Muhammad Raafi

Route to Pahalgam never stops fascinating you. It is not only ‘picture perfect’, but equally intriguing, making one feel: whether it is meeting the fate of Punjab. Such is the flip the highway down the south Kashmir is getting.

To have a ‘departure from usual’ moment, we left Srinagar early dawn to bypass the traffic snarls. Beyond Panthachowk, the track almost offered no hindrance. After passing through spring-caught fields, we reached Cheeni Wudur, now Apple Valley. We stopped there at a local tea stall to have tea.

We were told that the village was once the hotbed of militancy. But now, it was responding to tourist-thrown economy. It housed several signature highway tea stalls and restaurants for tourists and travelers. 15 minutes later, we resumed our drive to Pahalgam.

With our destination still 30km away, the driver drove on the route passing through Bijbehara via Srigufwara to Pahalgam. The route is the new alternate to the erstwhile Khannabal Pahalgam route that was built for Amarnath yatris by the late CM Mufti Muhammad Saeed.

Scenes were no different in Srigufwara: the aromatic fresh air making rounds over the village. With the changing time, the once dreaded bunker was no more dotting the landscape there. It was nearly impossible to travel through the route for the fear of psychological torture that the army would subject one to some years ago. Times have changed so has the mood. Like Cheeni Wudur, Srigufwara was opening to south Kashmir’s tourist rush. It has also become a small business hub, housing scores of restaurants and tea stalls. Many travel-weary tourists stop at these spots to have refreshment.

The route that we followed left us in awe and admiration of nature. We drove through a splendid view of the majestic Himalayan Range. The Lidder River gurgled past us. The water level was high due to the onset of summers.

We were still one good hour away from Pahalgam. As we drove past huts, women carrying pitchers and children walking towards schools, we reached Pahalgam. Snow-capped mountains, lush green and rugged landscape make the health resort—also called the ‘valley of shepherds’—one of the most popular holiday destinations in Kashmir.

The calm and tranquil enveloping the hill station is astounding, to say the least. Away from concrete city jungles, the beauty of nature was indeed captivating.

Upon halting at Pahalgam for 30 minutes, our van straightaway drove us to Betaab Valley. The Valley is towards north-east of Pahalgam and falls between Pahalgam and Chandanwadi. It is surrounded by lush green meadows, snowy peaks and covered with dense vegetation. By now we were all not-reachable. The phone signals were down.

Deep into the woods, Betaab Valley turned out to be like any other destinations: concretized and mishandled. Macadamized roads have been built on postcard landscape, thus eroding its beauty quotient. The manhole concrete rings used around trees further take sheen out of the place. Two concrete lavatories and an administrative block have been constructed deep in the jungle. The concretization that has entered into the resort has ended up making a mess with it.

But we never let the glaring eyesore spots to derail fun and frolicking. We were now cut off from the rest of the world; chattering, eating melons and enjoying while time was passing. After a break of 1:30 minutes, we drove down to Pahalgam for a scrumptious meal. Quickly, our ride took us to our next destination, Aru.

We drove uphill to Aru Valley, 11km from Pahalgam, nestled at an altitude of 11,800 ft. It was ultimate destination and one of my favorites. The reason why we had travelled 120 odd km from Srinagar, as our boss puts, was to take a break from daily routine. We drove through a wildlife sanctuary that erupts into a riot of colours in April and May.

What a view: snowcapped mountains, deep blue skies! It was an hour-long awe-inspiring drive to Aru: a bumpy ride worth every minute. As soon as you step on the grounds of Aru, you need time to let the beauty of your surroundings sink in. Each step we took was like walking through Paradise. Literally!

It’s such a picturesque and serene place. The views kept changing as the Sun set in the mountains.

On both sides of the road, there were the thin branches of the trees erected high. The sky was crystal clear. It was the truest blue I had ever seen. Snow-borne peaks all around had a thick forest cover: the green of the trees visible beneath the white canopy.

For the next few hours, we walked, strolled, hiked and wandered in the valley in total silence. We grew acutely aware that we were trespassing on the un-trodden land.

The 120 odd km 3-hour drive from Srinagar took us along winding roads with the river Lidder flowing beside us and prayer flags fluttering at intervals.

At Aru, it was fascinating to see people braving all odds, taking steep tricky trek, to reach the spot where paragliding was done. Started by Ibrahim, a native of Pahalgam, this adventure sport is a new in thing. A short ride from the ridge costs just Rs 1000. While the longer ride sets you back by Rs 2000. But, every minute of the glide is worth the money you spend. Next time when you are in Aru, make sure you take a glide over lush green meadows, though pine, and land at by the side of white water stream.

Before calling it a day, we sat down by the side of the stream and drank tea. This was one of the best parts of our day long journey.

To my utter surprise, the trip more than replenished my sense of waning cosmic consciousness. It was a soul stirring experience, reaffirming my belief that it is impossible to overcome the lure and fascination of the Himalayas if you love mountains. Right from Pampore onwards, the breath-taking views at every turn of the Srinagar Jammu highway imprint images in the mind.

By Tabish Rafiq Mir

Streetlights and supermarkets, shopping malls and ships, traffic lights and terraces, autos with meters and buses with tickets (and not sprouting with people): I hadn’t been warned.

Men with women, animal rights and MNCs, automatic automobiles and cleanliness drives: I hadn’t been warned.

Female drivers and polite police, freedom of speech and right to information, successful businessmen and criminals in prison: I hadn’t been warned.

The rivalry and subconscious animosity between the two hemispheres of the Indian subcontinent that has been much spoken and debated about almost evaporates when you are from Kashmir. It is perhaps because we find more in common far down south than we do anywhere on the way down south: dissent and tradition, traditional dissent, seditious tradition, and traditional seditious dissent.

