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Where are the songs of spring? oh, where are they?
Don’t think about them, you have your music too, – John Keats
I visited the valley of Kashmir with a split mind… there was the magnetic temptation of its ethereal allure that fueled my childhood dreams, and then there were those bloody tales of the stricken valley disintegrated by terror and chaos. There were three consecutive bomb blasts in Srinagar, the capital of Kashmir, on the day I started my trip from Kolkata (the capital city of the state of West Bengal) on a package tour. So my mind was in a state of excitement to meet BEAUTY AND THE BEAST! My husband was upset with the front-page newspaper reports of the morning’s carnage, and he tried to talk me out of my impetuous resolve. I begged him to let me go as there was no safe haven on Earth these days and he believed he would return home…
It was autumn, the season “of mist and soft fruiting”… that was exactly what the silent voice of Srinagar morning whispered to me on the first day. In fact, when I drew back the floral curtains of my hotel room, I was spellbound to find the autumnal face of the flushed city that had not yet awakened from its frozen sleep. My heart skipped a beat as the gilt-bronze Chinar trees along the path lit up, and the magical leaves rustled with the first caress of sunlight! The older reddish and gold leaves fell from the branches silently in quick succession only to create the vermilion gold path of long stretches. My eyes traveled far and were utterly captivated by the sight of the majestic Himalayas, distant and snow-covered, brilliant orange in colour, as the first rays of the sun crept down their slopes… I forgot about the bomb blast and terrorist attacks and ran down the wooden stairs. stairs of my hotel to breathe the “honeyed” morning air of the city so elegant!
As I was walking down the street, I avoided Cafe Coffee Day because it reminded me of my crowded city and the typical Kolkata smell that I wanted to get away from… I was dying to live the Kashmir of my dream! So the first curious face that greeted me with a warm smile was the mature and elderly face of Ahmad Kader Miya at a nearby tea stall. For the first time I tried kahwa; The green tea from him made with saffron, cloves, green cardamom, cinnamon sticks and chopped almonds. The smooth taste of it paired well with the feeling of the mild season, embracing my spirit with a sense of warmth. The flavor of kahwa is coated with a fading bitterness that was somehow associated with the nice sour taste of the walnut. Kader Miya’s grandson, the teenage Abdul, serving the tea a second time with a sheepish smile, reminded me of similar youthful and innocent faces on Outlook magazine covers, shot dead by military men accused of terrorism. Why do these children leave everything to…?
My thoughts drifted away as I watched Srinagar quietly go about its daily business: Does this silence mean peace restored or a pause before another bomb attack? I couldn’t help but reflect on… I absently opened my bag when I was awakened from my thoughts by the breathy voice of the old man with the henna-dyed beard and kind brown eyes who told me that the tea was free as it was. intended for “Mehman Newazi” who just acquainted me with the local culture of offering tea to the guest visiting the city for the first time…
During the latter part of the morning, as we walked, we saw the silver birch and cottonwood trees glowing in the warm sunlight. We also saw the exotic Nilgai (Blue-bull), the largest Asian antelope grazing in the nearby gray scrub forest. We also found a herd of cute cashmere goats of a light brown and milk white variety with shaggy fur and apricot noses, led by a herdsman. They were curiously sporting spiral horns! Locals reported that these goats produce the finest wool, and exquisite pashmina shawls were made from the fiber extracted from their bodies. Despite the busy market, the city has its own leisurely pace and we forget about time… We walked to a small bus stop and took a bus to the legendary Dal lake. Although it bustles with activity by then, the lake itself is calm. I felt truly romantic with the dry leaves of Chinar rustling under my feet as we headed towards the Shikaras (wooden boats) for a ride. We walked in silence, surrounded by this beguiling group of Chinars, gleaming golden in the soft sunlight…
Like the Venetian gondolas, the Shikaras are the cultural symbol of Kashmir. Some of the rowers in colorful Phi ran (a long embroidered woolen dress), smoked their hukkas, a local tobacco with a merry spirit. These men are hardworking and courteous in their manners. Smiles gleamed, and my eyes admired the slight blush that spread over their rough, weather-beaten faces, and their blue eyes that shone with a strange light! They welcomed us and we hired two shikaras.
There was a mischievous interplay of mist and sunlight that created a magic as we reclined on the brightly colored velvet cushions on the shikara, surrounded by colorful floral canopies. As the oarsmen vigorously plunged their paddle-shaped oars into the cold waters of the lake, the long-beaked shikaras floated low in the water like a crocodile. The grooves created by the movement of the oars sometimes glowed a golden green. Orange light oozed over the distant mountain tops surrounding the lake and the white and snowy cliffs reflected the hue. It was a relaxed and romantic trip in which time did not seem to get out of hand…
The guys clicked to capture the enchanting views of the pine-covered Himalayas surrounding the lake from every corner from a distance. The pines stood tall in green above the majestic mountains and the clusters formed different geometric patterns; while the Chinese, nearby, blushed as my eyes thirstily drenched in the unimaginable color and lines around it. We also caught a glimpse of the silvery black of a kingfisher’s back as he emerged from the placid lake to catch his breakfast. The water looked so transparent! The cluster of floating white lilies looked so serene! The sun-kissed lotuses smiled pink… Little ducks, white egrets, and herons in the pond floated happily…
The cold air whispered the message of the arrival of winter. The boatman regaled us with local songs at our request and as the wild and powerful melodies floated through the air, I breathed in Kashmir… Some valley women rode past, heading for their house, which was floating on the lake, to the other side. .. They carried vegetables, fuels and necessities… their phi ran looked so faded that, however, it could not fade their rosy dimpled smiles. Despite life’s harsh dictates to them, Kashmiri men and women seemed to take life in stride. I never found them complaining about the unfairness of life, whether it be the harshness of nature or, more often, the rudeness of man. If his hooked nose, blue eyes, and flushed cheeks seemed in surprising harmony with the natural abundance that fostered them, his joyous spirit, in the face of the grim violence that terminally bled the valley, spoke volumes about his strong genetic constitution that matched the majestic Himalayas.
As we glided along the Jhelum River, we passed dilapidated houses whose only evidence of life was a few orchards and chickens in the yard pecking grains on the frozen earth. This part of old Srinagar conveys the story of a crumbling past that might once have been glorious, as recounted in Rushdie’s “Midnight’s Children”…
We crossed a nestled cove, surrounded by golden-green trees and lush meadows located in another corner of Dal Lake that looked like Keats’s “forsaken fairyland“… Elegant houseboats beckoned us from a distance to spend the evening. night floating on the water. lake. The marble dome of Hazratbal, visible as an “egg-shaped pearl” from a distance, seduced us to feel its ancient history of Moi-e-Muqqadus, the sacred hair of the Prophet Muhammad…
The distant face of an old fisherman bent over in search of lotus root reminded me of Tai, the eerily timeless boatman who comes to life from Rushdie’s page…
The autumn face of Srinagar and Dal inspires me to say:
“No spring or summer beauty is so graceful
As I have seen in an autumn face…” JOHN DONNE.
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Source by [Clément L.]