Harneet Brar
Karamchand, affectionately called KC by us, was usually in the ‘cookhouse’, which was his term for the kitchen. Diminutive, shy and easily ruffled, he was ill at ease at any place other than his workplace–the kitchen.
It was 1978, we were at Dharamshala in Himachal Pradesh, where my father, an officer serving in the Indian army, was posted. My sister and I, were growing children, not yet into our teens. Perpetually hungry, we would hang around in the dining room downstairs to sniff out prepared goodies or those under construction, hoping for some titbits to come our way. KC would always oblige! In winters, this room was freezing cold but we would peep into the adjoining kitchen, which would be warm and full of some inviting aroma. “Bhookh lagi hai, kuchh khana hai!” (we are hungry and want to eat something) we would chant. “Kya khaoge?” (What will you eat) KC would ask. “Kuchh bhi!” (anything) we would say and he would go, “Achha, banata hoon!” (okay I will make something). And something appropriate for the time of day would soon appear.
KC would climb the staircase and ask for orders for the next meal, thrice a day. Or he would enquire about the vegetables to be purchased for the week. Beyond that, he seldom left the cookhouse. Whether it was for taking instructions for a meal or a general chat, KC would always position himself in the doorway and focus either on the curtain or the framework of the door for the entire period that he stood there. Never did he stand in the middle of the room to talk. Neither did he look directly at one’s face for a longish conversation.
There were some words which he employed more than the others. ‘Maksad’ (aim) was one of his favourites. “Usda maksad kee si eh kahen da?” (what was the aim of his saying this) he would often comment in Punjabi.
Once or twice we went on long train journeys in which he accompanied us. He would look a different person altogether, hassled, bewildered and non-plussed, because he was out of his turf, the kitchen! In the ‘cookhouse’, he would be the supreme master; his tone would be one of authority and finality. But anywhere else, he looked and behaved out of place.
Sherry was the family dog, a Bhutanese cross breed. She was small, compact and very intelligent. Her white-tipped paws and tail gave her a unique look, which was enhanced by her shining, piercing eyes. She would normally be sitting at the farthest point under the bed, where it was difficult to reach her. Dislodging her from there, especially for her meal, was almost impossible. KC prepared Sherry food and placed it in her bowl. When she refused to get out and eat, KC would be called and he would just declare, “Chal Sherry!” (come Sherry) in a decisive tone and Sherry would follow him downstairs, shamefaced and penitent, now ready to eat!
The rule was that you could not leave the dining table till you had finished every morsel in your plate. I would often find myself sitting there, struggling to push in food from an overloaded plate down my throat, blinking away tears of self-pity. KC would be around, clearing up. He never spoke a word. But I could feel his sympathy in the air.
Our school tiffins and bottles were always ready well in time. On our return we would hurry inside the house using the backdoor entry that opened into the kitchen. Going through it, we would know what was cooked for lunch. If the dish was to our liking, we would eagerly change out of our uniforms and run down pounding on the wooden staircase. If it wasn’t one of our ‘wow’ items, we would drag ourselves down to the dining table, hoping for some sweet dish to make up for the disappointment of the regular meal.
KC rapidly graduated to being an accomplished chef. He was at ease with all kinds of food, Indian or continental. Our parents’ social life was a very active one, replete with parties and get-togethers. We loved all the snacks prepared at these occasions by KC, while hating the part where we had to go and greet the aunties and uncles who had come over. But there was no escaping that duty. Whether it was the pleasant summer months or the bone-chilling winter, the food on the dining table was always piping hot and delicious.
From Dharamshala we moved to Baramulla. I joined St. Joseph’s Convent School. It followed long and leisurely timings. Almost all of us had our lunch brought to school, packed fresh and hot! KC would be waiting under a shady tree with the hot case. Whenever there was dessert, left-over or fresh, KC would make it a point to get some for me. He would patiently gaze at the children eating or running around, maybe reminded of his own children. He had two sons and the youngest, a daughter, was the dearest to him.
Baramulla was cool in the summer and freezing in winters. Each room felt like a frozen chamber without the Bukhari. Most of the staff looked forward to sitting in the cosy kitchen to beat the cold. But KC did not approve of idlers lingering in his domain. He would firmly order the rest of the staff out of the kitchen after they had finished their tea. And the ‘cookhouse’ always gleamed and shone!
St. Joseph’s Convent School, Baramullah
I shunned company and preferred to be at home, studying for school. Whenever I was alone at home, KC would leave me with the same set of instructions- “Main peechhe baitha hoon. khana tayaar hai. Koi aisi waisi baat hui, toh mujhe bula lena.” (I am sitting behind, the food is ready, if there is any issue, call me) His was a presence that could be felt, not seen. One never got the feeling that one was being watched. My mother would say that she found reassurance in the knowledge that KC was around when I was home alone.
