There’s been a long wait, for me to write this second post on Kashmir and even for those whose have been eagerly wanting, I hope, to read it. Casual, lazy, tardy, are fine adjectives for such a lapse, but I recommend over-thinking and brooding on my part. Let bygone be gone. Here’s what happened next.
We were finally speeding to Sonamarg, watching with glee the thick blanket of fresh shimmering snow straddling the motorway, and wondering if still more snow was possible, when our journey came to a halt. As God had willed, a landslide warning ahead on the mountains made higher reaches out of bounds, and instead, we were to go frolicking about a small Kashmiri hamlet. There, at Kohlu mohalla, we met a pony man who would be our guide and friend in the adventure to follow. Irrfan, with a promise to show us beauty more splendid than the kind seen at the touristy Sonamarg, tugged at our frail-looking ponies and began marching up the powdery slope leaving the highway and market din far below.
First came the road less-traveled, sinuous and ever-narrowing, the boulevard of … — a kind of pastoral milieu that sets in a swoon. I looked at my shepherd boyfriend for assurance. All’s well. Then came signs of aloof habitation – some broken carts, curious children — sartorially motley and alike in expression, and then those typical smoke coughing chimneys, and with it, soot strewn about and a woody air. Various salutations were hurled at us, crude but welcoming, through half-open windows, by matronly women weaving yarn at home and across the fields by village men working in the walnut groove, pruning and preparing for an early spring. We had half-a-dozen tea invitations by then, but Irrfan insisted that it was at his home we would break bread. But before that, there was a short summit to make. And so we went on riding the grunting ponies, in a four-feet-deep snow cover, promising the children that we would return, scaling the narrow trail to a small canal overlooking the village and the highway.
Irrfan with his little brothers and sisters. No ones passes through their village without having a cup of with them.That’s me, far in the background, thanking local women for their tea invitation.Just a sample of layers of clothing you would need in Kashmir in winters. At least two layers of bottoms, and for special cases like me, who feel extra chill, five layers on top. Or maybe just one windproof thick jacket. Here I am almost in tears. Thank God for the sun! And those shoes will not do. I never planned for this trip, and had the time of my life.Finally, ready to spare the poor pony. Irrfan clears some snow for me to jump in.
I could explain the view we were then beholding; I even have a picture or two, but I am not sure how to put down the sensation in words. Imagine, while out of breath, being caught by something breathtaking – breathless exhilaration, perhaps. The only time I used this phrase aptly, and yet it does little justice. Add three sighs to it. Maybe that!
We jumped off our ponies into the snow, trudging closer to the canal. Warmed up by the ride it seemed ideal to sit down and to commune with our new friend for a while. It’s rare to find a moment when your life stands still, and when from the fringes of the world you are able to see the life you have build for yourself as reflected on others and how they see it. It’s what you would call getting a different perspective. And at that point of vantage, far from the maddening crowd, we sat talking to Irrfan, learning about his life and aspirations, attempting to figure how we fit in the scheme of things — we as tourists in Kashmir, we as Indians, as the young and restless and especially, we as those with compassion.
What were we to Irrfan and his world? “It’s always a boon to have you; always good,” he said, “you” as tourists “are always welcome”. Delivered deftly, businesslike, that reply was of a boy who had understood the way of the world. Especially, the way things must work in Kashmir — peacefully, in cooperation with those in power of any kind. There was no other choice. Tourists brought in business and that made lives of local people a little better. We must go and tell our friends to visit Kashmir, he told us. We asked him if he would like to move to another place if given a chance. “No, I am content. We have everything here,” he said spreading his arms, ” we even grow our own corn.” While walking back to his home, he told us about his ponies, his goats, and his huge mountain dog, whom he feared the most. “Only my mother can feed that beast,” he said with a comical disgust.
As soon as we reached his home, Irrfan made everyone present in our service. While the women of the house got down to prepare a quick snack, countless little ones were made to usher us about his home. Irrfan and his elder brother, who teaches mathematics in a primary school in Gund, are proud of what they have achieved — a respectable life, a big comfy home, a car to drive around and loving family. Irrfan was very excited to show us around, especially his study room, where he also hung out with his friends. When my boyfriend remarked that the room was just like our home – carpeted and without any furniture, and only bigger and better, Irrfan refused to believe right away. We were just being honest, perhaps at the risk of sounding like sly flatterers. Clearly, it was not the right time to compare living conditions in India’s capital city New Delhi with that of small Kashmiri village. Grass would always be greener on the other side, so we decided to shake hands on that note and went over to the kitchen-cum-dining area for our tea.
