The Kashmir Diaries – Day Two

Gulmarg | Old City | Shalimar Bagh

I wake up around 8 am, quite early by my usual standard. Shakeel is due to arrive at 9:30 am so there’s time for a quick workout and a leisurely hot bath before his silver Toyota Innova pulls inside the hotel gates. I decide not to have breakfast in the hotel – Shakeel has promised me authentic Kashmiri harisa for grubs.

“Had a good sleep, sir? Today will be interesting. We’ll cover Gulmarg, and depending on how long you want to play with snow like a tourist, we might get to see some of Srinagar afterwards.”

Shakeel’s jokes are beginning to grow on me.

*****

Across Magham

Gulmarg is a two-hour drive from Srinagar and the road crosses several shanty towns and small villages along the way. An hour or so into the drive, we’re crossing a town with small shops on either side. Banners of Iran’s ex-Supreme Leader Ayatollah Khomeini, and its current president are hung across the street lights.

“This here, sir, is Magham. It’s one of the few Shia-inhabited areas in Kashmir.  The Shias comprise no more than 2-3 per cent of Kashmiri population,” Shakeel informs me.

We’ve reached an intersection. A couple of army trucks block our path. A soldier motions for us to wait while the trucks reverse. Shakeel grumbles a few words in his tongue and starts drumming the steering wheel impatiently.

“That road on the left leads to Tosamadani. It’s a beautiful place, sir. Earlier, the army folk had occupied it to build a training facility. But the locals started demonstrating and they had to vacate the grounds. Now it’s open for tourists.”

*****

Left Out in the Cold

We’re approaching Tangmarg, the only area with an ATM ahead of Gulmarg. A fellow on the road accosts our car, jumps in without a word, exchanges greetings with Shakeel and hellos with me. On the way he introduces himself.

“I’m Abdul. I work as a guide in Gulmarg. Pity you’re coming at this time. The lack of snow has really let us down.”

“Abdul is the best guide in the business,” Shakeel claims, “He’ll give you the best sightseeing at dirt-cheap rates. You’ll see…”

Abdul interrupts. After a hurried conversation, Shakeel turns back to me.

“It seems he already has a party. No worries, we’ll figure something out.”

The road from Tangmarg to Gulmarg is when the first flakes of snow start dropping on the car. The chil (pine) trees along the winding road are showering melted snow upon the road – courtesy the fierce gaze of the afternoon sun.

“Hopeless,” grumbles Abdul, “You see that fence running beside us? Last year, it wasn’t even visible. Snow levels have dropped tremendously. You can’t imagine how much business it has cost Gulmarg.”

Turns out the (mostly foreign) tourists who pay homage to Gulmarg for its skiing slopes have not come this time.

“They’re just biding their time,” puts in Shakeel reassuringly, “We’ve got major snowfalls coming in the next week or so. They’ll come, you wait.”

Abdul doesn’t seem convinced. Every bend of the road seems to lower his morale. We stop near the main gate and he departs without farewell.

“They’re a bit upset,” Shakeel says, looking after him, “But I keep telling them, ‘You lose heart too soon. God has not forsaken us. They’ll come.’ When you came here, I knew it was a sign. A sign of good times to come.”

I feel touched – and overwhelmed. Shakeel has taken the longer entry route – “Some viewing points I want you to see” – and I get my camera ready as we turn another bend.

A panoramic view greets us. Snow-capped peaks and lumbering hills loom over bowed pasture grounds and terraced fields. Whitewashed housetops of Tangmarg are visible below. It’s quite a sight.

“Watch out there! The road’s slippery – walk on the crumbled ice, no, not that one – yes, right there,” Shakeel manages to keep a straight face as I hobble back towards the car with ill grace.

We reach the entry gate. ‘Gulmarg Tourist Authority welcomes you’ the sign reads.

“There are plenty of mini-Switzerlands in the world, I’ve heard. You decide for yourself if Gulmarg is one of them,” Shakeel chirps, as we drive in.

*****

A Brief Masquerade

“Now, look here, the authority people won’t let us pass. You’re a tourist, so you’ll have to walk the rest of the way – yes, two kilometres – towards the Gondola point. But I have a plan,” Shakeel has a gleam in his eyes.

“Take off those sunglasses. I’ll tell them you’re a local studying in the university. You play along, okay? No, don’t worry, they won’t ask questions – you look Kashmiri enough.”

Even as I mumble “I’m not really sure…” Shakeel has bounded off towards the man at the security counter. Excited voices and wild gestures follow before Shakeel returns to the car, a wide smile on his face.

“We’re in,” he pats my back, “Only army convoys, Mikhil and Shakeel will drive to the Gondola point today.”

