The Return of Spring

‘‘It’s a city on the mend.’’ Irshaad, the taxi driver with the sun-baked face, voices this contrast between real and perceived reality. A blast, he says, is just that—to be shrugged off after a traffic jam.

‘‘See this,’’ he points to a stretch. ‘‘There was an encounter here two days ago. Does it look like that?’’ Not at all, the group of animated young men standing there give it the appearance of a happening hang-out.

Good news is everywhere. At Lalded maternity hospital, it takes the form of a beautiful doctor, Fara Shafi, who speaks about the two New Year bashes the city hosted this year after more than a decade. Now Fara is planning one of her own. ‘‘We’ll usher in 2005 in even greater style,’’ she laughs.

The Valley also mocks my long list of don’ts. Back in Chandigarh, I was told to

cling tightly to my shawl, but here they urge me to drop it. ‘‘C’mon feel at home, you don’t need to cover your head’’, is one embarrassing refrain that follows me everywhere.

Down in the plains, I was told to be back in the hotel by 5.30 in the evening. The very first day, I reach five hours late, in an autorickshaw lit with a 60-watt bulb inside. ‘‘That way securitymen can see the passengers,’’ explains the kindly driver, adding how such a late night drive was unthinkable just a year ago. Later, at the hotel, he stops by to give me some more good news: ‘‘The Valley is 85 per cent normal now.’’

Night life, the popular barometer of normalcy, is slowly getting back on the rails, though young men everywhere still gripe about the lack of it. ‘‘People hold small dos at their houses,’’ says Fara, inviting us over to one at her place. And marriage, a grand night-time affair in peaceful Kashmir, which had turned into a hurried daytime ceremony in the violent Valley, is back to being celebrated under the stars again.

Moreover, for a state that has been visited and has had paeans sung to it since the time of the Moghuls, the sight of more and more visitors adds to the feeling of genuine recovery.

Tourism Minister Ghulam Hassan Mir is optimistic about tourist arrivals this year touching an all-time high figure, and the director general of tourism is expecting more than five lakh tourists this season.

The building activity, which had come to a standstill, is also on in full swing. Step out of the city and you see a cluster of stately houses on the road to Sopore, just a stone’s throw away from a sign that reads: ‘This stretch is IED (landmine) prone’.

‘‘Kashmiris like big mansions,’’ explains Mohammed Akbar Lone, a trustee of Al Huda College. ‘‘Three floors are a must, for every family member likes a room to himself. Then there is the Olympic-sized hall at the top, big enough to squeeze in a gathering of 200 or more.’’

‘‘That’s where we solemnise our weddings,’’ Chacha, the taxi driver who claims to have ferried every journalist visiting town, tells you.

In the city itself, fancy brick and glass structures are taking the place of old wooden buildings. And you know these are very much in demand when Majid Dar, owner of Mehfil, a restaurant on Residency Road, tells me about the surging real estate rates. ‘‘Do you know they are almost at par with those in Connaught Place,’’ he beams, while heaping scorn on the tribe of the timid who give the Valley a miss.

Also in vogue is pumping iron at health clubs variously named Arnold, Hygienic, Bodyline, et al. ‘‘Blame it on Salman Khan,’’ grins Dr Mohammed Moosa, a resident doctor at Soura. ‘‘Youngsters here want a rippling body like him.’’ And this is not true of the city slickers alone, you can spy beefy gyms in villages as well. The one I get to visit is run by Sarmad Hafiz, son of a former DIG, at Rajbagh. Its claim to fame: A separate section for women.

The city is bursting with surprises: Just drive around and you’ll come across a Harry Potter Academy, a couple of beauty salons, a restaurant called Hattrick, a Mazhabi boutique and a Butt Fashion Shoppe.

But for some real fancy names, drive down to the breathtakingly beautiful Dal where you’ll get to meet both Sheba, Solomon, and even the Crown of India. All houseboats, these are anchored in the Dal, which is guaranteed to leave every lake you’ve ever seen looking like a puddle.

For shopaholics, there is plenty of action at Lal Chowk. I couldn’t catch it but my colleagues swear it’s worth loosening your purse strings for. And no, they don’t fleece you. The plush shop I escaped into during a downpour quoted prices which made bargaining seem a waste of time.

There’s plenty of gastronomic excitement for foodies as well. If you don’t mind ghee and lots of condiments, that is. But what had me salivating was the homely, and, I was told utterly downmarket, bakrkhani, a cross between a bun and cheese croissant that simply melts in the mouth.

There were other baked delights, specially in villages, which made our big bakers look oh-so-amateur. Or perhaps it was the sheer gusto with which these were offered to me along with tea. Now that’s one drink that flows like the Jhelum. You realise that when you’re downing your 20th cup in a day. Even the man you stop to ask for directions looks quite stricken when you refuse his cuppa.

Then there is the generous Valley itself, which walks in beauty. It’s there in the grimy Lalded maternity hospital: Step into its gate, and what strikes you is not its

ramshackle facade, but the slender Jhelum flowing by. Visit the cramped police station, and what holds your eye is not the khaki, but the white and blue Zabarwan peaks right across.

Get down to some work in the office and what distracts is not the din of construction work but the drop-dead beautiful chinar beyond it. Wake up in the morning, and oh-my-God! there is the Jhelum again, right across the road. It’s these bouts of breathlesness you fight. And the insane urge to embrace it all.

In this city, you don’t need touristy spots. Being there is good enough.