When we were alone his cooking was passable—at least it was generally eatable; but if ever we had friends to dinner he always managed to surpass himself with some act of stupidity or wickedness, I never could make out which it was.
Kerman
A photo taken from the top of our house in Kerman, showing the mountains in the distance and our garden in the foreground. The circular roofs are those belonging to our kitchens, the round hole at the top being the only means of ventilation.
A Street in Kerman
A corner of a street in Kerman, leading into the long, covered bazaar.
On one occasion the English consul and one or two others were dining with us. We had safely reached the “sweet” stage, and I was just beginning to congratulate myself that this time, at any rate, our lovely cook was not going to disgrace himself or play any trick. Just then a “chocolate cream” was handed round. It looked all right. The consul took some, tasted it, and promptly laid down his fork; his example was followed by others. I hastily called the “boy” to bring me some, and on tasting it found to my horror that the chocolate cream was highly flavoured with naphthalene! We had lately received a box from home; in it was some of this useful stuff for destroying moths; doubtless the cook thought it was a nice and specially delicate flavouring for puddings! On another occasion I had been experimenting on some dessert dish, which necessitated part of the ingredients soaking for an hour or two over a slow fire. I put everything ready, and left strict injunctions with “Uriah” that he was to touch nothing, and so I left. Shortly after, feeling rather uneasy as to the welfare of my concoction, I returned to the kitchen, just in time to see the wretched man pouring my “Dream of Delight” down the sink! I confess to having been guilty then for the first and last time of boxing a servant’s ears; but really was the provocation not great?
Another of our “treasures” was a man called Neamat ’allah. He was a splendid “show man,” but no good for work of any kind. He shone when visitors came, as he felt the dignity of his Sahib depended in a great measure on him.
Then there was an awful boy, Rustem. I did my best to make him into a decent parlour-maid, but utterly failed. Although only about eighteen years of age, he was a confirmed slave to the opium habit. His chief forte was smashing crockery and telling lies. Of course we never expected our servants to speak the truth, but this boy seemed the most incorrigible of all. One day he said to me, after I had been trying to instil into his mind some idea as to why we should speak the truth, “Well, Khanum, what is the use of my speaking the truth, for if I did you would not believe me, and would only say it was a lie?” This is true, I am afraid, to a great extent, for after being deceived so often one gets sceptical about the possibility of a native speaking the truth, especially if he is an opium-smoker too. And yet sometimes they look at you so innocently, with such an air of injured righteousness, that you begin to wonder if after all they are not for once speaking the truth; but, alas, the wonder soon passes!