The tumbaknaer that had the tent in a row was left slanted on a pot of coal to warm up its sheepskin for better percussion as the party of musicians that came with it slid in with the guests.
The songs had been paused as soon as a copper hose of the tash naer clinked against its basin. As with a school bell, the guests skid into a set of quartets to call a large, multi-course, wispy, loaded plate of meaty delicacies towards themselves.
Ahad Saeb, the lead vocalist gurgled his throat with water from the naer and to the dislike of many around him threw it back into the basin. But he was allowed, for he had spent hours on the harmonium, without a mic, belting out one symphony after another in celebration of the groom who was awaited. The rest of the party had learned to turn a blind eye towards the foamy spit of their Ustad and wash their hands under the hose and over the basin without peeking into it.
Ahad Saeb had been to many weddings after turning from a greased rebel to a whistling thrush over the keynotes of his harmonium. It went from a need to a pleasure when he realized he could silence the crowded zanaan tent and pull in the ladies with his voice, mumbling his words after him. He was in fact, the loudest sloganeer in the pack of protesters back in the day and he could magnetise a helmeted skull out of a Rakshak jeep with his cheer.
This time though the wedding had taken him out of the city of Srinagar and for the first time in his six years of orchestrating the band in shahr, he was in the southern scapes of Kashmir, far from his house in Tailbal. The wedding here in Pulwama had an aroma meandering around its tent even before the men came in to count the number of guests. Was it the proximity to the mountain ranges or the cauldron on firewood, it wasn’t known, but it had made Ahad Saeb hungrier than usual. He was looking forward to his meal, to feel the sultry whiff of the cooked meat right under his nose. He was only taking short breaths until the plate was laid down in front of him covered with an equally large copper bowl. When Mushtaq, the guy who whispered the stanzas of poetry into Ahad Saeb’s right ear before he hollered them at the crowd, stretched his hand to unsheath the royal dinner from its circlet, Ahad Saeb scolded him by grazing his wrist. He did not want to seem impatient and start before the last plate had taken its proper place, even though he was enthusiastically waiting for it himself.
As soon as the men laying the plates down retreated towards the boundary and the groom's plate was uncovered, Ahad Saeb pulled off the metal curtains for his company of four. Underneath it a mountain, covered in a single sleet of napkin, drenched in the fragrant oil. He rolled his sleeves up against the single bracelet he wore on his right arm, occasionally used to beat the nout, and dived into the traam pulling aside the paper napkin to undrape the figures sculpted by the Waaza ornating their plate of rice. His eyes skimmed through the ribs and kebabs and posted themselves on the big bulging pear-shaped meatball sticking on top of the elevated mass. Someone in the crowd yelled “Garnade!” and everyone along with Ahad Saeb’s mates burst into laughter. But Ahad Saeb remained silent, pulling his hands back from the site of the weapon.
All the saliva from his mouth was drying up. His nostrils had taken to short breaths again and he alone could hear the wheezing winds leaving his body. Mushtaq and the other two were picking their share off the swollen pile and keeping them separated on their sides of the plate. The steam from the warm plate gathered under Ahad Saeb’s chin, Mushtaq nudged his Ustad with his knee and pointed the long hollow barrel of the kebab at him to hold and break into two.
With the slimy kebab in his hand, Ahad Saeb shook his eyes off the grenade-shaped meatball and looked around to see the other guests bent over in their plates, wrist deep, lacing their white rice with the yellow ras. The three mates eyed their Ustad compassionately for his sudden lack of appetite and Mushtaq jokingly asked whether the garnade had scared him, forcing his Ustad into a scoff and his fingers into a claw to dig into the plate—into the only section of the rice left white.
Truth be told, Ahad Saeb was not scared but he was rattled by the orb of meat that resembled the uneasy shape of a grenade on his food. The damn Waaza had even slashed the body of the sphere into fragmented rectangles to give it that realistic touch. For the pin, he had inserted a chilly into its neck and left its stem naked at the top. The only thing keeping Ahad Saeb from fearing the sludge of fat and meat was the warm rusted colour of red that resembled the good old rista. To get over his uneasiness, Ahad Saeb took the grenade into his palm and pressed it. The pliable grenade squeezed out its juices and left Ahad Saeb’s hands wet and sticky. To his relief, the grenade felt soft and chewable, but he could not bring himself to bite into it, nor could he pull out the chilly from the ball like his fellow diners, who seemed to gobble up their share of the plate effortlessly. He could only manage to scrape off a small piece from the kebab and mix it with his rice to fill his previously ravenous mouth. He chose to put the grenade aside and over the edge of his plate.
