The train stopped at a crowded platform. The wind stopped as well; now the air in the carriage grew hot and stagnant and oppressive. Through the window another train was visible on the other side of the platform. The carriages were painted red or simply rusty, with as many people inside as there were on the roof. On the platform five or six Muslims with naked swords were asking regular passengers if they had seen a Hindu or a Sikh on the train. The woman stopped eating her mango. She started staring at me, so hard it appeared her eyes were going to explode. Suddenly she grabbed my right wrist and pulled me towards her and shoved me quickly under her seat. I was not a very tall nine-year-old, so the squeeze was all right. The voices were now moving up and down the aisle of our train demanding Sikhs and Hindus. The woman started on the mango again. Drops started falling down, she was sucking it. The men were now extremely close to our compartment. For a moment I felt the woman was going to hand me over to them. She began tapping her heels and this terrified me under the seat. Why was she tapping? Why was she drawing attention? Were the heels trying to convey something to me? She tapped forcefully one last time and lifted the three hems of her burqa-sari-petticoat a bit in the air, then higher, and it was then I understood. I crawled inside. She immediately lowered the garments; now they touched the floor again. Suddenly it grew very dark around me.

Where is the Sikh boy? demanded the mob. From the platform we definitely noticed a boy on this train, said a voice loudly.

What Sikh? said a passenger.

The men were suspicious and opened up several suitcases and looked under the seats. I heard them, I could not see a thing. I was trapped inside absolute darkness. It was like being in a movie theater alone, wrapped by the white screen, and no movie on. It was as if the real movie was happening in the world outside the theater. The woman kept eating her mango. Drops kept falling. No other passenger in the compartment said a word. I imagine they simply turned their heads in the other direction. They all were Muslims. When the train stopped again it was very dark and I crawled out from under her and she quickly untied the knot on my head and made my hair tumble down to look like a girl. This is all I can do, she said, I can do nothing more for you. Allah will protect you now. He will protect you. She kissed me on both cheeks, gave me a little food and walked me to the refugee camp on the edge of the city.

This story, said the colonel’s wife, I don’t think I would have shared with you if you had not asked me the details. I will not be able to sleep tonight, she said.

Memsahib was shaking now. My gaze remained fixed on her shoes. To this day I don’t understand, Kirpal, why your father shared this painful story. I recall when he was sharing the details it was as if he was not there, it was as if he did not care if we were there or not. Normally men censor certain parts of a story when in the presence of a woman, but Iqbal was elsewhere that evening and to him it did not matter if I was listening or not.

‘Listen, my boy,’ said the colonel, ‘it is time you go back to General Sahib’s residence.’

‘Sir.’ I stood up and clicked my heels.

Memsahib ran indoors. I could not, therefore, say a proper shukriya to her. I have never been able to do what I really wanted to do. I am so weak.

10

Being a Sikh I am interested in hair. Some of my most sensuous memories are not connected to food at all. They are about hair. The way my mother would wash it, oil it, massage it, comb it, braid it, and tie a knot on top of my head. My hair was long and black and curly and whenever I dried it outdoors the wind would turn my head into a vortex. I cut my hair short fifteen years ago. But, during my time in Kashmir (the first four years) I had it long and used to tie a black turban. 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.