A Valley of Contrasts

Well,it is still very much nature’s basket,sylvan and lush,with sermons in streams,and poetry in pashmina. The day we arrive in Srinagar,protests are held after Friday prayers: an alleged rape of a Kashmiri woman by security personnel and the arrest of Ghulam Nabi Fai in the US turn them violent. The next day sees a bandh in the Valley. So far,preconceptions prevail.

However,Srinagar is a mere one hour away from Delhi by air with convenient late-morning flights so that you arrive just in time for a hearty lunch of yakhni,gushtaba and rice. Suddenly,you realise with a sense of surprise that decades of a political divide have made the physical distance appear far greater than it is.

During a three-day visit,as you drive through the city and beyond it,expectations and “reality” constantly collide. This is a Kashmir of contrasts. At Srinagar’s international airport,you are looking for trouble. Your eyes dart about expecting to see a battalion of troops trampling across anything or anyone who comes in their way. You are almost relieved when you see the uniformed men,almost disappointed they are fewer than you had anticipated.

Across every bridge,around every corner,down the boulevard bordering Dal Lake and in every town you cross during a three-hour road trip to Pahalgam,you catch yourself looking out for bunkers and trenches,armoured vehicles and tanks,and troops or policeman disguised as Iron Man,swarming across the countryside where flowers once bloomed. And see them you do,everywhere,but they are at a discreet distance,often in pairs,in the fields,leaning against a lamppost as though they want to melt into the scenario,not ­dominate it.

Another expectation: that Srinagar will be a ghost city,that there will be more chinar and willow trees — or security forces — than Kashmiris. They,you think,will be secured behind closed doors. But on Friday evening,after the protests,the streets are crowded,Dal Lake is awash with local people; on Saturday,the bandh becomes an excuse to party. So while shuttered shops and homes line the streets on the way to Pahalgam,youngsters splash about in the Lidder river,and the picturesque Pahalgam is so overcrowded that we drive on to “Betaab Valley” (named after the film shot there),hoping to picnic by the clear,cool river in solitary splendour. Vain hope: hundreds of people,many of them local,are already spread out on the grass and against the sky. As one Kashmiri says to us,“My children are delighted when there is a bandh because I can take them out!’’

The next day in Srinagar,it is impossible to visit the Mughal Gardens for the same reason and,wherever you go,people are going about their business or lives just like they would anywhere else. They laugh,joke,seem to enjoy the warm sun,the fresh evening breeze,their city.

Expecting to encounter sullen,resentful faces and hostile behaviour,you find people mostly cool and polite. Sometimes,you’re bemused . At Dal Lake,we express our admiration for a grand old chinar tree when an elderly passerby comments,“from Afghanistan and Iran’’. Is he being helpful with information or excluding us as Indians? We aren’t sure. At a shawl shop,the proprietor is courteous. But once he has given a discount,he will not bargain,despite our entreaties and cajoling. For him,it is strictly business. Never once does he smile at our sallies; he remains aloof as if withholding himself from us. However,outside Srinagar,at a provision store,the shopkeeper is warm,teaching us how to judge the quality of saffron by its threads,convincing us to invest in a little Kashmiri lal mirch paste with a “you’ll-not-be-sorry” attitude.

We are tourists and they treat us so. And who could blame them? Repeatedly,the local people say they will never forget last year when the Valley was shut down for six months. They vow not to repeat history. “This year,the pony man is content to be going home; he’s making Rs 40,000 per pony a week,’’ says an official with a satisfied smile.

On our last night,we dine at the newest hotel in Srinagar,Taj Vedanta — perched on a hilltop. A Kashmiri wedding is in progress and guests,more heavily adorned than Kashmiri carpets,sweep imperiously past you. Ah,you say to yourself,so this is how the rich Kashmiris live. Seated out on the terrace,you look upon the city at your feet — they wink back at you. With stars above and below,this is as close to heaven as you are likely to get.

And yet. This divine state seems unreal,unrelated to the life of people who live below the hill. Staring down at the Dal lake,you sense there are undercurrents hidden by its calm exterior. You shiver.

As you fly out of the Valley,these unsettling experiences remain with you: the picture postcard prettiness of the view from the Lalit Grand Hotel (previously Oberoi) and the barricaded homes in Mattan of those who had to flee their homes,leaving a rusty padlock to guard whatever they had left behind of themselves.

Lasting impressions? An orange sunlight evening dissolving into the gentle eddy of Dal Lake; a young foreigner serenely reading a book on a kashti,blissfully unaware of boisterous tourists in shikaras; a young boy,beguiling us with the rosiness of his apple cheeks into buying an overpriced memento; the meadows,the grazing cattle,the river running by,the cricket bats freshly hewn and piled up in criss-cross patterns,the freshly dug saffron fields,the green walnut fruits waiting to ripen — and always,always the mountains. And the men in black boots.

And finally,on the way to Pahalgam,three girls wave to us as we drive away,a gesture that hovers between hello and goodbye.