Kashmir. how exotic the name itself ! This was our first visit, and I stood enchanted looking at the Dal Lake in all its glory. The setting sun had set the waters aflame, yet the aura was one of serenity. The glinting waters, absorbed the rays of the sun, and shone like liquid gold. The wooden houseboat, anchored on the waters bobbed gently as we got on to it. The intricately carved interiors, warmly inviting, glowed with the light of antique lamps. Surely this was fairyland, surely we'd entered a picture postcard !
Soon it was pitch dark, because of Kashmirs troubled politics, a hint of menace had crept into the chill night. The soft swish of the paddle boats, registered in my sleep fogged mind, how else would the locals get around, I reasoned.
Day dawned, bringing with it gentle sunshine. The chill air on the skin was envigorating. Our host was a suave, handsome man, in his thirties, I reckoned. The perfect host, he plied us with a sumptous breakfast. Loathe to leave my pristine surroundings, I bid the others good bye, and settled down with a book. The day passed pleasantly enough. The master of the boat, courteously seeing to my comforts, plying me with kashmiri chai, even buying me flowers from a vendor passing by with a boatload of flowers. Captivated by the beauty of my surroundings, and the genteel lovely people around me, I couldn't help reflect on the troubles these people faced the year around. How could this land be the domain of the mujahedeen, the terrorists ? How could they inflict torture, kidnap and murder on their own people ?
Rasul, my host found me lost in thought and striking up a conversation about these feelings with him was easy. Beneath that cool exterior, I discovered he seethed with bitterness for his homeland. Passionately he extolled their troubles, faltering business's, being caught in a cleft stick, where two countries fought for dominance over their lands. Their battle for survival was indeed grim.
Over the next few days, we explored this land of the Gods. It was easy to see why two countries would fight for dominance over this beautiful valley. After all hadn't men coveted beauteous women from time immemorial. Hadn't great wars been fought over the sensous Cleopatra, the exotic Helen of Troy. Kashmir was both. Sensously beautiful and mesmerisingly exotic.
Drifting down the Nagin lake in a shikara, I pondered over these questions. The Nagin lake glittered black, the sky above shone vermillion, its hues, the bewildering array of beauty around me, had me in its grip. The soothing lap lapping of the oars on the still waters created a vivid son et lumiere in my head. Somewhere a boatman played a flute, the sweet sound, balm to my ears, when we heard it. A flock of birds rising as one, flew instantly towards the sky. The gun shot reverberated across the lake, the magical trance in which the river held us captive lay shattered. My first reaction was of outrage. In a moment of madness, I leapt up, shouting at the man holding the blonde girl, in the shikara ahead, by the hair. "Stop that," I found myself screaming. Startled the man, let her go and nimbly leaping into our shikara, confronted me. Petrified, I stood rooted to the spot as he thrust his face close to mine. "Kyun, maut se khelne ka shauk hai, " he mocked.( You like to play with death) " Jawab do" he demanded. " she's an outsider, in my land. I can do what I like to her. " The madness must've still been upon me, for I replied, " Yes, she is. But you are an intruder, in your own land, your motherland. Else why would you violate her and her people !"
For a moment he looked as if he would shoot me. His eyes blazed into mine. "Brave ho. Isliye jaan baksh deta hun, " he said. Then he was gone, swallowed by the fast approaching darkness.
Soon it was pitch dark, because of Kashmirs troubled politics, a hint of menace had crept into the chill night. The soft swish of the paddle boats, registered in my sleep fogged mind, how else would the locals get around, I reasoned.
Day dawned, bringing with it gentle sunshine. The chill air on the skin was envigorating. Our host was a suave, handsome man, in his thirties, I reckoned. The perfect host, he plied us with a sumptous breakfast. Loathe to leave my pristine surroundings, I bid the others good bye, and settled down with a book. The day passed pleasantly enough. The master of the boat, courteously seeing to my comforts, plying me with kashmiri chai, even buying me flowers from a vendor passing by with a boatload of flowers. Captivated by the beauty of my surroundings, and the genteel lovely people around me, I couldn't help reflect on the troubles these people faced the year around. How could this land be the domain of the mujahedeen, the terrorists ? How could they inflict torture, kidnap and murder on their own people ?
Rasul, my host found me lost in thought and striking up a conversation about these feelings with him was easy. Beneath that cool exterior, I discovered he seethed with bitterness for his homeland. Passionately he extolled their troubles, faltering business's, being caught in a cleft stick, where two countries fought for dominance over their lands. Their battle for survival was indeed grim.
Over the next few days, we explored this land of the Gods. It was easy to see why two countries would fight for dominance over this beautiful valley. After all hadn't men coveted beauteous women from time immemorial. Hadn't great wars been fought over the sensous Cleopatra, the exotic Helen of Troy. Kashmir was both. Sensously beautiful and mesmerisingly exotic.
Drifting down the Nagin lake in a shikara, I pondered over these questions. The Nagin lake glittered black, the sky above shone vermillion, its hues, the bewildering array of beauty around me, had me in its grip. The soothing lap lapping of the oars on the still waters created a vivid son et lumiere in my head. Somewhere a boatman played a flute, the sweet sound, balm to my ears, when we heard it. A flock of birds rising as one, flew instantly towards the sky. The gun shot reverberated across the lake, the magical trance in which the river held us captive lay shattered. My first reaction was of outrage. In a moment of madness, I leapt up, shouting at the man holding the blonde girl, in the shikara ahead, by the hair. "Stop that," I found myself screaming. Startled the man, let her go and nimbly leaping into our shikara, confronted me. Petrified, I stood rooted to the spot as he thrust his face close to mine. "Kyun, maut se khelne ka shauk hai, " he mocked.( You like to play with death) " Jawab do" he demanded. " she's an outsider, in my land. I can do what I like to her. " The madness must've still been upon me, for I replied, " Yes, she is. But you are an intruder, in your own land, your motherland. Else why would you violate her and her people !"
For a moment he looked as if he would shoot me. His eyes blazed into mine. "Brave ho. Isliye jaan baksh deta hun, " he said. Then he was gone, swallowed by the fast approaching darkness.
Kashmir aptly described..and the poignancy and patriotism also very well expressed..
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