to take a wrong turn?

Fourteen years ago I used to work as chef at the General’s residence in Kashmir. I remember the fruit orchard by the kitchen window. For five straight years I cooked for him in that kitchen, then suddenly handed in my resignation and moved to Delhi. I never married. I cook for my mother. Now after a span of fourteen years I am returning to Kashmir.

It is not that in all these years I was not tempted to return. The temptation was at times intense, especially when I heard about the quake and the rubble it left behind. But the earth shook mostly on the enemy side. During my five years of service I was confined to the Indian side – the more beautiful side.

The beauty is still embedded in my brain. It is the kind that cannot be shared with others. Most important things in our lives, like recipes, cannot be shared. They remain within us with a dash of this and a whiff of that and trouble our bones.

The tumor is in your brain, said the specialist. (Last week exactly at three o’clock my CAT scan results came back to the clinic. The dark scan looked quite something inside that box of bright light.) His finger pointed towards an area which resembled a patch of snow, and next to it was a horrifying shape like the dark rings of a tree. Three months to a year maximum, he said. Suddenly I felt very weak and dizzy. My voice disintegrated. The world around me started withering.

I walked the crowded street back home. Cutting through my own cloud, stepping through the fog. My mother greeted me at the door. She knew. My mother already knew. She (who cooked every meal for me when I was young) knew what I did not know myself. She handed me a letter, and slowly walked to her bed.

The letter was postmarked Kashmir. After fourteen years General Sahib finally mailed the letter, and that thin piece of paper delighted me and brought tears to my eyes. His daughter is getting married. In hurriedly scribbled lines he requested me to be the chef for the wedding banquet.

I read the letter a second time, sitting at the kitchen table. My answer was obviously going to be a no. I was not even planning to respond. I felt dizzy. But in the evening while preparing soup I changed my mind. I make all big decisions while cooking. Mother is bedridden most of the time and I served as usual in her room at eight in the evening. I did not reveal the trouble brewing in my brain. During dinner I simply read her the General’s letter.

‘Are you sure?’ she asked. ‘You want to go?’

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘It is impossible to say no.’

Dear Kip, Several times in the past I thought of writing to you, but I did not. You know me well, my whole life in the army has been geared to eliminate what is from a practical stand point non-essential.

My daughter (whom you last saw as a child) is getting married, and she is the one who forced me to write this letter. I have heard that your mother is sick, but this is a very important event in our life, and we would like you to be the chef at the wedding. I do not want some new duffer to spoil it.

You are the man for this emergency. I want to see you and I am tired and have much to talk over and plan with you. This wedding feast is perhaps my last battle and I would like for us to win it. I am sure you will not disappoint me.

Yours affectionately,

Lt. General Ashwini Kumar (Retired), VrC, AVSM, PVSM.

Former GOC-in-C, Northern Command.

The General’s daughter used to call me ‘Kip-Ing’ (instead of Kirpal Singh). Since then ‘Kip’ has stuck. In the army everyone has a second name. General Sahib’s nickname was ‘Red’, but it was rarely mentioned in his presence.

‘How many days will you spend there?’ Mother asked.

‘Seven,’ I said. ‘Seven or eight days. I must go, Mother. The neighbor will take care of you. Eating someone else’s food will do you good.’

Mother did not finish the dal soup. Her frail head rested on two white pillows and she held my arm as if we were not going to see each other again.

I urged her to take the yellow tablets and capsules. She agreed only after I raised my voice. I rarely raise my voice in the presence of Mother. Something inside me was definitely changing.

It was then I showed her the wedding card:

Rubiya Kumar

weds

Shahid Lone

‘So the General’s daughter has decided to marry a Muslim?’ she asked.

‘Not just a Muslim,’ I added, ‘but one from the other side of the border.’

Let me put this straight. Sahib is not prejudiced against the Muslims. There were Muslim soldiers in our regiment, and he never once discriminated against any of them to my knowledge. But, of course, General Sahib is not pleased with the wedding. I have read the letter twice, and I sense his hands must have been shaking when he held the pen. Sahib gave his youth to our nation to keep the Pakistanis away, he fought two wars, and now his own daughter is marrying one of them. Did so many soldiers lose their lives for one big nothing?

This train is moving slower than a mountain mule. The engine is old, I know. It resembles me in many ways. But the railway-wallahs insist on calling it an Express. I readjust my glasses, and my gaze drifts from one fuzzy face to another. They will last longer than me – the ears and eyes and noses of other people. Faint scent of pickles fills the compartment. Loud and hazy conversations. Flies have started hovering over the little girl’s peach.

Once I prepare the perfect wedding banquet, General Sahib will refer me to top specialists in the military hospital, and they will start treatment right away. I have a high regard for military doctors. For my mother’s sake, I must live a little longer. I don’t know why I raised my voice in her presence. She needs me more than ever. I must live a little bit longer.

Perhaps it was simply the selfish wish to live just a little bit longer that made me change my mind.