What I had been warned of was pot-bellied burly men, curly moustaches, and omnipresent knives dripping with blood, and the nerve-racking language gap.

I was also warned of nubile teenagers with sweaty palms, and machine brains. And coconut oil: lots of it. And flower garlands: a lot many of them. Personally, I am neither a fan of nature, nor technology. But I like to observe. I like to see what people do with it, and what it does to them.

“The unbiased transitional review of a Kashmiri in South India,” I thought to myself.

The roads were big and the traffic was fluidly mobile, long lanes of parallel traffic coursing through the veins of the city. Under streetlights which were: working and not stolen. The pedestrians stayed on the footpaths too: strange phenomenon.

The roads weren’t dark and desolate after 8 pm, and in fact, the world worked all night as well. Night shifts: never heard of them before.

Six years away from home and I had forgotten what power cuts felt like. I had forgotten the warm light cast by the candles before the Inverter-Generator-renaissance began. The power cuts – I had almost missed them.

From the airport to the apartment, I saw countless local movie posters, most of them a strange mix of sweet romance and bloody battles. Later, I saw none of the either in the people who live here. Typical Indian cinema: always failing to represent the life as it is.

This was my first day in Hyderabad.

Now that I know better, the cinema here almost sets a trail or a trend you can pick on. The Telugu theatre for fantasy -heroism; Tamil theatre for realism; and the Malayali for the much needed utopia, parts of which can be found in whatever movies the Kashmiri cinema manages to make, which also has a lot in common with the Persian counterpart.

I had been outside Kashmir before, of course: multiple times on vacation. But to experience something, you have to live it, and be part of it; in the form of an academic degree, or a deportation. For a Kashmiri, there isn’t much difference.

My first day at school was… strange. I could swear something was missing. Ah, the bittersweet smell of intense deodorants and hairstyles from every head. Instead, I saw productivity. I saw debates and seminars, and science fairs and fashion shows, and everything one could manage to fit on a productive scale of diversity.

In Kashmir, one does not replicate hairstyles from local men travelling to India anymore. This is the age of the internet. Whatever is famous all over the world is brought to us as immediately as it is to the rest of the aesthetics-loving audience every-else-where in the world.

Men and women compete in grooming, and the competition is intense, sometimes paralleling the political rivalries. Sometimes, even for the top grossing lipsticks. May god smite me if I am lying?

While Kashmir has an idea of a woman as a different sex, meant for a different set of work, women in the rest of (South) India are partners, both at home and at work.

It would be redundant to mention that the condition is the same in rural areas, both in Kashmir and in the South making a reluctant, hesitant run for it. The politics there seem to be more promising, though.

Females back home are elusive, which is why they are looked upon as something you have to impress in order to achieve validation or credibility. The eternal thirst for the forbidden fruit, I think. In Biscoe, we would deliberately pass by and through the girls’ Mallinson to show off our new rebellious shoes, loose ties, and ornamental Cleopatric hairstyles. Most of us, had in fact, spent an hour or two on the same every morning. Long lumberjack beards (which I could never boast of), and bleached facial hair otherwise: The oxymoronic blend of primitive manliness and the colloquial contemporary effeminacy.

We could live with an insufficient diet over the summers to save up for clothing brands. It was contagious. I wouldn’t be surprised. Winters were particularly expensive with bigger bulkier (more expensive) clothing.

Convent Girls School was the exotic fraternity every teenager longed to impress.

Your life circles around making lives better and/or worse for the women, and that is why a Kashmiri finds living outside Kashmir a social and a cultural challenge. There is only so much that isn’t unethical or offensive.

The biggest worries on our minds included acne. Do not blame us. We had enough data packs, and insufficient syllabi and overabundant strikes and curfews to waste our time.

What do a people do when there are no jobs and very little education? What do god-fearing Sufi romantics do? They style their hair, and perfume their clothes.

There is the traditional religious Tamil Nadu, and then there is the traditional Sufi Kashmir.

There are the culturally aware and proud Tamilians, and then there are the culturally proud Kashmiris.

There are the Dhotis for the summer extremes, and there are the Phirans for winter atrocities.

There is the South, and then there is the North.

“The unbiased transitional cultural review of a Kashmiri and a Tamilian,” I think to myself.

By Shah Faesal

On February 16, morning I started off from Baglihar with my team of engineers to take stock of pre-construction works of one of the most ambitious hydropower-projects of J&K – 1856 MW Sawalkote HEP – first conceived in early 1960’s. For me, it was a unique journey because I had never been to any place in the interiors of Jammu division. No doubt I have always justified my ignorance as a part of the larger disconnect between people from three regions of the J&K State – Jammu, Kashmir, Laddakh – with very few of us in one region interested in the life and culture of people in the other region. But nevertheless, this ignorance has always bothered.

We followed the narrow road that takes off from Srinagar-Jammu National Highway towards Tanger. If it rains, it is very risky to travel in this area due to likelihood of shooting-stones and landslides. But the weather was pleasant. The road winds along the mountains on the left bank of mighty river Chenab, goes up and up in a dizzying spiral, pine enclaves, glacial streams, scattered habitations and blind curves making it a roller-coaster ride. All along the journey, I was calculating with myself the likely expanse of future Sawalkote reservoir and the submergence it would cause. The age old dilemmas of maintaining a balance between needs of the man and needs of the nature, the imperatives of sustainable development were running in a loop inside my mind. The mountains echoed with so many questions that accompany the process of development.

Nevertheless, we drove with care along the meandering mountain road, the under-construction railway track running along the ridge-line on our left like an evenly placed razor-cut in the cheek of a beautiful child. At many places where the side-slopes had shed their burden of gravel, a few yellow-coloured earth-movers moved their dreadful tentacles, scooping loose soil with anger, more so because their sahib was on tour. It was an interesting sight to see machines trying to please a man. I was told that in-spite of hundreds of crores of investment, the mountain was just not ready to yield and while we cleared the track ahead the mountain filled it back behind us. This tussle between the mountain and our engineers has been going on for long now and both sides have not been giving up.

