My unforgettable trip To Kashmir

The Kashmiri doesn’t care whose flag he follows, whose anthem he sounds. As long as the Kashmiri gets to row his shikara, herd his sheep, temper his willow bats, grow his apples and light his kangri in peace, what’s an India, what is a Pakistan. It has been an illuminating first day in Kashmir. The flight from Delhi spelt its own episodes, but that’s another, rather insignificant, story. A delay caused due to fog meant that we touched down at Srinagar Airport an hour behind schedule. But enough of that; let the story begin. The passage from the boarding gate to the baggage check reminds me of a Republic Day parade— without the celebration. Rows of stoic-looking men in full combat gear holding INSAS rifles greet me as I proceed towards the baggage counter. On the arrivals desk across the hall, a mini- police station of sorts deals with nervous-looking foreigners and Kashmiris on their way out. The customary chatter and hubbub you’d find in any airport is much subdued here. Into Paradise The driver’s name is Shakeel Ahmed. A man of average height, with an oval-shaped head, a self- conscious smile and the customary reserve you’d find in town folk whenever they encounter city dwellers like myself. That reserve dissolves quickly as I start asking him about the Kashmiri way of life. “Well sir, the people here, they like to work,” he says, smoothly overtaking a truck carrying logs. “Whether it’s growing saffron, or almonds, weaving cloth, or going to school, we like to stay occupied. That’s why I don’t like winter so much. Too little time to get out and about.” As we cross Lal Chowk, I am struck by the inconspicuousness of roadside beggars anywhere. “Oh, you won’t find any beggars in Kashmir, sir,” Shakeel says, “Kashmiris are a proud people. We don’t like opening our palms, except in prayer.” The Kashmiri livelihood, I learn, comes from growing things and showing things. The village folk depend on saffron, almonds, apples, wood and weaving for their livelihood. City dwellers are invested in various services for the visiting tourist. “There’s plenty of money in Kashmir,” Shakeel remarks, “but you won’t see it out in the open. We are not ostentatious by nature.” An offhand barb at Delhi brashness, I suspect, but let it pass. We pass through a crowded marketplace. Glittering streamers and flags of Pakistan hang from the ropeways overhead. I ask him about the flags. “Oh, they aren’t Pakistani flags, sir,” he replies with a short laugh. “These are for Bada Din. Look, that banner over there says ‘Id Milaap’.“ Don’t I feel foolish. “Actually, this district, Pulwama, it has 95 per cent Muslims. Bada Din is celebrated with a lot of pomp and circumstance. That road forking right leads to Pulwama town. It’s renowned for its shopian apples and, well, other things,” Shakeel says with a quiet smile. The other things, it turns out, are afeem (opium) and hashish (marijuana). “Saara do number ka kaam wahaan par hota hai, sir,” remarks Shakeel with a wink. I return the wink as a road milestone closes. ‘Pahalgam: 98 kilometres,’ the sign reads. A Saffron Stopover We’ve pulled over beside a large shop with a sign that reads ‘Kesar Valley'. Shakeel seems to have taken a personal affront to the fact that I’ve never had kahwah in my life, and decides the experience can wait no longer. Two bearded men nurse the counter, sitting cross-legged on low stools. The long table in front of them displays almonds, kernels, tiny containers of saffron, cans of almond oil, homemade hand cream and a host of other items. One of them rises to greet me. “Salaam ailakum, welcome to Kesar Valley.” Tall, bearded, unsmiling, with intense, brooding eyes, Nisaar Ahmad could be the worst fear of any ignoramus who pays heed to manufactured media. Shakeel exchanges a quiet word with the other man, who then disappears behind a curtain. Nisaar comes straight to business. Directing my attention to a stack of photo frames, he begins, “Our roots lie in saffron farming. My grandfather grew saffron, his son grew saffron after him, and now…,” he gestures to himself. His companion returns with a bag of almonds. “Try them. No, in fact, crush them on the counter here,” Nisaar commands, “There, see the way the oil oozes out? You