But things must sort out first. Before I begin work for the wedding I want the General to sort out things between us. For the last fourteen years every day I expected a letter from him. And now the wait is over, the letter is in my pocket. I had expected the letter to be heavy, to carry the entire weight of our past, but he offered me nothing. No explanation. I want him to sort out things between us. Not pretend as if there had been a simple misunderstanding.

I still remember the day I had arrived in Kashmir the first time. The mountains and lakes were covered with thick fog. I was nineteen. And I had bought a second-class ticket on this very train. For some reason I remember the train moved faster then.

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.

3

India is passing through the night. Night, just like rain, hides the ugliness of a place so well. We are running behind the backs of houses. Thousands of tiny lights have been turned on inside them. Towns pass by, and villages. I remember my first journey to Kashmir on this train. It was a very hot day, and despite that, passengers were drinking tea, and the whole compartment smelled of a wedding. Girls in beautiful saris and salwar-kameezes sat not far from me; some of them spoke hardly any English. Their skins had the shine of ripe fruits. How shy I was then. How much I yearned to talk to them, but I pretended that I was not interested. I had picked up the paper the man in the corner seat had discarded, and hid my face behind the news. I would stealthily peek at the girls and when one or two returned my gaze I would hide once again behind words. One time my eyes locked with the eyes of an oval-faced girl, and this created an awkward moment. She started whispering, and then suddenly an exclamation was followed by loud laughter, and I felt they were all laughing at me, and I hid again behind the paper. How I yearned to talk to them, and how I desired for them to leave me alone in the carriage because I could not endure so many of them, and I wanted them to carry on with their usual business without bothering me, and when they disembarked at a strange platform how alone I had felt in that near-empty carriage. I had missed my chance. A beautiful opportunity had presented itself, but I had spoiled it. Partly to deal with loneliness and partly to deal with the absence of girls I began reading the paper. Several times I read the article which had shielded me from the beauties. It was accompanied by a large photograph of the body of a soldier.

BODY OF A SOLDIER FOUND AFTER 53 YEARS

Trekkers on a remote stretch of Himalayan glacier have found the fully preserved body of a soldier 53 years after he died in a plane crash. They discovered the corpse, still in an overcoat uniform, with personal documents in the pockets. The discovery was reported yesterday at the base camp. The team also found aircraft parts close to the soldier, suggesting there could be other bodies buried in ice.

It is believed the crash occurred in early 1934. The soldier may have been flying to or from Ladakh, the high altitude area in Kashmir.

In 1934 India had yet to be partitioned by the British to become ‘India’ and ‘Pakistan’. So it is not clear whether the body belongs to India or Pakistan. The two countries have fought four wars, three of them over Kashmir.

Kashmir. It was my first time, and I found the place different from the way Delhi-wallahs describe it, as paradise, or shadow of paradise. I was a young man, but old enough to separate romance from reality. There was thick fog and it was very cold. I did not have a proper jacket. I had arrived with only one suitcase and the recruitment letter in my pocket. By the time I stood on the lawns of the General’s residence the sound of the train had simply disappeared from my mind. A uniformed man accompanied me from the gate-posts to Sahib’s residence, the Command House, located on a hill overlooking the golf course. I must have waited for half an hour on the lawns. I thought I was going to die of cold when a middle-aged man stepped out of the house. He was wearing an apron. The hair on his head was closely cropped. His face, clean-shaven with thin eyebrows, ears unusually long. The man’s body had a muscular appeal to it. A black dog trotted ahead of him. The dog came to sniff me. I touched its muzzle.

‘How old is he?’ I asked.

‘We are all growing old,’ the man said. ‘Fourteen, maybe, the dog is fourteen.’

‘How long do dogs live, sir?’

He did not answer, but took off slowly in the wind towards a patch of vegetable garden, fencing around it. He opened a little wooden gate and shut it. The dog circumambulated the fence while on the other side the man stooped and plucked leaves of what to me looked like fenugreek or coriander. How the vegetables grew in the extreme cold was beyond my imagination.

‘Come.’ He asked me to follow him.

I handed him the recruitment paper.

‘Not now,’ he said.

On the way to the kitchen the man patted me on my back. He was an inch or two taller than me. Something about that pat made me feel uncomfortable.

‘Follow me,’ he said. ‘The General’s ADC has told me about you. He has given me the instructions.’

‘What do I call you, sir?’

‘I am Chef.’

‘Sir.’

‘Call me Chef Kishen.’

‘Sir.’

‘Just call me Chef.’

‘Yessir.’

‘Follow me with your luggage,’ he said.

We entered his room, which was between the kitchen and the servants’ quarters. The place reeked of shaving cream; cuttings from Hindi newspapers covered the walls: photos of Bombay actresses in revealing saris, including my favorite, Waheeda. On the side table a tape recorder was playing music unfamiliar to my ears. German music, he said. I wouldn’t have imagined, I said. Does this bother you? No sir. Top mewjik, he said. There were two beds side by side, and they formed a huge shadow on the floor. The square shadow on the wall came from the tape recorder. Chef pointed towards the smaller bed. Suddenly my body felt

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