At Tanger, while we talked about minimizing the environmental impact of the project, I noticed an amazing ancient pyramid-like structure built entirely of wood.

The locals informed me that it was a very old Naga Devta temple that has been there in the village for-ever. I called it a Temple Gazebo because it was a beautiful structure of shingles raised over four large beams of wood in a square foundation. There is a small stone-ridge in the centre of the temple which reminded me of Harmukh. In fact I had a little theory that may be the temple had been constructed to replicate the shape of Harmukh Mountain along with the conical rock underneath. Harmukh is the home of Shiva, one of the principal deities of Kashmiri Hindus.

It was a pleasant coincidence that I had come across this lesser-known monument at a time when Kashmiris were celebrating Herath– a festival deeply rooted in the inclusive culture of Kashmir.

At around hundred metres from this site, I found the ruins of an ancient temple along with two mounted rock-horses.

These rock-horses are regularly found in this area and some researchers say these have Greek markings and may have something to with arrival of Alexander the Great to this part of the world many centuries back. Some say that these rock monoliths depict the life of Gujjar-Bakerwal nomads who undertake seasonal migration- transhumance. Yet another opinion is that these are like the Terracota Army of Qin Shi Huang the first emperor of China. This mystery has not been resolved yet.

Then, I traced a rock panel with many deities carved on it. This sculpture shows a female with something like a pitcher over head. I have not found any record related to this so far. May be the mystery can be solved by archaeologists.

Local residents told me that although this village has a mixed population, the Hinuds and Muslims have been living in perfect harmony. Due to onset of developmental activities in the area, people are happy that they are getting jobs at their door-step. But development also brings along tensions and greed and it was heartening to see that the locals want to enjoy the developmental spin-offs associated with mega-project without giving up on their traditional values of brotherhood.

There is extensive tunnel-work going on in this area, bridges are under-construction, nallas are being tamed. While I was happy that the project may bring in an economic turn-around for the state, I also realised the immense responsibility that such projects put on our shoulders to minimise damage to local culture and environment. We promised the local community that we would continue visiting the place and will work closely with them.

(Shah Feasal, IAS is the Managing Director of J&K’s fully owned State Power Development Corporation.)

By: Shams Irfan

As the airbus began to descend towards Bangkok’s Suvarnabhumi airport, a mélange of hues: green, neon, grey, blue and red, started to illuminate outside my window.

The first look of Bangkok city, still a few hundred feet below, was both fascinating and breathtaking.

I could see highways crisscross through vast green patches, visible from above like a perfect geometry, as if drawn by a perfectionist. Then, as the plane took a sharp right turn, a number of waterways, interspersed between skyscrapers, tall pagoda style buildings, partly hidden by green cover, became visible.

It was around 6 pm (local time) when we finally touched down.

Unlike New Delhi airport, the immigration was quick and hassle free. The word Srinagar on my passport meant nothing here, except, it was part of my identity. Nobody asked me what I do, or what I think of Kashmir, Pakistan and India.

I still recall how I tried to avoid the immigration officer at New Delhi airport who asked me bluntly, “Why do Kashmiris make trouble all the time and get themselves killed?”

I couldn’t help but wonder how conveniently he passed a judgment, without a hint of remorse in his voice. I said nothing and just gave him a look that I thought conveyed my disgust.

But Thailand was different. Here I was a free man, at least to speak my mind, and feel proud of my identity.

Once outside the airport, we took a bus for Pattaya city, our first destination in Thailand.

Without entering the Bangkok city, our driver, who wore a light blue uniform, drove through a network of beautiful roads, before taking the highway to Pattaya.

The highway, or the motorway as it is called here, reminded me of my travel from Lahore to Islamabad in Pakistan last year. In both cases, I kept looking out of the window, wondering when we will have similar infrastructure in Kashmir! But then my thoughts got shadowed by the bloody summer of 2016, and everything else took a backseat.

After 90 minutes drive we were finally in Pattaya city, around 148 kms from the capital Bangkok. As we got off the bus, we realized that we are still about a kilometer from our hotel. A new place, language barrier and a skeptic mind, made things worse as we failed to find a taxi.

Then one of our friends Rohail, a tech savvy banker, resorted to google for directions.

With phone in one hand, Rohail led us through busy roads, across a small market place, and down a dark alley, towards our hotel. It was quite a sight as we followed him like baby ducklings follow their mother. Only difference was the noise of strollers that we dragged along.

After quick showers, we set out to find something to eat, as the last meal we had was on Thai airways plane somewhere over Bay of Bengal.

It was quarter past midnight when we finally reached the market; but little did we know that our quest to find good food will leave us high and dry.

As we walked past eateries in Pattaya, we could see most of them offer ham (pork) as well, and it put us off instantly.

While planning our trip we had promised each other that we will try seafood, as it is both exotic and halal.

But even the thought of eating seafood at a restaurant serving ham, as most of the restaurants in Pattaya do, sounded a bad idea. For next half-an-hour, the four of us, moved from one restaurant to another asking for halal food.

Then all of a sudden, my cousin Gowher Bhat jumped with joy as he spotted a small Turkish national flag pasted on a shop front. Next to the flag was a rectangular sticker with halal inscribed on it in Arabic. Later we came to know that the sticker is issued by the Central Islamic Committee of Thailand (CICT), certifying that the eatery sells halal food.

As we relished shawarmas, the owner of the eatery told us that the halal sign is mandatory for all products and eateries that adhere to CICT norms.

It made our stay easy as almost every consumer product including milk, cream, juices, bread, chocolates, toothpaste, and even bottled water and eggs, had halal written on them.