Irrfan showing us exactly how he sits down in his favorite room and relaxes. We told him we do the same. Just loll!Happy to be clicked! At Irrfan’s place.Irrfan’s family, most loving hosts ever!
Irrfan’s mother laid out everything they had at home. It was the most touching treat I have ever been given. I still miss the half eaten sweet corn bread Irrfan wanted us to try out as a sample of their daily diet — a left over from the morning breakfast. No one can complain at such a moment; we had seven kids seated in a row opposite to us, watching us, anticipating our reactions to their food. I don’t think we disappointed them. We were truly pleased and so were they when we said our final goodbye to Irrfan’s family and Gund.
Tea and Kashmiri breadMen carrying out their religious ablution rituals at Gund. A beautiful place to remember God, but does he listen?Some nice guys, who were not happy that we did not have tea with them, came to bid us goodbye.
When we narrated our little adventure to our driver Mushtaq bhai, he was relieved that we were satisfied with our day out. Most tourists keep complaining that they have not seen enough, he told us. I suspect he was bemused at how easily we were pleased. I am not sure if this particular trait has been our weakness or strength throughout our trip in Kashmir, but it definitely made things easier for us and for those taking care of us — for money or out of affection.
Back at the houseboat in Nagin lake, watching a beautiful sunset
It was dark by the time we got back to Srinagar. Our houseboat owner, Shafi had been up to some serious repair work in the houseboat. Pipe-fittings, he said, were the most crucial thing in winter. If water in them froze, it would burst the pipes, damaging the houseboat. This was one reason he said it cost more to stay in a houseboat. Unlike a hotel, repair and maintenance of houseboats is quite a chore. Knowing this, it does not surprise me that keeping houseboats is a dying tradition among Kashmiris. Shafi claims his expenditure on maintenance sometimes surpass his earnings; yet he chooses to keep the tradition of his forefathers alive. At his houseboat Shafi has pictures of generations of tourist from the around the world who have come and stayed at his houseboats, letters of thanks and appreciating in several languages he cannot read, and various currency notes stuck under glass sheet on the sitting room table. But most interesting were Shafi’s anecdotes about his childhood in Srinagar, about nasty Indian tourists, and his favorite European guests. There’s even a fishing rod at the houseboat for those who like to fish, especially useful on when going on treks to far-fetched lakes of Kashmir. One of those treks is now on our bucket-list.
For now, I sign off. There are some more tales from Kashmir to share. Look out for the next blog entry if you would want to know my experiences at Gulmarg and Srinagar.
What to expect from a vacation trip? I believe, nothing except experience. You can’t go wrong with that. Sometimes luck brings you a treasure trove, and sometimes you need to seek value from a discard like a keen bird gathering for its nest where every straw counts. Before planning a trip to the Kashmir valley this January, I had imagined nothing — built no castles in the air. Given that the trip was based on a whim, the experience was far more rewarding than anything I had expected. After spending six days travelling in the valley, I have returned with a refreshed sense of responsibility — to humanity and nature. You can’t plan such a pilgrimage.
I am reminded that some things must be shown, some tales must be told, for there’s a lot at stake. When silence is the only recourse for so many, ones who have a voice must speak.
Kashmir — once the only heaven on earth and now a lost paradise — is a land of strange paradoxes. As limitless and conspicuous as is the beauty and serenity of the Kashmir valley, equally vast is the shroud of the terror and corruption that plagues the land and its people. You have to be blind to not see this, and heartless to not acknowledge it. What I saw is etched in my memory and no night has passed since without dreams of Kashmir; haunting and beautiful.
Amir Khusrau’s famous couplet on Kashmir is no exaggeration:
“Agar firdaus bar roo-e zameen ast, Hameen ast-o hameen ast-o hameen ast” Truly, “if there is paradise on earth, it is here, it is here”
Glimpse of the panorama as seen from first level of Gulmarg’s ski slopes
If you are flying to Srinagar from New Delhi, an hour before you land, you can see the tip of the majestic nature that awaits you as folds of snow-peaked Great Himalayan range begin to tower in the east. If the weather is clear, you can even trace the Karakoram range in the horizon. Enclosed by lofty, gleaming snow-clad mountains, the Kashmir Valley appears as a wizard’s cove, and as the plane starts to descend, diving into the thick blanket of clouds hovering over the valley, to touch the Srinagar airport’s runway a sensational feeling grips you. It’s magical!
