Where are the songs of spring? Oh, where are they?
Don’t think about them, you have your music too, – John Keats
I visited the Kashmir Valley with a divided mind…there was the magnetic lure of its ethereal allure that fueled my childhood dreams, and then there were those gory tales of the stricken valley disintegrated by terror and chaos. There were three consecutive bomb blasts in Srinagar, the capital of Kashmir, on the day I started my tour from Kolkata (the capital city of West Bengal state) on a package tour. So my mind was in a state of excitement about meeting BEAUTY AND THE BEAST! My husband was upset with the front-page newspaper reports of the carnage that morning and he tried to talk me out of my rash resolve. I begged him to let me go as there was no safe haven on Earth these days and he believed that he would return home…
It was autumn, the season “of mist and soft fruiting”… that was exactly what the silent morning voice of Srinagar whispered to me on the first day. In fact, when I drew back the floral curtains of my hotel room, I was spellbound to find myself staring into the flushed autumnal face of the city that had not yet awakened from its icy sleep. My heart skipped a beat as the gilt-bronze Chinar trees along the path lit up, magical leaves rustling with the first caress of sunlight! Older reddish-gold leaves fell silently from the branches in quick succession only to create the long stretches of golden vermilion path. My eyes traveled far and were absolutely captivated by the sight of the majestic Himalayas, distant and snow-capped, glowing orange, as the first rays of sunlight slid down their slopes… I forgot about the bomb blast and terrorist attacks and ran down the wooden stairs. stairs of my hotel to breathe the “honeyed” morning air of the city so elegant!
While walking down the street, I avoided Café Coffee Day because it reminded me of my crowded city and the typical smell of Kolkata that I wanted to get away from… I was dying to experience the Kashmir of my dream! So the first curious face to greet me with a warm smile was the aged, mature face of Ahmad Kader Miya at a nearby tea stall. For the first time I tried kahwa; he green tea made with saffron, cloves, green cardamom, cinnamon sticks and chopped almonds. The smooth flavor of it blended well with the feel of the mild season, embracing my spirit with a warm feeling. The flavor of kahwa is coated with a fading bitterness that has somehow become associated with the nice bitterness of the nut. Kader Miya’s grandson, the teenage Abdul, serving tea for the second time with a shy smile, reminded me of similarly innocent youthful faces on the covers of Outlook magazine, shot dead by military men accused of terrorism. Why do these children give everything for…?
I diverted my thoughts as I watched Srinagar quietly go about their daily business: Does this silence mean peace restored or a pause before another bomb attack? I couldn’t help but reflect on… I opened my bag absentmindedly when I was woken from my thoughts by the breathy voice of the old man with the henna-dyed beard and kind brown eyes who told me that the tea was free as it was. meant for “Mehman Newazi” who just got me acquainted with the local culture of offering tea to the guest who is visiting the city for the first time…
During the last part of the morning, as we walked, we saw the silver birches and cottonwoods shimmering in the warm sunlight. We also saw the exotic Nilgai (Bluebull), the largest Asian antelope grazing in the surrounding Gray Scrub Forest. We also found a herd of cute light brown and milk white cashmere goats with shaggy fur and apricot noses, led by a shepherd. They were curiously sporting spiral horns! Locals reported that these goats produced the finest wool, and exquisite pashmina shawls were made from the fiber extracted from their bodies. Despite the busy market, the city has its own leisurely pace and we forget about time… We walked to a small bus stop and took a bus to the legendary lake, the Dal. Though bustling with activity by then, the lake itself is quiet. It felt truly romantic with the dry Chinar leaves crunching under my feet as we headed out to the Shikaras (wooden boats) for a ride. We walked in silence, surrounded by this group of seductive Chinars, who shone golden in the soft sunlight…
Like the Venetian gondolas, the Shikaras are the cultural symbol of Kashmir. Some of the rowers in colorful Phi ran (a long embroidered woolen dress), smoked their hukkas, a local tobacco with a cheerful spirit. These men are hardworking and courteous in their manners. Smiles gleamed and my eyes admired the faint blush that spread over their rough, weather-beaten faces and their blue eyes that sparkled with a strange light! They welcomed us and we hired two shikaras.
There was a playful interplay of mist and sunlight that created a magic as we reclined on the brightly colored velvet cushions in the shikara, surrounded by colorful floral pavilions. As rowers vigorously thrust their paddle-shaped oars into the cold waters of the lake, long-beaked shikaras floated low in the water like a crocodile. The grooves created by the movement of the oars sometimes glowed a golden green. Orange light oozed over the distant mountain tops surrounding the lake and the white, snow-capped cliffs reflected the hue. It was a relaxed and romantic trip in which time seemed not to get out of hand…
The boys clicked to capture the enchanting views of the pine covered Himalayas surrounding the lake from all corners from a distance. The pines stood tall in green on the majestic mountains and the clusters formed different geometric patterns; while the Chinese, nearby, blushed as my thirsty eyes soaked in the unimaginable color and lines around it. We also caught a glimpse of the silvery black of a kingfisher’s back as he emerged from the placid lake to catch his breakfast. The water looked so transparent! The bunch of floating white lilies looked so serene! The sun-kissed lotuses smiled pink… The little ducks, white egrets, and herons in the pond floated happily…
The cold air whispered the message of the arrival of winter. The boatman regaled us with local songs at our request and as the wild and powerful melodies floated through the air, I breathed Kashmir… Some women from the valley rode past, heading for their house, which floated on the lake, to the other side. .. They were carrying vegetables, fuel, and necessities… their phi ran looked so faded, yet they couldn’t banish their dimpled rosy smiles. Despite the harsh dictates of life upon them, the Kashmiri men and women seemed to take life in stride. I never found them complaining about the unfairness of life, whether it be the harshness of nature or, more often, the rudeness of man. If his aquiline nose, blue eyes, and flushed cheeks seemed in surprising harmony with the natural abundance that fostered them, his cheerful spirit, in the face of the grim violence that terminally bled the valley, spoke volumes about his strong genetic make-up that matched the majestic Himalayas.
As we glided along the Jhelum River, we passed dilapidated houses whose only evidence of life was a few orchards and chickens in the yard pecking at grain in the frozen earth. This part of ancient Srinagar conveys the story of a crumbling past that could once have been glorious, as recounted in Rushdie’s “Midnight’s Children”…
We crossed a nestled cove, surrounded by golden-green trees and lush meadows situated in another corner of Dal Lake that looked like Keats’s “forsaken fairyland”… Elegant houseboats beckoned us from a distance to spend the night. night floating in the water. lake. The marble dome of Hazrat Bal, visible as an “egg-shaped pearl” from a distance, seduced us to feel its ancient history of Moi-e-Muqqadus, the sacred hair of the Prophet Muhammad…
The distant face of an old fisherman bent for the lotus root reminded me of Tai, the eerily timeless boatman who comes to life from Rushdie’s page…
The autumn face of Srinagar and Dal inspires me to say:
“No spring or summer beauty has such grace
As I have seen in an autumnal face…” JOHN DONNE.