won’t find almonds like these anywhere outside Kashmir.” Assured that I will not be leaving his shop without buying his almonds, Nisaar switches to the floods. “Well, they were not of our making. Only God decides where to unleash his fury. True, places in Srinagar, Rajbagh and others, they suffered a lot of damage. But we bounced back immediately.” Shakeel cuts in, “I’ll take you to some of the worst-hit areas. You will not believe your eyes, sir. They’re better than they were before the floods.” “Actually, the government was shilly-shallying around the development of these areas,” Nisaar says, “But after the floods, locals and government alike pulled together to build a stronger, more beautiful Kashmir. On 12 September, the waters retreated. On 13 , it was business as usual.” The silent partner returns once more, this time holding an amber liquid with almond slices swimming in it. “Try the kahwah. Shakeel tells me you’ve never had it before,” Nisaar remarks sternly. I sip the kahwah. It’s… exceptional. I lick my lips and take a longer draught. Shakeel smiles and opens the cardamom jar. “It’s soothing, no? Very good for coughs and throat-aches,” he says. “After the floods, they thought we’d suffer infection from all the corpses of man and beast floating in the waters,” Nisaar continues, “But God works in mysterious ways. The climate here ensured that infection would never strike us.” What would you say to the skeptical tourist about Kashmir, I ask him. He replies with characteristic assuredness, switching to English for emphasis. “Everything is okay here. Shauk se aa jao.” At Avantipur Now there’s a sight. A Sikh gentleman is playing guide to a couple of foreigners within the ruins of a 1200-year-old Hindu temple, situated right next to a Muslim mosque. As I step inside the gates of the Avantipur Ruins, I cannot help but feel a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the cold. How many stories, I wonder, have these broken fragments of stone stowed away silently through the ages. A large rock platform is visible beyond the wrecked archway, surrounded by what seem like hundreds of pillar-like structures— unmistakably Greek in style— forming a square. Carved inscriptions and busts of Hindu deities lend meaning to the otherwise haphazard jumbles of rock strewn across the grounds. “Puttar, come here. See, this is where the British laid silver as a mark of respect for Lord Vishnu,” the Sikh guide beckons. Trilok Singh doesn’t waste his breath on trifles like pausing between sentences. Twenty-five years as a guide in Avantipur has provided him with significant recitation powers. One could be hearing an automated answering machine on loop. “The Awantiswami temple was built by King Avantivarman in the year 855 AD, you’ll see a bust of him here, the temple was built for Lord Vishnu, see that rock inscription over there? Yes, there, that’s Lord Vishnu holding a mace, there are 66 pillars surrounding this site, where once stood 66 shrines, it was discovered by the British in 1848 when digging first started…” I leave the slightly dazed foreigners to their sermon and start hunting for angles to best capture the neighbouring mosque. Even the bright gaze of the afternoon sun cannot overcome the haunted ambience that envelops the Avantipur Ruins. These remnants of a once-magnificent temple tell a sorrowful tale of blood, tears and lost legacy. I look up from my viewfinder to see a large turban blocking the sun. “First time in Kashmir, beta?” Trilok Singh asks kindly, “Anything you’d like to know? Go on, I’m from here only.” I ask him for an interview and he readily obliges. There’s no need for me to ask any questions – Trilok Singh is off from the word ‘go’. “Tourism is the main, and for many, the only earner here in Kashmir. The man rowing the shikara, the young boys working in the hotels, the ski instructors in Gulmarg, the pony guides in Aru Valley – they all depend on tourists for livelihood. The floods did some damage to life and property, yes. But they damaged Kashmir’s reputation more.” How much has the tourist activity fallen since the floods, I ask him. “Well, in the immediate aftermath, Srinagar airport was a ghost terminal. No arrivals, only the occasional business traveler. But