He’s quite happy with himself. I allow a few moments for my heart settle back in its place while Shakeel jabbers on about all the foreigners he has trekked with.

“One gentleman – what a great fellow – he’s 85 years old. He still treks Gulmarg alone, or with me, every year. He’d put you to shame.”

Shakeel obviously doesn’t hold a high opinion of my trekking prowess. In fact, I am pretty sure he’s right.

We’ve reached the Gondola point.

“Don’t take too long. I’ll wait right here. You go enjoy yourself. Don’t play with the snow, you’re not wearing the right gloves – or shoes – or clothes. Listen, just don’t play with the snow, okay?”

*****

Snowed Under

“Chai, coffee, kahwah! Chai, coffee, kahwah!”

“Boiled andaa, boiled andaa, boiled andaa!”

“Chocolate, biskoot, Nescoffee! Sir, sir, Nescoffee?”

A deluge of peddlers throng the congested lane leading towards the Gondola point. A gaggle of Mumbaikars in sunglasses and snow boots are dusting the flakes off their coats – obviously returning from skiing. A little further, a Tamilian husband encourages his nervous wife to hold his hand and climb the snow-covered steps leading to the ticket counter.

The Gondola ride at Gulmarg takes you to the second-highest elevation point in the world. The ride itself is divided into two phases. Since I am short on cash and ambition, I opt for the first phase, which costs Rs. 600.

Note: If you want to check out both the points, it’ll set you back by Rs. 1400. (As of January, 2015)

The Gondola cars are small, four-man contraptions that swing deviously as they trundle higher and higher until the tips of the towering deodar trees fall below you. It’s a great photo opportunity and an enjoyable experience – unless the electricity goes and you’re left, quite literally, hanging.

It takes about five minutes to reach Phase One. I step off the car, not a little pleased to touch terra firma once more. And am met with –snow.

Everywhere the eye reaches, the land is whitewashed, with a few specks of brown for effect. The sun shines bright over happy skiers and sledging enthusiasts, while slightly bored instructors watch on.

I am accosted, once more, by eager vendors selling chips, biscuits and more ‘Nescoffee’. Dodging them all, I make my way towards the skiing platform, where a group of instructors are surveying the proceedings.

One of them extricates himself from the group to approach me.

“Hello! First time in Gulmarg? Want to ski?”

“Not really, no. Just looking around,” I reply.

“First time in Kashmir?” he presses on, “How do you like my home? It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

I am struck by his pride in his home, his land. I can’t remember ever having said the same of Delhi, where I live.

The instructor, whose name is Farooq Ahmad, turns out to be quite the talker.

“I am no mere instructor,” he booms, “I am the vice-president of the skiing association of Gulmarg.”

Lofty credentials established, he continues.

“You know, it is said Kashmir is paradise on Earth. Gir firdaus baru e zameen ast…hameen asto, hameen asto, hameen ast (If there’s a paradise on earth…it is this, it is this, it is this)”

I ask him about the decline in tourism since the floods.

“Well, it was bad, but God willed it. So we suffered. But the main tourist areas like Pahalgam, Sonmarg and Gulmarg here, they weren’t touched by the floods,” Farooq says, “The snowfall has been a bit of a letdown. But come February, this place will be rolling with tourists, I assure you.”

Farooq obviously doesn’t share Abdul’s skepticism.

“You want to take a spin on the skis? Half price for you.”

I thank him for the offer, but tell him I must leave. Srinagar awaits.

“Oh! Go then. But come back next winter. I’ll personally train you to be a champion skier,” Farooq exhorts.

Personal lessons in skiing from the vice president himself. One more reason to revisit Srinagar, I smile, as the rumbling, swinging Gondola carries me back to base.

*****

On the Road

“Very good,” Shakeel nods appreciatively, checking his watch, “You didn’t waste time. Now I can show you Srinagar.”

Sometimes, Shakeel makes me feel like a student called to the principal’s office.

As we head outside the main gate, two more guides practically throw themselves in front of the car. Shakeel argues in vain, but they’re already settling themselves comfortably in the back seat, as we start for Tangmarg.

Their names are Najeeb and Jaffar. Young fellows, they’ve been having a lean day and decide to take an early retirement to head back home. We start talking about Leh.

“Sir, you must visit Leh on a bike,” says Najeeb enthusiastically. Jaffar is busy struggling to find a stable connection on his phone.

“Hello, hello, hello, hello!” he bellows into the speaker.

Najeeb continues calmly over his friend’s yells, “June-July is great time to visit. I went there last summer. It’s better even than Gulmarg.”

“You’re a good salesman for your business, Najeeb,” Shakeel comments dryly.

“Oh, business-shizness!” Najeeb counters, “I say the truth. I say it like it is. Haina, sir?”

