by Vinita Agrawal
[box]Norbu, a shy but nevertheless celebrated cook at the army mess in Dharamshala, has a task at hand today for which he needs to reach McLeod Ganj by noon. Vinita Agrawal pens a story.[/box]The mountains dawned orange gold that morning. They looked immaculate and they took Norbu’s breath away. He smiled to himself and bowed to them.
Norbu worked as a cook at the army mess in Dharamshala. He was a quiet man. The army officers often teased him saying that one did not hear or see Norbu… one only tasted him and he tasted bloody darned good! And Norbu would blush a bright red at that.
Today’s menu was clear in his mind – omelettes and toasts for breakfast, and fish curry, crisp potato wedges, chappattis and rice for lunch. He would make lunch as soon as soon as he had cleared away the breakfast because he wanted to be at the main square in McLeod Ganj by 12 noon. It took an hour to walk to McLeod Ganj but today he would hitch-hike a ride in the army jeep with one of the officers.
He bathed quickly, donned his usual blue sweater and faded blue jeans. As blue as the skies, he thought – and as free! The pristine Dhauladhars twinkled at him as he set about his chores.
By eleven his tasks were over. He went to the office premises and knocked at the door of the mess-in-charge.
“Ah! Norbu!” the Lieutenant greeted him jovially, “The guys have been asking for your momos. No one makes them quite the way you do!”
“I’ll make them for tea.” Norbu promised. He shifted his feet and asked the Lieutenant for a ride up to the square.
“You are in luck! I was actually just going up there. I’ll take you. We’ll leave in half an hour.”
“Thank you, Sir!” Norbu bowed.
His mind was working quickly. He dashed back to the kitchen and worked at breakneck speed. Then he sprinted to his own shack behind the kitchen. He lifted the corner of his mattress and carefully picked up a dog eared photo of the Dalai Lama that he put inside his sweater close to his chest. He also reverently put his country’s flag – no bigger than a handkerchief– in his jeans pocket.
He extracted a 500 rupee note from under the mattress and stuffed that in his pocket as well. Half an hour later he was at the gate waiting for the jeep. The blue and yellow rays etched on the flag filled his heart with so much energy that he thought it would burst.
The officer arrived shortly and eyed the jerry can dangling in Norbu’s hand. “You are going to buy kerosene? Do you have money to buy it?”
Norbu nodded yes.
They reached the square by twelve. Norbu jumped out lithely and saluted the officer.
“I’ll be going back by two,” the Lieutenant told him kindly. “Wait for me – that can will be heavy to carry, I’ll give you a ride back.”
“OK, Sir!” Norbu nodded and saluted again.
After the jeep had departed Norbu hastened to the ration store that sold Kerosene to the army base at concessional rates. He paid Rs.400 for it and asked the cashier to keep the balance as credit against the next purchase. The cashier shrugged and made a note of it in his ledger.
Norbu walked back briskly to the centre of the busy McLeod Ganj square. He doused himself with 20 litres of kerosene, took out the Tibetan flag and caught a corner of it between his teeth. He took out Dalai Lama’s photo and tucked it under his arm. Next, he drew out a match box and set himself aflame. In an instant Norbu had become a horrendous inferno; in an instant that horrendous inferno had the raised the photo and the flag sky high.
By 12:30, it was all over. The Dhauladhars looked snow white and pale. They blew cold mists over Norbu’s charred body. It seemed as though they were his abettors.
The main square looked completely ravaged. Exile does that to main squares – and to dark alleys, to hearts and to minds, to thoughts and to dreams. Exile excruciates.
The Tibetan community did not hand over Norbu’s blackened remains to the army, saying Norbu was their martyr now.
That afternoon none of the officers sat down to lunch. The Lieutenant found a huge covered plate resting on the tea table. He lifted the cover. They were momos.
Notes
1.Chapattis – A flat Indian bread
2. Dhauladhar – Name of the Himalayan Mountain Range in Dharamshala, Himachal Pradesh.
3. Momos – A savoury snack and a popular oriental delicacy.
(While this story is based on real life incidents, the events and characters depicted are purely a product of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to any person living or dead is purely coincidental.)
Vinita Agrawal is a Delhi-based writer and poet and has been published in international print and online journals.
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