Reality sinks in once you land. Truly, it is another world.
Having spent all my childhood at army cantonments, armed men was a common sight. But the heavy presence of armed personnel in civilian areas in Srinagar is unmatched. Even in the depth of harrowing winter, when the political machinery and the VIP movement is restricted to the relatively warmer region of Jammu, summer Capital Srinagar is made to appear on a perpetual alert – flashlights follow array of beacon cars searching traces of fear, while marching soldiers quell an uneasy calm.
Dressed in DP camouflage bulletproof jackets over khakis, the CRPF clearly makes no effort to blend in. Years ago, when CRPF wore a full DP camouflage uniform in Srinagar, Omar Abdullah, J&K Chief Minister, thought it was a bad idea to patrol cities in war fatigues and suggested switching to khakis. It might have lessened the terror somewhat. As a tourist you can brush off the sight of armed men as an eyesore on a beautiful landscape, but the residents of Kashmir valley know that terror can come dressed in any uniform. Yet life must be lived and business must be carried on as usual. Is that true grit or hopeless servitude? — one of the many paradoxes.
CRPF jawans in Srinagar, braving the chill, perhaps with a joke.
Regardless of whatever happens in Kashmir, it is certainly safe for tourists. You will live in a bubble of serenity. My boyfriend and I found ourselves one too – Heaven Breeze houseboat situated at Nagin lake, which wins hands down as a more scenic, clean and quiet place to stay than the famous Dal lake, to which rowdy, inebriated tourists (especially from North India) swarm to like bees, even in winter. Only after a visit to the Dal lake did I understand what our houseboat owner, Mr Shafi Shangloo, meant by calling Nagin a “European taste”. In his words, it is truly “without hassle”.
Sunset at NaginView from houseboat deck
Currently, the J&K government is on a drive to clean the lake and lift some settlements from the lake. New houseboats can’t be built. None on Nagin for sure. After years of militant insurgency, the State whose maximum revenue comes from its tourism industry is slowly recovering but still reeling, creating an ideal breeding ground for corruption and antagonism. On our arrival at Nagin, we noticed only warm hospitality and beauty, but when we got around talking to the lake residents we learnt of a recent tragedy borne out of such corruption.
On January 2, warming ourselves near a bukhari with freshly brewed Kashmiri kahwa, everything seemed tranquil. Perhaps, it was gravity misunderstood. Nearby, in procession was a funeral of a man who had bribed government officials for a permit to build a settlement on Nagin. After an initial nod, the permit was revoked on the day we arrived, and having lost all his investments and bribing to no avail, the man succumbed to a weakened heart. Reporters of local media came to cover the mishap, but the next morning’s news carried no hint of it or of any of the issues that we were to come across during the next few days of our stay. “Galat kiya na! Aisa usko allow kyun keeya jab sabko manaa hai? Yahan sab sarkaari log paisa khata hai. Kashmir unka jaagir hai. Kya karega?!”, said our driver Mushtaq the next day, advising that we should rather enjoy our hard-earned holidays. So, we shrugged and went with the flow.
The first day itself we discovered our favourite activity in Kashmir — Shikara ride. You can spend long hours, at least afternoon to evening, rowing across the two lakes. It will cost INR300-400 per hour and two hours (if you are also rowing along with the Shikara man) to reach Dal’s floating market from Nagin. Rowing in the placid lake has a meditative feel, like in any ritual and routine. You also get to soak in the last rays of the setting sun and observe the lake’s wildlife. For these moments, life stands still.
Settlement near the floating market at Dal lake pictured at sunsetSunset at Dal’s floating farmsFamily returning home crossing a wooden bridge at NaginSome sign of sunshine after days of mist and snowLocal women rowing a shikara, a common way to commute at the lakesSmoking a hukkah, lotus farmers harvesting lotus stems from plantations at Dal lakeFarmer harvest lotus stem in Dal lakeAngry bird… heheKashmiri hawkDucks in a row
Rowing back to our houseboat, Ghulam Ahmed sahab, our elderly shikara man, invited us over tea to his house. What with the sharply dipping mercury, only a fool would have declined the offer, while we were only too eager. Unacquainted with Kashmiri traditions, I followed my boyfriend’s lead, who in turn followed Ghulam sahab. As most Kashmiri homes are carpeted, with either elaborately designed handmade carpets or modest coverlets, civilized conduct calls you remove your shoes before you step in. But it’s always the inter-cultural pleasantries that are tricky. Nevertheless, I took a leap, and embraced the first woman I met – Ghulam sahab’s wife. Delighted with the familiar gesture, she planted half a dozen kisses on my cheeks. And as for the menfolk, I learned, as a non-Kashmiri woman, a firm handshake works beautifully. But I was ill at ease until Ghulam sahab’s daughter prodded me to shake her brother’s hand. Some awkward laughter and several cups of tea later we settled to click pictures for keepsake. There were again peals of laughter as the elderly couple posed for us; something unpretentiously romantic.