We reach Tangmarg. The boys get out, thank us, and are on their way. Shakeel shakes his head, sighs, and pushes gears.

 “That road right there – it leads to Muzzafarabad. Capital of Azad Kashmir,” Shakeel explains, “Every once in a week or so, you’ll find cars and buses heading that way to meet with their relatives on the other side of the LOC.”

He’s fallen silent. I’ve started understanding his ways a little, and don’t interrupt the silence. Soon enough, he speaks again.

“Ever had Kashmiri bhutta (sweet corn), sir? There’s nothing like it, I promise you.”

We stop at a roadside stall selling bhutta. An old man is fanning the stack of sweet corn. His son sidles by our window with a sample. Shakeel tries a few nuggets, makes a face, and the bargaining ensues. The lad goes back to his father to consult while Shakeel whispers, “It’s great corn – very sweet, you’ll see.”

I barely have time to smile before the son returns with a revised offer. Shakeel grunts in resigned approval and makes for his wallet. I stop him firmly, and pay the boy. Off we go, munching on the sweet, sweet corn.

“Sir, actually, the thing is, Kashmiris are viewed with suspicion everywhere. Only in Jammu are we treated with some respect. Rest of India…” Shakeel falters.

I can’t think of a reassuring thing to say.

“I’ll tell you my own story, sir. Once in Delhi, I had to stay a few nights while the party was sightseeing. Nobody gave me a room. They’d agree on a room, then they’d learn I was Kashmiri. Instant response, ‘No rooms available’. One time, someone even let me in the room. I left my things and went outside for a while. When I returned, they told me to pack my bags and go somewhere else. The receptionist had obviously been careless – how could he have given a room to a Kashmiri?”

I feel like hugging him. Not being able to come up with any response to his story, I motion towards the dogs along the road.

“What do you call them? Like in Uttarakhand, we call them bhootiya kutte, in Himachal we call them gaddi kutte. What do you call them here?” I ask him.

He pauses awhile.

“Well here sir, we call them kutte,” he smiles.

I have to guffaw. Shakeel breaks into an even wider smile.

*****

Inside Old City

“Do you know every person in Kashmir?” I ask Shakeel, even as he waves a cheery hello to a passerby.

He considers for a moment.

“Between Pahalgam, Gulmarg and Srinagar –every third, maybe,” he replies.

We have wheeled into the byroads that lead to Old City, the original Srinagar. The wide roads and army barriers of the city proper are replaced by crowded marketplaces, wheeler-dealers and the archetypal ethos of a Mohammedan mohalla- not unlike the one you’d find in a Chandni Chowk – only cleaner.

“Srinagar is bisected by the Jhelum river. There are seven bridges connecting across the waters, with names like raajpul…I forget the rest,” Shakeel confesses, “That’s why we call it Saat Pul Ka Sheher (The City of Seven Bridges)”

We cross narrow, serpentine alleys leading down and out of sight. Butchers with bloody cleavers bargain with customers over skinned goat and sheep carcasses tied from their front doors. Ancient, unvarnished havelis gaze down at us from each T-point. Every three kilometres, we come across a mosque, and beside it, a sweetmeats stall luring denizens back from their devotions.

“Indian tourists don’t like coming to this part of Srinagar,” Shakeel informs me, “Too many mosques, too much meat, they say. They prefer the shor-sharaaba of Dal Lake and Lal Chowk. Well, this is our way of life. Foreigners on the other hand, they enjoy it here. They say this is the real Kashmir.”

We enter an even narrower street. Shakeel expertly negotiates a logjam caused by an unruly horse-wagon.

“We’re approaching Khaanqah. Here I’ll show you an interesting mosque. We call it the Shahi Hamdan Mosque. Foreigners call it the Green Mosque. It has quite a story behind it.”

Shahi Hamdan Mosque is named after the Persian adventurer of the same name, who came to Kashmir to convert the incumbent Buddhists to Islam.

“He ordered them to build a mosque. They didn’t know how to build one. So they built a monastery instead,” Shakeel laughs, “It’s about 750 years old. See there, doesn’t it look like a monastery?”

He’s right. A green structure with unmistakably Buddhist features on its upper roofs overlooks the ditch beside it. Save for the crescent at its helm, it could easily pass for a Buddhist shrine.

Shakeel waits patiently behind the wheel as I click photos of the mosque-monastery.

“Next up, Jaamia Masjid,” he announces “It’s a huge mosque – can seat 35,000 in one go. It has 333 pillars, you know.”

Jaamia Masjid really is a mind-boggling structure. Conical minarets rise above the cityscape, covered with pigeons who call it home. A maulvi sits next to the archway. From a distance, he invites me in. I politely decline, motioning somewhat lamely to my camera. He raises his hand in benediction.

