Kargil Vijay Diwas, ah. I was just shredding ginger for the jadoh this morning, and the radio was playing an old Khasi song—doesn’t fit, I know, but it made me think of my father. He was in the army, came home with stories about the mountains, never talked about the hard parts. I have a small tin box of his medals behind the counter, next to the chutney bottles. When the office crowd comes later, I’ll add a little extra chicken to their plates today—they don’t know why, but they’ll say it tastes ngam.
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