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
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
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