In the beginning, there was light; a little too much of it perhaps. It was mid-June in Delhi and the sun was relentless. It'd hide for a few hours, and just when hope was at its peak, the sun would pop out again and dry out any trace of moisture in the air. By the time the first pack of five arrived at the airport to board our flights to Srinagar, there was much anticipation for the trip ahead. This trip had begun to take flight right after I had come back from Ladakh in 2008 and showed Mohsin the photographs. Around April this year, we began to put rough plans in place. One by one, people began to add to the troupe that would be invading the mountains, come June. All plans had been made, all tickets had been booked and all the bags had been packed, when a child died in firing in Srinagar. This is one of the things one needs to be prepared for when travelling to Kashmir- a sudden change of plans. We had an emergency meeting on the eve of our departure, and decided to go anyway, considering Mohsin's house was in a very safe locality very close to the airport. Anchors away, it was.
On the morning of 15th of June, Mohsin, Shaoli, Shagun, Ruchira and I set out for Srinagar. I was on a flight that arrived an hour and a half before the rest, so as I crossed the cloud covered Pir-Panjal range and my plane began to circle into Srinagar airport, I knew I had plenty of time to kill. An initial scare did manage to throw me off a little bit. My backpack fell off the inclined conveyor belt at the airport, concealed from my view. For the next fifteen minutes, I anxiously waited for my luggage to appear on the belt. The belt stopped, everyone left, and I was left wondering whether I would have to spend the next twenty days with just the clothes on my back. Thankfully, a short search yielded my backpack lying adjacent to the belt, shaken but not stirred. I spent the rest of my time reading my copy of Crime and Punishment (that I haven't managed to finish in 6 months) and trying to block out an exceptionally loud contingent of three families, who were making an embarrassment of themselves, and whose kids were making my life miserable.
The hour passed by quite quickly and I was reunited with t
he rest of the group, after which we headed straight for Mohsin's beautiful house; a place I now call the Bhat Palace (right). At the Bhat Palace, we met the inimitable caretaker of the house, Firdous. He would go on to take a special liking for Manav later, and also try and convert me to Islam. The rest of the afternoon was spent in taking in the cool climes, stuffing ourselves full with Kashmiri food and getting used to the gunshot sounds, that thankfully were only the sound of the army practicing in the nearby shooting range. The sound of security, as Mohsin puts it. In the evening, we proceeded to do the basics- a shikara ride to the Char Chinaari (below), a small island in the middle of the Dal lake with four Chinaar trees on it (hence the name). The weather in the hills had been pretty turbulent off late, so the pakoras followed by the bhuna gosht were quite a delight when it began to pour.
That night, the eve of Ruchira's birthday, we sat in Mohsin's backyard, hearing the rain and freezing along with it, talking about life and sundry things. We did take the occasional break from talking to wish Ruchira a happy birthday, of course. The next morning was a pleasant one. The clouds had rained themselves out and the sun was shining, something we didn't think was particularly pleasant in Delhi at that time. Shagun, Shaoli and I, accompanied by Firdous decided to pay a short visit to the Mughal Garden called Nishat. Those of you who read The Circle of Life, might recall that I was rather disappointed with my last visit to Nishat. The fountains in the beautiful garden had turned into a swimming pool for pot-bellied and middle aged tourists. Fortunately, there seems to have been a crackdown on aquatic activity of this kind, in recent times. If nothing else, the cold weather ensured that no one felt obliged to take their clothes off a take a dip. The recent cold weather, however, also meant that the flowers were not in bloom. Nishat did afford us, however, a nice view of the Dal (below).
Shortly after our return back home, Manav and PP arrived. Manav was already bursting at the seams with joy (and it takes a lot for Manav to burst out of his rather wide seams) after finally having made it to Kashmir. There wasn't much time to waste, however, because right after lunch we were on the road to Gulmarg. Finding snow in June would be quite a treat!
On the morning of 15th of June, Mohsin, Shaoli, Shagun, Ruchira and I set out for Srinagar. I was on a flight that arrived an hour and a half before the rest, so as I crossed the cloud covered Pir-Panjal range and my plane began to circle into Srinagar airport, I knew I had plenty of time to kill. An initial scare did manage to throw me off a little bit. My backpack fell off the inclined conveyor belt at the airport, concealed from my view. For the next fifteen minutes, I anxiously waited for my luggage to appear on the belt. The belt stopped, everyone left, and I was left wondering whether I would have to spend the next twenty days with just the clothes on my back. Thankfully, a short search yielded my backpack lying adjacent to the belt, shaken but not stirred. I spent the rest of my time reading my copy of Crime and Punishment (that I haven't managed to finish in 6 months) and trying to block out an exceptionally loud contingent of three families, who were making an embarrassment of themselves, and whose kids were making my life miserable.
The hour passed by quite quickly and I was reunited with t
he rest of the group, after which we headed straight for Mohsin's beautiful house; a place I now call the Bhat Palace (right). At the Bhat Palace, we met the inimitable caretaker of the house, Firdous. He would go on to take a special liking for Manav later, and also try and convert me to Islam. The rest of the afternoon was spent in taking in the cool climes, stuffing ourselves full with Kashmiri food and getting used to the gunshot sounds, that thankfully were only the sound of the army practicing in the nearby shooting range. The sound of security, as Mohsin puts it. In the evening, we proceeded to do the basics- a shikara ride to the Char Chinaari (below), a small island in the middle of the Dal lake with four Chinaar trees on it (hence the name). The weather in the hills had been pretty turbulent off late, so the pakoras followed by the bhuna gosht were quite a delight when it began to pour.
That night, the eve of Ruchira's birthday, we sat in Mohsin's backyard, hearing the rain and freezing along with it, talking about life and sundry things. We did take the occasional break from talking to wish Ruchira a happy birthday, of course. The next morning was a pleasant one. The clouds had rained themselves out and the sun was shining, something we didn't think was particularly pleasant in Delhi at that time. Shagun, Shaoli and I, accompanied by Firdous decided to pay a short visit to the Mughal Garden called Nishat. Those of you who read The Circle of Life, might recall that I was rather disappointed with my last visit to Nishat. The fountains in the beautiful garden had turned into a swimming pool for pot-bellied and middle aged tourists. Fortunately, there seems to have been a crackdown on aquatic activity of this kind, in recent times. If nothing else, the cold weather ensured that no one felt obliged to take their clothes off a take a dip. The recent cold weather, however, also meant that the flowers were not in bloom. Nishat did afford us, however, a nice view of the Dal (below).
Shortly after our return back home, Manav and PP arrived. Manav was already bursting at the seams with joy (and it takes a lot for Manav to burst out of his rather wide seams) after finally having made it to Kashmir. There wasn't much time to waste, however, because right after lunch we were on the road to Gulmarg. Finding snow in June would be quite a treat!
2 comments:
Was it the sound of security? or the Sound of safety? :)
Tomatoes Tomaatoes :P
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