Once the food issue was resolved, the next morning, we rented two scooties, and set out to explore the city.

These scooties became indispensible as they saved both time and money, and helped us navigate the city interactively.

It also helped us understand some basics about traffic rules, which we knew but never cared to follow. This ‘I don’t give a damn attitude’ left us poorer by a few hundred Baht (Thai currency), but rich in experience. The first challan was for taking the helmet off at a traffic signal; the second one, when we took a left turn thinking its free; and the third for riding with Kashmiri licenses’ instead of an international one.

Three challans later we were perfectly in sync with the local laws, as we observed how dedicatedly people follow traffic rules. Unlike Kashmir, nobody is in rush here.

There are dedicated lanes for both cyclists and scooties, and no car or bus drives in these lanes, no-matter how congested it is on the main road.

As we rode from one place to another, we realized how organized, tourist friendly, and diverse this country is.

The same evening google helped us trace Amir Restaurants, a halal food joint owned by a Malaysian family in south Pattaya. As we walked in, beautiful edifice of Toatilla mosque, located across the street, caught our attention.

After tasting a variety of delicacies including steamed fish, we decided to offer Magrib prayers at the mosque. But there was an issue; all of us were wearing shorts.

The manager of the restaurant, a beautiful girl in her mid-twenties, who saw us discuss our options said, ‘Don’t worry; they have robes for tourists at the mosque.’

The mosques in Thailand are more like community centers with a host of facilities like internet, computers, gowns for tourists like us who are not properly dressed for prayers, medical kits, a standby ambulance, special ramps for specially abled people, a spacious waiting room with sofas, a separate sections for women, a room for kids etc.

The three days stay in Pattaya helped us understand what a tourist friendly place actually looks like.

Pristine Phuket

As the plane descended for landing at Phuket airport, small islands popped up outside my window like a set of pearls.

I still cherish the moment when I saw sun melt into the vast ocean, as our plane took a final turn before landing.

After an hour’s drive we were finally at our hotel in Patong area, a beautiful beach side tourist hub known for seafood, surfing and loud music.

The next morning, at 7 am, we boarded a taxi, sent by the tour operator, for our trip to Phi Phi Islands.

After a fifteen minute quick lecture at the pier about what-to-do and what-not-to-do while in sea, we were put on a speed boat. It was my first ‘sea voyage’ and I must admit I was a bit nervous initially.

But the jolly hearted captain, his assistant nicknamed as banana man, and our ever smiling guide, made our journey both comfortable and a memorable one.

After 45 minutes ride through rough and calm, our captain took a sharp right, and then slowly cruised through two giant landmasses, to reach beautiful Maya Bay Island.

The water was so clear that one could see the sea bed, and hundreds of small colourful fishes that swam in it, without a care in the world.

Encouraged by my cousins Gowher and Sajad, who are both in advertising business and travel quite often, Rohail and I jumped into the water despite the fact we knew nothing about swimming. But the experience turned out to be a memorable one.

At our next stop, I put on the snorkeling gear including fins, which we rented at the pier, and jumped into the crystal clear water.

But with no swimming experience whatsoever it turned out to be a bad idea as I almost sank into neck-deep waters!

However, at Sajad’s insistence, Rohail and I decided to give it one more shot. But when I jumped, it felt like I was going down without a surface in sight. Instantly I shouted for help and Sajad, who was nearby, grabbed my hand and helped me get back on the boat.

With a bit of regret and disappointment, we zoomed off towards Phi Phi Island for buffet lunch. This Island is inhibited by native Muslims, we were told.

On our way back, we stopped at two more islands, both mesmerizing in their own right.

At 6 pm, after spending around eight hours in sea, we were back to Patong.

Next day, as we decided to explore Old Town Phuket on our own, we hired two scooties, and rode off.

I have made number of trips on beautiful Srinagar-Jammu highway in my reliable Ford hatchback; I have also trekked world’s highest motorable road, Khardung La in Ladakh, but the ride from Patong to Phuket Old Town, stands out by all proportions.

Connected by a scenic road that snakes through a small hillock, we had to accelerate our scooties to their limits to summit the height.

Once at top, one could see the beautiful Phuket town, its eye catching beaches, vast bazaars, and a few minarets, spread like a three-dimension map.

It took around 45 minutes to reach Thalang Road, a narrow street dotted with cafés, restaurants and souvenir shops, built more than a century ago in beautiful Sino-Portuguese architecture.

It was quite an experience to see how every shop and restaurant offers you high speed free internet, irrespective of the fact you make a purchase or not. The way Thai people treat their guests (read tourists) is worth emulating, especially for us as we often boost of our hospitality!

After spending three days in Phuket we flew back to Bangkok, our final destination in Thailand.

Unlike other parts of this country, Bangkok is mega metropolis. First day we spent in exploring its mega malls, bazaars, eateries, etc.

I clearly recall how an interesting entry in visitor’s book at Throne Hall in Dusit Palace transported me back to my homeland. The visitor, who had praised the architectural marvels of this royal palace, has concluded his entry by mentioning his residence as: Republic of Kashmir.

The same evening we went to China Town. As the name suggests, this was literally a piece of China in Thailand.

Next morning we drove for an hour to see the Floating Markets on the outskirts of Bangkok. It was almost like our own vegetable market in Dal Lake, but lot more maintained and clean. Every structure constructed on the banks was in sync with the nature.

As our motor boat made its way through the backwaters, we began to work out plans to restore Dal Lake’s to its former glory. However we also knew that we live in a different world, with altogether different sets of rules, and rulers.

Next evening, after dinner, as we were strolling through a market place, we stopped at a small sweets shop. The owner of the shop, a young man in his early twenties, introduced himself as Monzer Nhan from Damascus, Syria.

When we introduced ourselves as Kashmiris, he couldn’t help but smile at the irony. A few hugs and warm smiles later, we asked each other that uncomfortable but unavoidable question: how is situation back home?