KC hailed from village Noor Khedian in Kangra district in Himachal. He got limited time to spend with his family, that was during his casual and annual leave of the year. He kept in touch with them through letters. That he was an avid writer of letters was something we were to discover later.
KC would seek my mother’s advice in their family matters. She knew exactly what was going on in their personal lives. She would share relevant information with my father and keep the rest to herself. She was like a shield who protected the flock from my father’s wrath! She was aware that KC was very fond of his daughter, who was a few years younger to us.
His children were growing up and I often heard the name of his elder son, Niranjan. Meanwhile tragedy struck back home. His daughter, who had been so dear to him, succumbed to high fever. He was devastated by her death, but he never let it show and went about life stoically. He often fretted about his two sons’ future. He was keen on his sons joining the army, like him.
Time passed and then KC retired from the army. Post-retirement, he went to his village in Himachal. But he did not want to be just an “ex-man” and soon took up employment in CISF as a soldier.
He was a god-fearing man. He was also a regular letter-writer. Once he had left us, he made it a point to keep us posted about his whereabouts and remembered each one of us in his letters. Since he wrote in Hindi, my father would dictate the reply to me in Hindi, too. Each of his letters was replied to.
As providence would have it, I got selected as AC probationer, CISF, on the basis of the Civil Services Exam. My first regular posting was with the CISF Unit, IOC Refinery, Vadodara. General elections were being held and many CISF personnel were moving on election duty. One day, while I was at home, I was informed that some ex-Army man wanted to meet me. I got up, impatient at being disturbed from my reading.
I nearly dropped my book in disbelief when I saw who it was. KC stood there in Khaki uniform, saluting me. Of all the people in the world, it was that familiar figure, who was such a vivid part of my existence as a child! Tears sprang to my eyes as I wondered how to respond to this father-figure from childhood. I felt like saying that it was I who was supposed to salute him. He had been sent on election duty and had learnt that I was posted at that unit. I offered tea but he said that he had to leave. I did not see him after that.
The years passed. My father also retired from service. KC meanwhile had retired from CISF and returned to his village in Kangra. He would still write to my father regularly. The format of the letter was a standard one. It began with a Namaste and ended with ‘Akal Sahae’ (May the eternal be with you!), the motto of the Battalion. The letter would convey information about his family and enquire about ours. His sons picked up jobs and got married. They lived as a joint family.
It was 2012, June. We went on vacation to Palampur. In the past, KC had extended many invitations to us to visit his home in Noor Khedian. Now seemed to be a great opportunity, since we were close by. So, on our return journey from Palampur, we took a diversion to his village. True to Fauji style, his son had been posted at a prominent junction to lead our way to their house.
We spotted KC standing by a field, leaning on a wooden staff for support. He looked just the same, only his sparse hair had turned white. Seeing us, he hurried over to my mother’s side, conscious that she would need a steadying hand to cross the uneven field, since their house was accessed through an open field.
The entire family was there to greet us. There was lovely elaichi tea, various snacks and so much to exchange and reminisce over. KC glowed with pleasure. He showed us around, pointing out that he had tried his best to provide for his family. We spent an hour-plus, had another round of tea and bid goodbye.
As KC advanced in years he started suffering from a number of ailments, mostly related to the stomach.. The medical facilities in his home town were not very good. on many occasion, he came accompanied by his wife, and stayed with my parents at Patiala, got his treatment and went back a happier man.
When he was quite old and frail, he was brought to our house in Patiala by his sons to seek treatment in the military hospital. He was only looking for a place to stay. My father, a retired General and probably older than KC, set aside his own problems and went with him to the hospital every time required during the week or so that they were in Patiala. He personally got his tests done, followed the check-up from the specialists, understood the medial advice and explained it patiently to KC and his sons. KC was sent back with loads of gifts for his entire family.
On 13 July 2017, I learnt from my parents that KC had passed away that morning. Just a day prior, some former colleagues from the unit, had come to look up my father and they had recollected the happy times spent together at Dharamshala. Among other things they also talked about KC and his present indifferent health. Coincidence?
As I grew up I often wondered at the trust and faith that my parents had in KC that allowed them to leave their entire house and their children in his care without any worry. Few words were exchanged between him and my father, but the trust was palpable by the actions from both sides. I understood that hard work, dedication, loyalty, sincerity towards duty and professional integrity are not the domain of the high and mighty alone. Even a cook could be a role model in exemplifying these attributes. I also learnt that human bonds transcend class structures. They can evolve in any situation when there is honesty and mutual respect in the relationship.
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