A man offered my sister and I a ride to Srinagar. You might think this was out of generosity, but we were invited because we had to save his life. He told us he was very tired and wanted to see his wife and children as soon as possible; essentially, two things could happen, either he would fall asleep behind steering wheel, or he would drive too fast and crash into a car and/or the bottom of a ravine. Our presence was required to prevent this. Why did we enter his vehicle? Again, there were two reasons. First of all, he only told us about our purpose once we were driving and secondly, Kashmiri have a great sense of humor.
During the five-hour drive our host fondly told about his home. Initially I thought he was one of the few, but it turned out all Kashmiri are incredibly proud of their origin. Often a man would ask if I knew anywhere else was as beautiful. Usually I told how I admired the Dutch broad skies and his reply would come immediately: “Do the Netherlands have great mountains too?” Of course I had to admit this wasn’t the case. Inevitably the conclusion would be: So it’s true, Kashmir is indeed the most beautiful place on earth. Whenever I asked where to eat good Kashmiri food the only reply I got was: “Everywhere!” Is all this pride misplaced or just?
I don’t know. Earlier I wrote about my imaginary friend who spoke to my fantasy. I got to know about how Kashmir is colored by every season. About what the past has brought and the future might bring. Apparently summer is heavenly, if not divine. Lush flowers blossom, trees turn green, the sky is azure blue, lakes flourish, mountains shine and the sun will nurture all. All will truly be a paradise. My reality however was quite different than the ravings of my non-existent friend. Dusty colors, empty trees and misty skies prevailed. It was cold, everyone told me. As matter of fact, this was repeated so often I figured it actually wasn’t that bad. I came to enjoy the promise of a beautiful summer. I would like to go back to Kashmir.
My return wouldn’t just be for the scenery, but also because of its inhabitants. The Kashmiri people I met were, apart from proud, simply kind. They were genuinely interested in me, happy to tell about themselves and insisted, of course, on giving all kinds of advice about what to do in my remaining Srinagar days. The man, who brought my sister and I to his paradise on earth, arranged a houseboat for us and insisted we would keep him up to date about our endeavourers. The owner of our houseboat was funny. This wasn’t just because he proceeded to ask an outrageous price for his services after he told us, with the sincerity of a not very good actor, he only had small profit margins because he was a good Muslim. It took a twenty-minute negotiation before we could come to an arranged that “make both of us happy”. We paid less than half of his initial offer. Also, he had a charming way of covering up for his imperfect service with jokes and naive lies. Nonetheless I wouldn’t mind staying at his houseboat again.
The people I met had some kind of — I still don’t know how to pinpoint it — purity or innocence or clarity or maybe just likeliness about them I hadn’t yet encountered in India. Even Indian tourists I met in Kashmir seemed to be nicer than the ones I met in other regions. This is surprising because the whole of Kashmir is practically a militarized zone. More about soldiers and such in my next and final post concerning Kashmir.
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| Srinagar - Moghul gardens |
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| Srinagar - Moghul gardens |
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| Srinagar - Moghul gardens |
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| Srinagar - Moghul gardens |
Click here for an overview of all posts about my time in India
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