He told us how he and his family fled Syria at the peak of conflict, and what it is like to live a refugee’s life. He also told us that he is glad to be alive despite living far away from his home. And when he asked us about Kashmir, all we could say was: we need each other’s prayers, brother.

That meeting ended our trip on a high note as we had explored Thailand the other way round!

by Khursheed Wani

April has never been wet in two decades in a colossal way as this year in Kashmir. The cyclonic circulation induced by the western disturbances kept on hovering over the Valley’s skies, triggering profuse showers every time in one or the other corner. When the riot of colours began in the famed Tulip Garden in Srinagar, one of the largest such gardens in south Asia, the rain gods, turned hostile again like several previous years. A short week of continued downpour and the millions of flowers silently withered away without creating a flutter.  An unusual layer of snow at the beginning of spring enveloped the entire city including the tulip carpets sprayed in the lap of Zabarwan hills overlooking the brimming Dal Lake. The Jhelum River flowed closer to the brink with its trademark majesty.

The winter was harsher with plenty of snow and bone-chilling cold wave. Kashmir remained cut-off for weeks and people confined to homes or short distances. The most anybody ventured out was to ski-resort of Gulmarg where winter is the best bet for hangouts. A trickle of enthusiasts stole the moments though I was not lucky this time.

Come spring, and everyone in Kashmir, native or not, has an eagerness to hit a hill station to break the winter monotony and rejuvenate by breathing some fresh air from the hills. This spring the sunshine was more tempting and the gang was, for a change, not ready to hit the trodden tracks. “Let’s go to a place we have never been to,” shouted Haroon and we began searching for the destination. A few phone calls to our friends in north Kashmir helped to zero in on Khodgu-Monglu hills in Sopore sub-division. It is yet another exclusive combination of lake and hills, something special to Kashmir. Wullar Lake, the largest freshwater lake in Asia, is visible from every observation point on these hills, emphasized Bilal, a Sopore resident and a mountain freak with the special interest in Kashmir’s flora and fauna.

On a misty April 20 morning, we began our journey on famed Srinagar-Muzaffarabad road, once the most important road-link to the outer world, now restricted to a few weekly cross-Line of Control bus and truck runs. The poplars grown majestically on both sides of the road, showcased in many Bollywood movies of the 1970s golden era, have either withered or chopped off. As we swished past the shrinking Hokera and Haigam wetlands, only a few migratory birds were seen taking flights. Maybe these are the last flights they took off this spring as most winged guests of their tribe have already left for their summer destinations as far away as Siberia and Afghanistan. Their aerial travel is not restricted.

An hour-long journey takes to Sangrama, a highway township where north Kashmir travellers split for their destinations. Straight travel leads to Baramulla and Uri and for entry into vast districts of Kupwara and Bandipora, a right turn towards historic Sopore town is required. We moved towards the right with Bilal’s advice in mind to avoid getting into traffic snarls inside the most congested and unplanned towns of the Valley, also known as apple town for its massive fruit produce. Fortunately, the town was beginning its day and horse-carts or tangas, now a rare site in Kashmir except in Sopore were not dominating the roads. We manoeuvred quickly and in half-an-hour, were out of the town and rich with Bilal’s company, on the road towards Bandipora and Gurez. The cool breeze emanating from Wullar Lake was quite refreshing.

The ascendance towards Khodgu-Monglu Mountain starts at Botengu, a village 10 kilometers from Sopore town. On the right side is Baba Shukruddin’s shrine atop a plateau overlooking the Wullar Lake. Thousands of devotees visit the shrine every year. A hotelier suggested paying obeisance at the shrine on our return from the mountains. We packed some food stuff before beginning our journey towards the mountains.

The challenging journey begins at the beginning. The movement our car embarked on the road, a 60-degree slope welcomed it. A few yards away, the road seemed to be ending but then appeared a widened curve and a parallel stretch. After every hundred years, the road gives birth to a new curve followed by another on the neatly macadamized road. No bumps and potholes are visible probably because the inclined road does not retain water. On the sides of the road, ascending the foothill, craftily pruned apple trees are seen in countless rows with their shiny branches ready to sprout the darling buds. Occasionally, a cab descended from the opposite side alerting our driver but mostly the journey was uninterrupted.

As we reached the middle of the mountain, the length between the road curves increased. On the sides appeared small plateaus dotted with green conifers. There are countless stumps of pine and cedar trees like a scalp facing hair loss for years. A few decades ago, a villager told us, the forests were very dense. The sunrays were shining the needle leaves of the conifers and never got a chance to kiss the earth. Now the silver rays also descend on the lifeless barks though the dense forest exists after every stretch. The conifers are standing everywhere, sometimes only inches from the road. We halted at a plateau, almost a kilometre up from the water level to watch the majestic Wullar Lake, now in front of our eyes with its massive expanse, framed all sides with green trees. The mirror images of snow-capped mountains surrounding the still lake offer a kaleidoscope of colours. The fishermen rowing in their canoes appears to be like dots moving on the water surface. It is soothing to watch birds aimlessly flying in the enormous space between the Wullar’s surface and the blue sky dotted with clouds. Their limit of flight is much lower than we have already attained at this observation point. The sight of Wullar Lake from various points on way to Hardu-Munglu is most rewarding. This face of Wullar, like a canvas spread by nature, cannot be viewed discreetly from any other place.

The arduous road snakes into the grove of conifers and every time offers an unexpected site. Hundreds of young pine trees are uprooted, some of them chopped and turned into logs on the roadside. A villager Muhammad Shaban says the forest encountered the unexpected and somewhat unprecedented devastation during the snowfall in the first week of April. “This was peculiar snow—wet, heavy and untimely when trees were loaded with leaves. It uprooted a large number of conifers. The road was blocked for several days until villagers and the forest officials cleared the blocks,” he said.

