Is anybody listening? Does anyone care? It seems to me that so many of the writers of this thorn in India’s side type away only to get pushed aside. I can understand the general discontent regarding such articles. There you sit, a beautiful morning greeting you, breakfast hot and delicious, and all you wish to do is read some pleasant tidbits from the papers. Instead what do you get? Doomsday predictors and alarmists telling you how you’re on the wrong path, and that if you don’t shape up soon, all will be lost. Who wants to start the day with such dismal news? So let’s try for something more cheery.
There’s almost a magical quality about the sunrise in Kashmir, it mesmerizes you. You look upon the distant peaks heavy with clouds as you stand barefoot amidst the dewy grass and feel the invigorating jolt of life pulse through you. It takes some time for you eyes to adjust to the crisp air as you gaze further upwards to the vast sky, the brilliant bluish violet hues taking your breath away. You sigh to express your admiration, slip on some shoes, and proceed to make your way out your gate and towards the main part of town.
As you walk at a leisurely pace, the birds greet you and wish you well, to which you nod your head in reply. The slumbering city slowly awakes before you, the shops unlock their doors, and the hawkers put out their wares. You pause for a moment near a fruit stand, and purchase a kilo of apples. The seller greets you with an endearing smile and asks you of your plans. You return with a grin of your own, and give a cursory reply. Handing him the required amount in payment, you continue on your journey.
Schoolchildren make their way to their respective institutions, loudly chattering about how they intend on spending their pocket money on various sweets and treats just as soon as classes let out. This reminds you of your younger days, and the childish fantasies that you dreamed of day and night. You take out an apple and polish it on your sleeve. Taking a bite, you struggle to contain the juice spilling out of your mouth, which manages to leave a distinct circle of moisture on the front of your shirt. Two young girls notice your mishap and giggle, pointing you out to their friends. You laugh in spite of yourself, and hope that the sun will soon dry it up.
You recall that your friends asked you to meet them at Dal Lake at noon for a picnic. A quick glance at your watch confirms that you’re running late, so you hasten to arrive at your intended rendezvous point. On arriving, you are teased mercilessly for your still-visible stain, but brush off the jokes with a wave of your hand. Distributing the remainder of fruit in your bag, you gesture to the nearest shikara wallah, haggle on an appropriate fee, and climb aboard. The four of you recline as the boat makes it way lazily across the lake, soaking in the warming rays of the afternoon. The conversation becomes fuzzy as your lids begin to droop, the combined soporific effects of the gentle lull of the waters and serenity of the atmosphere getting the better of you.
You’re awoken by a slight tickling sensation that leads you to sneeze violently. You shoot a bleary-eyed glare in the direction of one of your friends, who unabashedly laughs at your shocked state. Rubbing your eyes, you realize that you’ve almost traversed the entire extent of the lake. A basket is produced, and food brought forth, mouth-watering dishes cooked by loving mothers. Plate in hand, you reflect upon the moment, and smile inwardly.
Lunch finishes just as the ride ends, and you all disembark. You suggest a walk to stretch your legs, and your friends readily agree. The air is scented with roasting corn, peanuts, and a mix of unidentifiable spices. After a decent stroll, your stomach rumbles for dessert, so you all decide upon kulfi. A three-wheeler is hailed, and told to go to Lal Chowk. The four of you squish into the back of the auto rickshaw, laughingly taunting one another as to the amount of weight they’d put on. A camera materializes and you snap photos, alternately making faces and then posing seriously as the driver maneuvers his way through traffic. You get off in the heart of the square, and make your way over to your favorite kulfi stand.
Ten minutes later, there you all stand, the ice cream melting in the heat of the day as you all hurriedly lick after any strays. Another photo opportunity ensues, though stickier this time, and you all decide it’s best to head back home at this point. Arm in arm you all proceed towards the end of the lane and say your good-byes, promising to call each other later and plan another excursion sometime within the week.
Taking another three wheeler, you direct it towards your colony, and sit back, going over the day in your mind. A chuckle escapes from your lips, and you look hastily at the driver, wondering perhaps if he thinks you are talking to yourself. He apparently pays no heed, and you instead turn your attention to the buildings and people whipping by. Resting your head against the frame of the door, you take in the hustle and bustle, the sharp cries of shoppers bargaining, the shrill insistence of children for want of this or that.
Soon you pull up in front of your house. The sun has started to dip behind the poplar trees that line the perimeter of your lawn. You enter the kitchen to find a hot cup of kahva waiting for you. Taking it into your hands, you sit on the back porch, and watch as the remaining glow fades away. You stay like that for what seems like hours, as though frozen in time, and soon stars dot the skyline. The moon peaks out behind thick clouds and observes you silently. You stand and go back in, placing the now-empty cup in the sink, and make your way into your room.
