Chachi jaan refused to waste her time with them, mellowing only when he asked her for permission to cook in her kitchen....
STORY
Since the curfew prohibited them from going on the picnic he wanted, the two decided they would picnic right there on the terrace, with a tub of water to soak their feet in for the Anchar Lake vibes, as Yusuf aptly named them.
Chachi jaan refused to waste her time with them, mellowing only when he asked her for permission to cook in her kitchen, and only enough to promise him potato filled parathas and pink tea. It was only after a great deal of coaxing that she allowed him to set foot near the stove, wearing the old apron stitched out of her dupatta, to cook the Alfredo he had bragged about to Jaleelah during the “speech” she still insisted had been about his cowardice.
Early in the morning, Chachi and Yusuf took over the kitchen, one squeezing piping hot potatoes into an ancient mincing machine and the other running around in sheer panic looking for all the ingredients he needed and couldn’t find for the pasta.
“It’s difficult to work in new kitchens.” He admitted finally, when everything had been added to the sauce bubbling in the pan before him except for the milk that he held, ready to pour on time, in his hand.
“This isn’t a new kitchen.” Chachi jaan reminded him, the mincing machine groaning and creaking in front of her.
“I turned it into a new kitchen, Chachi.” He smiled regretfully. “I’ve made some bad mistakes.”
“Acha? Bad mistakes?” she smiled back. “There are good mistakes, too?”
“Haan naa.” He nodded. “My coming back to Makan Taintees was a great mistake of Abba Jaan’s.”
“Mistake?” she shook her head. “Arey, Yusuf baba. I invited you here so you could get over your poor mother’s death.”
Yusuf coughed into his hand to conceal his laugh. “Chachi, Amma died two years ago. I’m sufficiently over her death by now, I should think. Abba just sent me here to get me off his back for a few days.”
“Arey, I know, ji.” Chachi waved five potato covered fingers. “I know she died two years ago but how can a child get over a dead mother by himself?” she reached forward to pat his shoulder and Yusuf leaned down, permitting himself to be patted and potato-ed by her. “You had no one in Islamabad to grieve with, I told Bhaijaan. You needed to come here, be among your own blood.”
“What did he say to that?” Yusuf could barely imagine his quick-tempered old father listening to and then acting upon such sentimental advice.
“Arey, what could he say?” Chachi jaan let out a misplaced giggle and her next sentence was delivered in a very low voice, almost as if she had said it to herself. “He saw right through my façade.”
“Your façade?” Yusuf was pouring the milk slowly into the bubbling sauce. “What does that mean?”
“Ar-rey, beta.” Chachi jaan shook her head. “I told your father; we have destroyed our relationships, but – our children deserve a chance to try to – ahem! – forge these chains again.”
Yusuf tossed all cooking advice to the wind and abandoning the cup of milk on the countertop and the wooden stirring spoon inside the pot, he flew to the dining table and grabbed Chachi jaan’s potato-covered hand, his eyes shining.
“Kiya keh rahi hein, Chachi? ”
Chachi jaan, whose eyes were bigger and shinier than his own just then, covered his hand with hers. “Beta, ye rishtey – they are the only thing you will inherit from us that will actually matter. Your father and I, we both wanted you to try to – erase the mistakes we all have made and paint another picture. One that you like.” She kissed his forehead. “Your sauce is burning.”
As Yusuf returned hastily to the stove, his heart was singing and for the first time since he had discovered who the Kashmiri Yusuf Malik really was, he forgot all about Lal Salams and plain white envelopes with subtle threats and even violet vipers twisting in the shadows of containers.
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They ate very slowly, lounging on the swing, Jaleelah with her feet in the tub, her shalwar folded up above her ankles. Yusuf sat beside her, reading poetry to her at intervals and eating from her plate and drinking from her cup.
They talked about everything.
His cooking instructor (so thin! So thin! Why are the best eaters always the best digesters too?) and the CR of her class in university (sly little lizard. If I wasn’t busy with Awaz, I’d have her changed in a blink), his friends in Islamabad (there aren’t many, to be honest) and her friends in Srinagar (you met all of them when you broke into my office), Chachi jaan’s back-pains and Fateh Deen’s gout. They talked about everything except for plain white envelopes with neat black threats and boots and uniforms and a certain major whose name, at this point, seemed intertwined with the history of the Maliks of Makan Taintees.
The sky was black when Chacha jaan threw open the terrace door, making both of them jump. He stuck his head out from behind the open door, glared at Yusuf (who straightened quickly) for a good minute before barking “Jaleelah, come for dinner!” and then disappeared.
To be continued …