Even though Mushtaq was enjoying the surprise of the groom's special welcome, Ahad Saeb missed Srinagar, for its comparatively simpler cuisine where elements of macabre were only a poor vegetarian’s bad dream and not a rebel’s.
The Waaza kept serving one dish after the other. Ahad Saeb’s pile kept rising over the side. How it went from Rogan Josh to the Tamatar Paneer he hadn’t noticed. Lost in the vibrant curvature of the zesty grenade, he could not bring himself to devour his deserving meal. When the customary basket filled with handy bits for the guests arrived next to their dining circle, Ahad Saeb shovelled the water bottles, glasses, and curds aside to reach the empty packets stuck at the bottom of the dainty hamper. The plastic glued itself on his finger and he managed to pull all four sheets out at once.
The yezman, the father of the bride, had started the compulsory rounds around the tent, making sure the guests were satisfied with their servings, cutting up parts of the heaps for them to enjoy, and overall battering out the best of his hospitality. Ahad Saeb’s slippery hand lacquered the plastic bags together, noticing his struggle but not its unwantedness, the host quickly walked over to his traam to offer a set of dry hands.
Ahad Saeb did not want any help but he knew not to offend the yezman on his big day. Not because the payment was yet to be made, but because he had already walked down his courteous comfort throne and was sitting half heartedly on the prickly thickets since the grenade showed up. He did not want the host to burst it into pieces over his plate. All the piles had halved in the course of his path and seeing him make his way towards their plate, Ahad Saeb hurriedly rubbed the plastic sheets together but could not separate them on time.
Having eaten almost nothing, the host screeched as he hovered over their circle. Like a kite, he twisted his neck to examine what was left untouched.
When he landed on his toes, next to his melodious guest, he questioned the emptiness of his stomach. Had he eaten beforehand, or was he filled up with the cups of Lipton chai that he sipped back to back while singing? Mushtaq moved his mouth to say something but feared his Ustad’s absent composure at the moment.
Ahad Saeb was already afraid of his aloofness being mistaken by the yezman as a chronic gesture of a superior shahr dweller when his rural host picked up a piece, smelled it and jokingly confirmed that it was not badmaz. They hadn’t slaughtered cows for this wedding, only the sheep, he said. Ahad Saeb awkwardly laughed it off. He pulled up his sleeve which was rolling back down and picked up the empty plastic packet again. “Ah too good then, I want to take it all for my son,” Ahad Saeb managed a full sentence out. “Then you must take the garnade,” said the chirpy host as he picked it up from his side of the plate and dropped it inside one of the packets that he blew open with a wind from his mouth.
After the fat grenade had left his sight, Ahad Saeb had a better vision of the plate in front of him. Suddenly his eyes had cleared up and he could see the Waaza with his stout ladle again, as he poured the portions of Korma onto the centre. Though the series of dishes was coming to an end, he was glad that he could at least be able to enjoy the taste of the Goshtaba.
When he put the savoury chunk into his mouth he remembered he still had the garnade to take back home and in his memory popped the many checkpoints he had to go through in this long journey, that too, in the worst part of the night.
*
In the car, the same four people sat with their instruments taking up most of the space. In the back, the mic sat with the harmonium in between Mushtaq and Ahad Saeb. He had stationed his bulging satchel against the window and his ribs, touching it every now and then to make sure nothing was falling or the grenade was not revealing itself.
His hesitancy with this new attraction had shovelled deep fears within him while Mushtaq kept complimenting the artistic styles of the Waaza, who had dropped grenades in the bellies of a hundred men. “They will safely burst in their toilet seats now,” he snorted in his laughter.
All this grenade talk was only making Ahad Saeb rustle in his seat. He wanted to do nothing with it but feared the wrath of his Almighty if he hurled it out of the window. What if even in trying to feed a dog, someone mistook it for a real grenade?
He remembered his five-year-old son and his wife, who would patiently be waiting for him to come home from work.
Outside the car, the dark side of the night had set it, with its blues lighting up only the corners of the sky. The yellow beam from the car was hitting the number plates that had left from the same wedding. The skies were asleep, the trees stood like mannequins outside a clothes shop and the mannequins themselves were lost in the pitch-black shadows of midnight.
As the roads were mostly empty, the person driving had stepped on the accelerator and kept chatting with Mushtaq in a deliberate attempt to not fall into a waazwan-induced sleep. Ahad Saebs’ mates had noticed the Ustad’s unusually quiet demeanour. He hadn’t even touched the keys of the harmonium as he usually did on their way back home. Still, Mushtaq and friends let him be, assuming he was tired after a full day of work.