After an hour, we reached the highest point on the mountain and on the other side of the slope, we could see clusters of houses, the only traces of human life in the lap of these lofty mountains. Shaban told us the Rampur and Rajpur villages used to remain cut-off from the outer world for most of the year and the dwellers, in extreme situations, used to trek the slopes or ride on horsebacks to approach the civilization in the valley. A decade back, their miseries ended with the construction of this serpentine road. “Our life underwent a transformation after the road was connected,” he says with a grin on his face.

Interestingly, the end-point of the road arrived as we found ourselves in the yard of a government-owned high school. The boys were exercising and a handful of girls watched them from a cemented block. We immediately mingled with the teachers and students who initially took us as seldom-seen government officials.

Mohammad Akbar Lone, a teacher said the village owes its stability and prosperity to a saint who is buried in the vicinity along-with his five sons and disciples. “The saint takes care of us even in the worst situations,” Lone says.

The twin villages of Rampur and Rajpur exist for around five centuries, Lone says. “Look at this mountain. It is called Trimakh (meaning three faces). It is a daylong trek to reach its peak that has three faces, one each towards Kupwara, Bandipora and Baramulla districts,” he informs. The famed Lolab Valley is on the other side of the mountain. From the Trimakh, we can count around 50 villages of Lolab Valley. We know that the village is Diver, Sogam or Lalpora. They are so clearly visible from the peak, he says.

The village doesn’t have mobile connectivity, sometimes most cherished by the visitors. Lone shares an interesting tale. “We have found a huge slab in the lap of this mountain where mobile connectivity is excellent. When any villager has to talk on mobile or connect through the internet, he walks up to the rock. This rock locally known as Pal has now been christened as Whatsapp Pal.

Most of the villagers live in old wooden houses though brick and mortar houses are fast replacing them. A woman offered us water as we requested to click pictures of her house. She cautioned on honey bees, which were coming out from a hole in the front wall of their house. “It is called Tamboor (traditional beehive) that gives us original honey,” she said. Behind the Tamboor was the cowshed and the family lived on the first floor.

We spent a few hours with the villagers listening to their tales of history, lifestyle, hardship and resilience. They referred to Proangam, a village that has been wiped out by the vagaries of time. “The ruminants of the village are still found. Our forefathers told us that the village might have disappeared because of famine. We usually face scarcity of water,” Abdul Khaliq, another villager said.

On our return, we stopped at a pine grove to relish well-earned lunch. Bilal was gracious enough to have packed fried chicken, kebabs and Rogan Josh. We sat on the natural green, slightly wet carpet for the lunch. Occasionally, a cab passed by and the commuters offered strange looks, sometimes a hesitant smile. While descending the mountain slope on our way back, the Wullar Lake was brimming again offered an entirely different afternoon look.

As usual, we complained that it was a short trip and required more time to absorb the essence of this bewitchingly beautiful hill station. We promised to return to the place on an elaborate trip. By the mid-summer, we were told, the local schools would make a beeline to the place.

by Masood Hussain

A Great Man

By around 2 am, a car is in great speed comes to a grinding halt at the main gate of the Emergency. No sooner did the driver disembark with the little child he was carrying driving to the hospital, a two-wheeler with equal speed stopped. A man and a woman almost rushed to the car in such a way that I feared that the car driver might have put to them some loss in the middle of the night. That was not the case. The woman instantly pleaded for him to drive a kilometre from the hospital and help them drive their seriously ailing father to the hospital. “We just have a scooter and my father is so ill,” she pleaded.

The car driver, thought for a moment, enquired about the distance and told his daughter: “Doll, you just manage this ache for a moment, we will go in a jiffy and get their father.”

Almost 20 minutes after, the man drove the old man, his son and his daughter to the hospital. He had severe breathing issues and 10 minutes later he was on oxygen. Then only did the car-owner take his souneh goubur to the doctor – great father, great daughter.

Three Deaths

Normally, patients are driven to the territory care hospitals when the families fail to manage them. They are critical at the time of arrival so not everybody survives. For the night I spent in SMHS’s medical emergency ward – one of the busiest despite the Covid19, three deaths took place, a young man from the city and two women from the periphery.

In all three cases, it was apparently cardiac arrest as I saw the doctors making desperate attempts in all three cases to revive.

What is peculiar to the Kashmir hospitals is that for one patient, there is a crowd of attendants. Yes, patients do require an attendant but not a procession.

The massive presence of the attendants did not go well in the three cases. They did not beat the doctors thought. But they created a situation in which the care of their patients was impacted. In one case the attendants of other patients intervened much ahead of the scene would get created. In two cases, however, nobody could help.

While the doctors were making efforts, one attendant of one patient lost his consciousness and fell down and he required another doctor that obviously had to be shifted from his own mother. In both cases, the families converted the ward into a huge mourning hall. It took almost half an hour for the medical staff and the attendants to plead to them that they have a right to mourn but their high-pitch wails are impacting the health of other serious patients in the ward.

I am not taking a moral stand on this but I wish to suggest that attendants should somehow behave maturely at the time of these tragedies. After the two bouts of the massive mourning, the oxygen supply of the ward witnessed the peak demand. Interestingly, the family that was hugely nosy in wailing the departure of their mother, spent the rest of the night in the corridor talking around the corpse.

Moral Cops

Slightly past midnight, I saw two young men dragging another youngster into a room adjacent to the office of the Chief Medical Officer. They took him in and closed the door. They were apparently beating him. Moments later, a young girl was summoned in also.

Preliminary details suggested the two were caught talking in isolation, remember talking, nothing more. They were attendants of two patients admitted in the surgical and medical emergency wards. Both were rural folks. I thought the cops were in action and they were ensuring nothing bad happens around.