Family picture with Ghulam Saheb
Besides the Shikara business, the family runs a small grocery shop adjacent to their home on Nagin lake, and the women in the family — Ghulam’s wife, daughter and daughter-in-law — spin Pashima yarn at home for local shawl factories. As we bade our farewell to the family, we promised to return for their daughter’s wedding. But first a suitable groom must be found, she joked. If not funny, her remark was definitely telling of the current situation in the Kashmir Valley, where young marriageable girls outnumber marriageable men, so finding a groom is always challenging.
The next day, on our way to Sonamarg, our driver, Mushtaq bhai, happened to touch upon this issue. Years of violent insurgency and military crackdown had taken the lives of many young men, as many were led astray to fight for militants, for ideals, for money, for blood feud, and in the name of injustice – which can’t be completely denied. Many more are still missing or dead in fake encounters. Of the ones who did not take up arms, many fled the valley to other parts of country and abroad to earn a livelihood or for security. This accounts for higher than national average of female sex-ratio in several militancy-hit districts of Jammu and Kashmir, where the number of half-widows is also significant.
Enroute Sonamarg
But overall the state is now witnessing an alarming fall in the female ratio. In 2001 census, it was 941 females: 1059 males, in 2011 it was 862 females : 1138 males, with 22 districts including Srinagar recording significant drop in the number of girl children. In a state where once religion and society forbade abortion, parents are choosing boys over girls through pre-natal testing and illegal abortion as they see a bleak future for their daughters. Couple this with economic hardships, and what stares back at you is another paradox: on one hand, as a woman you could walk down the streets of Srinagar or any part of Kashmir and no man would dare to look at you, forget about groping, misbehaving or harrassing you– it is so safe — and on the other hand the civilians live under perpetual fear of sexual atrocities unleashed on their women by what I call the terror nexus — the security forces, police, foreign agencies and militant groups. The social fabric of Kashmir, that of tolerance and respect, not only towards women but also other religions, has been fraying as Kashmiris struggle to hold onto their culture.
As we crossed the the Kashmir University campus, Mushtaq bhai pointed out, “yehin pe pade sab. Jo zyada padd likh gaya woh samjh gaya ki uske saath naa-insaafi ho rahi hai. Pakdi usne bandook phir. Kya karta? Galti toh hua na. Yahan ka log nadaan hai, behla phusla liya.” On the boundary wall of the university campus there are traces of graffiti, many reading “Aazadi” — meaning freedom. Few fresh, some whitewashed, and several gradually effacing with time and nature, emblematic of the turning tide in Kashmir. Even if for a brief spell, their is a semblance of normalcy in the valley and many Kashmiri muslims who had fled are returning back to work there. Mushtaq’s youngest son is a law graduate from Kashmir University, but never practiced the profession as with the turbulent times of the past decade jobs were hard to come by. This worried Mushtaq, as he felt that his unemployed educated son could be easily swayed to join militant or separatist groups, like many educated young boys in Kashmir did. The only way he thought he could prevent this was by keeping his son involved in work, so he got him a car on a loan to drive as a tourist taxi. He tells he faced staunch criticism from his friends and relatives for pushing his educated son into this business, but persisted as he knew this was best for him. As it turned out, it indeed was. After driving the tourist taxi for almost four years, with the help of his elder brother, he opened a small travel agency which is now reaping them benefits. Mushtaq himself served with the J&K government as a driver, but took an early retirement to be closer home in Srinagar. Besides, he jokes that he likes being his own boss. “Sarkari afsar logon ka kuch imaan nahi. Mulazim ko insaan hi nahi samjhte,” he says. If not absolutely happy, he is somewhat relieved to have normal times in Kashmir and firmly believes that it is tourism that can turn the tables here.