we’re witnessing a steady rise. All this fear is because of the media misinformation. I’ve been to the places which they stamped as ‘devastated areas’. You see them for yourself – they’re better than they were before.” Shakeel must be getting impatient, I think. Thanking Trilok Singh for his time, I begin to take my leave. “Kashmir is a mini- Switzerland , puttar,” Trilok Singh says by way of farewell, “These floods, the lack of snowfall; it’s all a minor speed breaker. You come this summer and have tea at my place. I’ll show you how beautiful Kashmir looks in the summer.” Smiling at his words, I return to the car where Shakeel is waiting. A Sikh gentleman playing guide for a Hindu temple in a predominantly Muslim state. Trilok: One who resides in three worlds. Shakeel's Story We’ve crossed about forty kilometers and should reach Pahalgam in an hour – but for my frequent stops to capture mountain vistas, bundles of willow laid out to dry and feran- wearing locals with a conspicuous hump on their back for their kangris. “Everyone carries a kangri here, sir. It’s a small wicker basket laid with burning coals. Put your hands in your pockets around the kangri and you can walk in sub- zero temperatures without feeling cold,” Shakeel explains. Where’s your kangri, I ask him. “I don’t carry one, sir,” Shakeel answers, “Never really felt cold. I like to wash my car with cold water in the dead of winter. Abba jaan says to my ammi, ‘This boy is mad. Get him married and off my hands.’” I ask him how old he is. “Twenty-five, sir. Plenty of proposals have come my way but I keep refusing. Ab toh karni hi nahi hai.” “Why not?” “There was a girl. She used to live in our house for a while. I never told her. Until one day, she asked me,” Shakeel smiles self-consciously. “But my parents said no. Actually the girl’s father had disappeared. Nobody knows what happened to him. It was just her and two sisters with her mother in the house. Then the army started calling in. So they had to leave their house and come live with us. You see, her father and mine were good friends.” “But now they were tainted. Nobody wants trouble with the army. Abba refused to bless our marriage, so I told her sister, ‘Get her married off to someone else’. She got engaged last month,” Shakeel says expressionlessly. He takes one look at my crumpled face, and smiles immediately. “So now I say ‘Ab toh karni hi nahi hai’. I’ll drive people around, see the country and enjoy myself,” Shakeel says, “A few days ago, I was driving a tourist through a marketplace. A garland of money was hanging outside one of the shops. The tourist asks me, ‘What is that for?’ I say to him, I say ‘Ye bakra halaal karne ke liye hota hai’ The groom is the bakra going for halaal, no?” We both laugh for a long time. But as we race past apple trees shorn of leaf and fruit, I notice Shakeel’s eyes upon his wallet laid on the dashboard. Somewhere in that frayed, untidy-looking wallet perhaps, lies a photograph of his beloved. Touchdown: Pahalgam Sundown starts early in Kashmir. By 5:00 pm, the clear-blue skies over Pahalgam have already started giving way to hues of red and orange as the sun prepares to retire for the night. We pull over by the driveway of Mount View Hotel. A wizened old man comes to receive me. Brushing aside my protests, he collects my luggage and hurries back inside the hotel. It’s less than two degrees and he’s wearing a light sweater. What are these people made of? The check-in process is dealt with smoothly and before long, I am walking through the oak- furnished passageway towards my room. The heater’s switched on and the electric blanket is set to ‘high’. There’s no trace of the sub-zero temperatures lurking outside my window, which is large, panoramic almost – displaying the snow-capped mountains in all their glory. The old gentleman asks me what I’d like to have for dinner, wishes me a pleasant stay, and leaves. It’s a silent night – a city person would need time to get used to it. No truck horns blaring, intermittent lights beaming, no beats of party music in the distance. As I slip inside the heated bed covers, I’m reminded of the immortal quote by the poet laureate Amir Khusrau: Gir firdaus baru e zameen ast… hameen asto, hameen asto, hameen ast.