Half an hour later, another boy and another girl was summoned and apparently reprimanded. To me, it was not so abnormal.

Moments later, I saw the girl from the latter couple almost shouting at one of the “moral” cops in anger and soon she took the boy with her and told them that they are legally wedded, husband and wife. Well before they would say anything, she almost took her shoe in hand and was about to beat one of them. I still found it not so abnormal, taking it as ‘just a misunderstanding’.

Soon, I saw one of the ‘moral’ guards talking in separation with the girl from first paid. He was seeking her cell number and she gave it. That was when I found it is not all right and they could not be cops.

A simple investigation suggests they were self-styled morality imposers, who, in their drive during late hours pose question marks over the credibility and integrity of youngsters, both men and women. It is possible that some people could be taking advantage of the desertion of outer premises and dim-lit spots around F-Block but that requires better lighting and not “raids”. I do not know why they were seeking cell numbers from the young lady and I have no idea who they were. I did see the young lady sobbing and crying. Employees, I talked to, said they are doing small jobs within and around the hospital but are not from staff. I wanted to talk to them but they simply could not be seen around.

Too many nights have passed and they might be home. I do not know why the first pair, caught talking, was a dam good smart pair, perfect for each other. I wish they meet again forever.

Night Business

It is the harshest period of winter, the Chilai Kalan. People who have spent nights in the hospitals do know that there are facilities for getting medicines for a while of the night.

But the casualty area of the premier SMHS Hospital is alive literally because of two vendors. One sells tea and another water and other basic requirements for the attendants.

I did not ask them their identities but both of them said they are there for last more than 14 years. They set up their shops after 10 pm and serve the people for the whole night. The water-seller finishes his product basket by around 4 am and then goes home in the neighbourhood.

For the Chaiwalla, the stay is longer. For the whole night, he sells sweet tea, the Lipton, and soon after the Fajr prayers, he started selling the Nun Chai. He has a perfect supply set-up. Fresh bread is delivered to him early in the morning and honestly, this might be the spot where the Nun Chai is available first in Kashmir, right now around 6 am.

The two spots near the Casualty Gate remains busy with attendants, who smoke around, interact, have tea and return. The two have started an Allaw type fireplace using a tin box that helps people stay warmer.

Both of them said they work during the nights only. They sleep during the day.

Sleep Debt

One of the many bad habits I have is sleeping late in the night. So it has been a moral dilemma for me that if at all, by any chance, I hear Salaatu Khayrun min an-nawm (prayer is better than sleep) from the Muazin’s pre-Fajr call, the Azaan, how should I react. It has been very rare that I hear the Azaan because my sleep has been a dream-free-deep one. But whenever I hear it, it is almost impossible that I would not get up for timely prayers.

Between the gap of medical and surgical emergency of SMHS is some space that people have been using for prayers. So when I heard the Azaan, I quickly joined. What shocked me was that on one side of it people were sleeping. It was literally in their ears that Muazin was calling – Salaatu Khayrun min an-nawm and they were in the praying space itself. Neither they felt disturbed nor did anybody interrupt their sleep. Perhaps they were too tired in managing their patients that they were oblivious of the time-space matrix.

Crowded Welcome

A night in a hospital is no sure barometer of the functioning of a major hospital. There are, however, certain things, which are obvious. For instance, in the first entry of the emergency, three huge crowds were around the young doctors, mostly residents. At the peak of Covid19, it should have been made possible to have more doctors and give them enough space to manage some kind of social distance. They were managing it well but they had no second option. I doubt there may be a doctor who will not have his bout of infection this season.

I did not find any issue in the ward. All the doctors functioned like robots, so did the nursing staff. Paramedics assigned the roles for diverse test basket was in place and I did not see anybody in any conflict with any doctor or a patient. Everything is not as perfect as I saw it. Maybe I had left the fault-finding goggle at home!

by Tasavur Mushtaq

With each passing day, Kashmir is witnessing an increase in social crimes, particularly those against women and the elderly. If instances are investigated, they are not only varied but more complicated in nature. The last and the latest crime gazette released by Jammu and Kashmir Police in January 2022 reveals there is an increase of 15.41 per cent in total registration of criminal cases in the year 2020 over 2019.

Melon “Murder”

In the midst of the afternoon, an elderly person cycled out of his home in the Qamarwari area of Srinagar to offer prayers and make purchases. Once done with Namaz, he went to the market. Ramzan being the peak time for watermelon in the Kashmir, the old man stopped by a roadside fruit seller, a young boy. The routine conversation of rate ended to check the ripeness. As the vendor sliced the melon, the inside portion was not inviting. He asked for another piece, to which as per the reports, the vendor declined.

Not interested to carry the sliced one, the old man peddled his cycle to see some other option. But before his force could overcome the friction, the young seller followed him and tapped his back. As the old man looked back, the angry teenage seller attacked his vital organs with a sharp-edged knife. Unmoved, he left him bleeding on the spot, possibly dying. As told later by the family, the old man was writhing in pain, bleeding profusely, but nobody came to his help.

Moments later, a young girl had a pass through the area and was shocked to see her grandfather in a poll of blood. Without thinking, she bundled him in an auto and reached the hospital. The old man is fighting a battle for his life, unconsciously. His fault, as reported is, just asking for a better piece of watermelon.

Acid Attack

In a span of four months, two girls in Kashmir were acid attacked. One in Shopian (October 2021), another in Srinagar (February 2022).

In Shopian, an attacker came around the afternoon and attacked an 18-year-old girl with acid. Her hands, face, feet and shoulders were burnt. The case was filed, the attacker was later arrested and the victim is hoping to have some healing. She has already undergone five surgeries to regain her face and skin. However, doctors have told her poor father that it may take around two years to complete the treatment. A poor man struggling to survive is fighting this battle, renting accommodation in Srinagar for her treatment. As per him, his only source of income is Rs 400 a month from the government school where he is working since 1995.  A mass donation message helped the family to a large extent, but the deposits have depleted and the family is again struggling.