I only have time to click a few photos before Shakeel starts honking.

“Let’s go, let’s go,” he urges, “Plenty to see. We have Hazratbal coming up next.”

Now, Hazratbal was one of the sights recommended by a friend who’s from Jammu. I’m eager for what’s coming next. As we wind our way through a row of trucks, Shakeel launches into the backstory.

“Hazratbal means ‘hair of the prophet’. They say the mosque contains a single hair from the Prophet Muhammad’s beard,” he explains.

We turn the corner, and my mouth falls open. The road forms part of a large square surrounding a remarkably white mosque in its centre. An imposing gateway stands before it to let visitors inside. An army of pigeons is circling – as if trained – the beautiful dome of the famed Hazratbal mosque.

“I promised you some sights, did I not!“ Shakeel grins with a look at my stupefied face.

*****

Sunsetting in Shalimar

5:00 pm. It’ll be sundown soon.

“A small visit to Shalimar Bagh,” Shakeel says encouragingly, “Then back to the hotel.”

Shakeel happens to stay near Shalimar Bagh. I suspect his reasons for taking me there aren’t completely altruistic. Still, I am not complaining.

After paying ten rupees at the ticket counter, I cross the medieval-looking gates into Jahangir’s favourite place in the world. It is rumoured that on his deathbed, the Great Mughal longed for nothing else but to sit in the gardens of Shalimar Bagh one last time, croaking, “Kashmir, the rest is worthless…”

The Mughal emperors’ love for grand, geometric designs is amply displayed in the shallow terraces and low banks decorated with holders for oil lamps, surrounding a square platform intended for water fountains. I try to imagine the scene around these fountains during the zenith of the Mughal Empire, with the hedonistic emperor Jahangir—surrounded by his lovely courtesans—lolling in the pleasure gardens of Shalimar, kindling a beacon of passion in the darkness of the night.

I hurry past a few peddlers asking me if I want my photograph clicked. Across the garden, a group of mischievous boys have taken a lawnmower and running it wildly through the lawns. A gardener starts chasing them, yelling curses. The kids flee gleefully.

An abandoned Nikon DSLR camera sits on a bench. I look around for the careless owner; there’s nobody in sight. Nothing to do but shrug and walk on.

I come across the same kids a short while later. They’ve taken to climbing an uprooted chinar tree. Even the youngest one, barely three by my guess, is making a valiant attempt to straddle the thick trunk. I ask them to pose for pictures.

“Ten rupees,” the eldest among them calls out.

“Ten rupees,” I agree generously, “For all of you, combined.”

All of them shake their heads.

“Ten rupees each.”

Highway robbery, I grumble inwardly, as I agree to their rate. The older boys help the younger ones up the fallen tree and pose cheerily for pictures. Then they climb off and huddle around me to admire my handiwork.

“I could shoot better than that,” the eldest boy claims.

“Why, you little…off with you!” I scold.

They run off. The youngest one lingers for a while. “I’m Mohib. Don’t mind him,” he gestures to the eldest, now a speck in the distance, “he likes to show off.”

With that, he too, takes off.

Enough for the day, I tell myself, and make my way back to the gate. Overhead, migratory birds from Siberia form a perfect ‘V’ as they make a flyby over Shalimar. A thin, bearded man rises from his bench as I approach.

“Salaam! I’m the master gardener at Shalimar,” he fumbles in his coat pocket, “These, for you.”

He hands me two stems with tiny petal buds sprouting from them.

“Scented jadeevan,” he tells me.

I take a whiff. Its name is well-deserved. I thank him.

“Kuch bakshish?”

I gave my last few notes to the kids. I apologize and tell him I have no money. He smiles and tells me not to worry about it. I offer him his flowers back.

“Keep them. They are for you,” he waves me goodbye.

On the way back, I come across the same Nikon camera, still lying there. The peddlars who’d asked me for photographs are standing nearby, chatting quite unconcernedly. I can’t help but wonder how long the camera would have stayed in its place, were this a scene in Delhi.

*****

“Tomorrow, we leave for Dal Lake,” Shakeel tells me, as he shifts gears, “Ah, but before that, I want to take you somewhere.”

“Where?”

“It’s a surprise,” he smiles mysteriously.

Quite the flair for theatricality, Shakeel possesses. He smiles all the way back to the hotel.

“Goodnight, sir,” he says, as the valet welcomes me back, “Big day tomorrow.”

I watch his car disappear through the gates, then slowly make my way inside.

Somewhere in the distance, the evening azaan begins. As I push the elevator button for third floor, Jahangir’s deathbed words keep swilling inside my head:

“Kashmir, the rest is worthless…”

*****