Way past midnight when everyone grew silent, the driver of the car switched on his radio player to keep himself company. It opened to the news, and to Ahad Saeb’s angst, the commentator on the radio repeated places of encounters that had been carried out by the army two days ago.
They were on the highway to Srinagar and were passed by trucks loaded with goods making their way from Jammu. In the night the checkpoints were on special alert, stopping every vehicle before letting it pass into the city.
They crossed the stretched saffron fields of Pampore, where the purple flowers slept in the grandiose silence of the night. Ahad Saeb lowered his window to take a whiff of the sleeping beauties. A line of army one-tons passed by. He quickly pulled his windows up and put his palm across his satchel.
When the first checkpoint came, on the end of the road of Pampore, Ahad Saeb dreaded crossing Pantha chowk. It was a stretch of an army cantonment, where barracks of camouflaged soldiers sat on the rocky mountains. When they slowed their car down nearing the yellow barricades on the road, Ahad Saeb’s ears started to ring. His stomach grumbled loud enough for Mushtaq to hear it. “Ustad’s tongue did not enjoy our rural feast but the belly is asking for it,” Mushtaq made a comment but Ahad Saeb was feeling too unwell to respond. He looked out the window as the car glided through the barricades. It said “slow down” in bold red on them. Passing it, Ahad Saeb’s stomach relaxed a bit. He let out a deep breath. But he knew it was not over yet. Not till he reached the gates of his home.
He wanted to ask his mate who was driving to not take the cantonment route but he did not want his journey to become longer and knew that there was no way they would not come in contact with the uniformed men at checkpoints. When their car entered the Army Cantonment road in Athwajan, the tall walls stuck out in his view. They were half the height of the towering poplars that lined the roads. He held tight to the sling of his satchel. He opened and closed it many times as the car went along the way.
Outside the window, the road was lit, enough to read the warning signs on the wall and Ahad Saeb’s eyes went everywhere, from the barbed wires to the glass bottles that hung on them like bells, meeting the small nocturnal eyes of the men stationed inside the bunkers on the gates leading into the camp.
When Mushtaq noticed his Ustad clenched hands, he smirked and pointed it out by saying no one was going to take his lifafe from him. But none of them were aware of Ahad Saeb’s fear of the meaty grenade.
They passed another checkpoint at the end of the cantonment area and slowing down, the patrolling soldiers peeked into their cars, pointing flashlights at each of their faces before letting them pass.
“Are they more meticulous today?” asked Ahad Saeb.
“You know they are always paranoid, they have to do this to annoy us,” replied Mushtaq.
In the grazing lights, Ahad Saeb’s ringing in the ears came back again. He started counting the checkpoints that were left on his fingertips. Three more. One near Gupkar, one on Boulevard, and one at Foreshore.
Ahad Saeb’s mind was occupied by the juicy meatball and the possibilities waiting on the checkpoints. He did not want to make any more stops.
On the side mirror, behind the car, he could see an army person fixing the straps of his machine gun, seemingly closer to them.
He checked himself tapping on his back– if his boiled and fried weaponry could in any way show itself.
With the ringing in his head followed by night’s glaring quietness, Ahad Saeb could no longer think straight. He wanted to go home and let out the gas that was smouldering in his stomach. The thought of the grenade becoming a cause of his son growing up fatherless was exploding inside his stomach like a minefield.
Time was diluting. He had no idea where the car had reached. The place was dissolving and the compartments of his satchel were taking over his sense of space.
It remained, just him and the machine-printed plastic bag, in which the succulent grenade throbbed like his own beating heart.
The car had suddenly started moving faster and Ahad Saeb’s ringing increased with his worry.
Ahad Saeb, oblivious to the driver’s need to rest his back, felt faintingly nauseated. When in a sudden rush of the senses he was in Gupkar. The driver forgot to slow down and rushed past the rolling barricades.
Ahad Saeb followed the vague yellow lines in his periphery with drops of sweat rolling down his temples.
There was a thud then a sudden break.
Everyone in the back along with the harmonium bumped into the front seats.
Grunting, Mushtaq turned to make sure his Ustad was not hurt when he caught him wide-eyed biting into his grenade. Chewing, taking bigger bites, and gulping it down at the edge of his seat.
When the policeman who had made the sound by hitting their car with his stick came over to enquire, Ahad Saeb, with his blurred vision and salty mouth, rolled down the window with greasy hands. As the uniformed lad leaned into the car, Ahad Saeb blew up a big burp on his face. With his tongue, he fished for the last evidence in his mouth and swallowed the bits of the garnade whole.
Babra Shafiqi is a writer from Kashmir. She has finished her masters degree from Ambedkar University, Delhi, and is currently educating herself with books that her friends kindly send her.