In Srinagar, it was evening. The February sun was almost going down when an attacker came and threw acid on a 24-year-old girl. Earlier reports revealed that the accused threw acid on the victim over the rejection of his engagement proposal. Later, what the family told was that the two were engaged and the attacker was demanding gold and cash from her, over which the engagement was broken.

Reason one or two or many, but the point remains, the girl is fighting a battle of her life. With moral and money support emerging from every corner, the battle at the end remains at the individual level.

The Concern     

As witnessed, the cases reported over the last few years are complicated. From stabbing an old man in Srinagar to kidnapping and raping a girl in South Kashmir, the societal scenario is revealing a grim situation. On one side, a relative in the neighbourhood is giving the sedative to a girl and assaulting her, while in another part, the brother hatched a conspiracy to kill his sister, a would-be bride, for grabbing her property and gold. He strangulated her just a day before marriage and manipulated the incident as a case of “suicide”.

Day in and out, we witness crime occurrences. From politics to poverty, there are different reasons being told for the paradigm shift. But, no rationale can be enough validation for committing a crime.

This all begins in a family and later shifts to society. The conditions, in which we are, becomes a catalyst for crimes. While we live in a fancy world of fighting our images virtually, reality laughs at us. Continuing in the world of excuses and denials, we seem to be lost in our own fantasies resulting in fatalities.

The onus lies on individuals and intuitions, to step in and stop. An intervention at all levels can somehow help to heal.

Tail Piece

In Kashmir, the crime scenario has undergone a huge shift and increasing instrumentally, both organised and unorganised. This trend has far-reaching consequences for the social fabric of society.  In cases, when the criminals are brought to book, the justice system lets them off on bail. What is more, required of us to rethink and rebuild? It is time to put on our thinking caps and seriously ponder over these questions before crimes take over our conscience completely.

by Tasavur Mushtaq

The ninth month of the Islamic calendar, Ramzan is a month of reverence. Treasured as one of the five pillars of Islam, it stays from one observation of the crescent moon to the other. With fasting being one of the visible manifestations of this month, the essence lies in exploring the self and understanding the pain and problems of fellow human beings.

Divided into three phases, known as Ashra (ten days), whose beginning is mercy (Rehmah), the middle is forgiveness (Maghfirah) and the conclusion is seeking safety from the fire of hell (Nijat).

Since day one, every moment of this month is miraculous. Every minute is detoxifying. Besides imparting the discipline of self-control, this month takes us to the level of being conscious of our community.

The Last Ashra

Every Ashra of this holy month has its own significance, but when it comes to the last, it offers respite in many ways.

Beginning with the ritual of retreat in the Masjid (Aitikat), it ends on Eid, the day of gratitude. In between falls the Night of Power (Lailatul Qadr) and Jamat-ul-vida, the last Friday of the holy month.  As Laylat al-Qadr signifies the night when the first verses of the Quran were revealed to Prophet Mohammad (SAW), Jamat-ul-vida has its own significance. It is called the “day of worship.”

Not A Ritual

Being a month full of blessings, Ramzan is not a ritual. It is a reality to live for the next 11 months of the year. It is a drill that disciplines our demeanour. It helps to develop our manners and morality. Makes us responsive to the needs of others and instils a sense of empathy within us.  In the routine of our life, we would never be able to figure out what hunger means and how bad it is to feel pangs of thirst, that many less privileged people, who are repeatedly living a life without proper food. This month gives us a chance to comprehend the crisis of the less fortunate.

As we often see, places of worship are full during the month of Ramzan. From dawn to dusk, people meet each other more frequently than in the rest of the months. In the routine, there is a sense of belongingness. A unity is forged regardless of status and societal issues. Iftaar, the time to break the fast, imbibes us with the concept of interacting with each other. It gives us an opportunity to see other people take food before us. A lesson of selflessness.

Besides abstaining from food, this holy period teaches us to abstain from being the reason for hurting others. Be it through words or deeds. Importantly, there is untutored learning to take a pause and stop. In the rush of life, we never know how our life is being spent, but this month applies breaks to see and reflect and ensure that we manage to do all the things peacefully.

The Month of Charity

Known as the month of charity, the concept of helping people lies at the core of these four weeks. For want of getting rewarded more, people spend this month by way of Sadaqah, Zakat, and so on. One of the biggest charities in the Muslim world is shortly before Eid when every Muslim is mandated to offer Sadka Faitr for the less privileged. In Kashmir, for this year, it has been fixed at Rs 65, per head, at the lowest slab. It can go up to Rs 2000, depending on how the giver calculates it.

However, the tragic part lies when lessons are lost immediately after the Eid Namaz. We seldom retain the essence of this month after the celebrations. As we tend to forget the reason for celebration, we are caught again in the quagmire of life. We as a society replicate what a student normally does when he actually passes his examination. Forget the leanings, throw the books and be part of the new setup, only to work hard next time.

A Failure

But if this happens, we fail the purpose of purification. Ramzan is not a lesson for a month, but a lifetime.

There is a need to inculcate the teachings, intrinsically. There is no purpose to leaving food and other things for a month if we don’t make it perpetual in our life.

The sufferings do not end on Eid. The hunger persists. The thirst is there. Poverty is our part forever. Orphans have their own crisis. Widows wail all year. Sick seek attention. Children need education. Poor girls have their hands out. Aged parents need support. The homeless desire shelter. This is an unending process for all times to come. Ramzan or no Ramzan, the crisis persists. There is a need to sacrifice for the entire 12 months. Ramzan is a lesson to be implemented in totality for all times to come.

The symbolism may not remain, but substance should never be sacrificed.