You climb into bed and lay your head against the soft pillow, the crickets serenading you to sleep. As you drift off, a hint of a smile begins to form around your mouth as you eagerly await the start of another exciting day.
(This article was published in Greater Kashmir on the 21st of March, 2012 and can be found here.)
There’s almost a magical quality about the sunrise in Kashmir, it mesmerizes you. You look upon the distant peaks heavy with clouds as you stand barefoot amidst the dewy grass and feel the invigorating jolt of life pulse through you. It takes some time for you eyes to adjust to the crisp air as you gaze further upwards to the vast sky, the brilliant bluish violet hues taking your breath away. You sigh to express your admiration, slip on some shoes, and proceed to make your way out your gate and towards the main part of town.
As you walk at a leisurely pace, the birds greet you and wish you well, to which you nod your head in reply. The slumbering city slowly awakes before you, the shops unlock their doors, and the hawkers put out their wares. You pause for a moment near a fruit stand, and purchase a kilo of apples. The seller greets you with an endearing smile and asks you of your plans. You return with a grin of your own, and give a cursory reply. Handing him the required amount in payment, you continue on your journey.
Schoolchildren make their way to their respective institutions, loudly chattering about how they intend on spending their pocket money on various sweets and treats just as soon as classes let out. This reminds you of your younger days, and the childish fantasies that you dreamed of day and night. You take out an apple and polish it on your sleeve. Taking a bite, you struggle to contain the juice spilling out of your mouth, which manages to leave a distinct circle of moisture on the front of your shirt. Two young girls notice your mishap and giggle, pointing you out to their friends. You laugh in spite of yourself, and hope that the sun will soon dry it up.
You recall that your friends asked you to meet them at Dal Lake at noon for a picnic. A quick glance at your watch confirms that you’re running late, so you hasten to arrive at your intended rendezvous point. On arriving, you are teased mercilessly for your still-visible stain, but brush off the jokes with a wave of your hand. Distributing the remainder of fruit in your bag, you gesture to the nearest shikara wallah, haggle on an appropriate fee, and climb aboard. The four of you recline as the boat makes it way lazily across the lake, soaking in the warming rays of the afternoon. The conversation becomes fuzzy as your lids begin to droop, the combined soporific effects of the gentle lull of the waters and serenity of the atmosphere getting the better of you.
You’re awoken by a slight tickling sensation that leads you to sneeze violently. You shoot a bleary-eyed glare in the direction of one of your friends, who unabashedly laughs at your shocked state. Rubbing your eyes, you realize that you’ve almost traversed the entire extent of the lake. A basket is produced, and food brought forth, mouth-watering dishes cooked by loving mothers. Plate in hand, you reflect upon the moment, and smile inwardly.
Lunch finishes just as the ride ends, and you all disembark. You suggest a walk to stretch your legs, and your friends readily agree. The air is scented with roasting corn, peanuts, and a mix of unidentifiable spices. After a decent stroll, your stomach rumbles for dessert, so you all decide upon kulfi. A three-wheeler is hailed, and told to go to Lal Chowk. The four of you squish into the back of the auto rickshaw, laughingly taunting one another as to the amount of weight they’d put on. A camera materializes and you snap photos, alternately making faces and then posing seriously as the driver maneuvers his way through traffic. You get off in the heart of the square, and make your way over to your favorite kulfi stand.
Ten minutes later, there you all stand, the ice cream melting in the heat of the day as you all hurriedly lick after any strays. Another photo opportunity ensues, though stickier this time, and you all decide it’s best to head back home at this point. Arm in arm you all proceed towards the end of the lane and say your good-byes, promising to call each other later and plan another excursion sometime within the week.
Taking another three wheeler, you direct it towards your colony, and sit back, going over the day in your mind. A chuckle escapes from your lips, and you look hastily at the driver, wondering perhaps if he thinks you are talking to yourself. He apparently pays no heed, and you instead turn your attention to the buildings and people whipping by. Resting your head against the frame of the door, you take in the hustle and bustle, the sharp cries of shoppers bargaining, the shrill insistence of children for want of this or that.
Soon you pull up in front of your house. The sun has started to dip behind the poplar trees that line the perimeter of your lawn. You enter the kitchen to find a hot cup of kahva waiting for you. Taking it into your hands, you sit on the back porch, and watch as the remaining glow fades away. You stay like that for what seems like hours, as though frozen in time, and soon stars dot the skyline. The moon peaks out behind thick clouds and observes you silently. You stand and go back in, placing the now-empty cup in the sink, and make your way into your room.
You climb into bed and lay your head against the soft pillow, the crickets serenading you to sleep. As you drift off, a hint of a smile begins to form around your mouth as you eagerly await the start of another exciting day.
(This article was published in Greater Kashmir on the 21st of March, 2012 and can be found here.)