Unfortunately, tourism is one thing that has been badly struck in the state. If not absolutely dead, the industry is yet to be developed in many ways to compete with other popular tourist destinations across India. For example, few miles out of Srinagar towards Sonamarg you are still guessing if you have hit the Srinagar-Leh National Highway 1D, as no four-lanes, or even bleakly-marked safety signs appear. “If you can’t provide good roads to tourists, what’s the point,” says Mushtaq. There are no public facilities like toilets either. Mushtaq tells that he sometimes requests the locals to let his tourists use toilets in their home. “People are good here, they welcome tourist without any self-interest. Where else would you see such hospitality,” he adds. More than anything, he hails the spirit of the tourists, even foreigners, who love Kashmir so much that they rarely complain of the sub-standard facilities in there. “Everyone knows what is the problem here, they understand, but we feel bad to have them face such conditions.”
Development of the highway and the area around it has always been a bone of contention in the state. Unlike other national highways that are under National Highway Authority of India it is managed by Border Road Organisation, whose funds and infrastructure building capacity are a trifle as compared to the former. The modest results are the real testimony. Of course, you have to grant the hardship of working under adverse climatic conditions. Besides, there are more things to consider. Amid the snow-covered fields lay another evidence of an unfinished promise: the promise of connecting Jammu, Kashmir, Leh and Bilaspur with railway. As you move along the highway, on your right you can see Indian broad gauge tracks laid in the fields. Once completed, trains would chug along the route from Srinagar to Leh via Kargil. Besides, the strategic importance of the route, it is pitched as the most challenging project undertaken by Indian Railways since its completion of Konkan Railways almost 20 years ago. You can’t help but feel reverence towards the Chinese who managed to build The Qinghai–Tibet railway years ago.
My boyfriend and I exchanged several glances with muted acknowledgement of the unfortunate situation of Kashmir and the heartbreaking beauty of the place, which smote our hearts forever. Though my ears had pricked up at the conversation in the car, I found it impossible to turn away from the window. I wanted to capture all the fleeting images of the blanched landscape and the corn fields hidden under 4-foot-deep glimmering snow. As a kid, if someone would have said that there lay mines of infinite riches, pearls, silver and diamonds, I would have believed. There were several ponies — grey, brown, black and white as unicorns — grazing amid the snow that made the fantasy world complete. Just as I let myself drift away, someone threw a spanner in the works, and that dream wheeling came to an abrupt end. People of a village straddling the highway had blocked the road ahead. They were protesting against the unending power cut they had been facing for days in these freezing temperatures. Soon cars, trucks and buses began to line up and our driver drove us off the road and parked the car on a slip-lane . He said he did not want to take a risk as anything could happen in such protests, especially if the tussle gets ugly between the people and the police. So we waited, and watched the police disperse the crowd to at least open the highway. Insofar, it seemed to resolve peacefully and we were back on our track in sometime.
Little Hobbitses hooked on to the spectacle of a protest and traffic jam enroute SonamargFairyland, Village Gund
But Sonamarg, like those things that are just not meant to be, did not materialize, because something exceptional was in store. Almost 20 kms short of Sonamarg, the route had been closed by the authorities citing landslide warning after fresh snowfall on the mountains, hence tourists were forbidden beyond a small village-town called Gund on the highway. The small Gund market was crowded with tourists, bus drivers, truckers and cabbies, and tea shops were buzzing with activity, making every moment count of the blessing in disguise — it was time for brisk business for the locals. And that’s when Irrfan approached our cab and asked if we wanted to go for a pony ride, quoting Rs500 for two people. Of course we did! As we shook our hands on the deal several pony owners cornered Irrfan saying he could only take one person for that amount as that was the standard rate there, which I assumed was local bad-boys bullying routine. Since a lot had happened throughout the day, and we did not want to dampen what little was left of the fun outing, we decided to pay as per the village bullies. So off we went — Irrfan and one of the bully’s little minion on foot, with my boy friend on his pony and I on another pony of one of the bullies in tow. We beamed at the thought of another ‘Jab Jab Phool Khile’ moment. I can now firmly attest that no movie has managed to capture the romance of Kashmir and influence our imagination forever as it did. And there I was, humming “ek tha gul aur ek thi bulbul…”.
Irrfan being the perfect guide he was gave us a quick verbal tour of the place — form tourists hot spots to virgin locales. When we asked him to take us to his favourite place, he happily steered the ponies towards his home. Away from the hustle-bustle, we detoured uphill through a small lane covered with 2-foot deep snow. The ride to his humble abode in Kollu mohalla will always be one of the most memorable experience in Kashmir.
Following ponies to their home in Kollu MohallaWarm welcome
The Manquée 