The Lidder is ice-cold. I dip my toe in the water, but instinctively retract
it. I marvel at my colleague Sankalp and two Kashmiri friends who shed their
clothes for a quick dunk in this burbling river at a campsite some distance
from Pahalgam. They badger me to join them, but I dig my heels in and park
myself on a boulder on the Lidder's banks.
A dozen kilometres away from Pahalgam, Aru makes for a pleasant car ride on a
winding hillside road that mostly runs upstream, never too far from the Lidder.
This scenic meadow is a tranquil spot often upstaged by the touristy Betaab
valley, named after the Bollywood hit that was filmed there three decades ago.
But locals prefer Aru for weekend getaways.
We amble past grazing ponies and pick a spot to rest with pine trees and
snow-capped peaks in the distance, while the tin roofs in the village below
glint silver in the August sun. The conversation turns to Kashmir's troubles (and
it didn't take into account the devastating flash floods a few weeks after
our trip).
My Kashmiri friends, both journalists, describe their lives growing up in Srinagar - the narrative is dispassionate, but there are occasional flashes of smouldering emotion. I look at the wired fencing behind us (put up illegally by nomadic goatherds); it's conspicuous in the landscape. A microcosm of Kashmir.
VOYAGE TO TULIAN
Early next morning, Sankalp and I set out for Tulian lake at an altitude of 11,000 feet (3,350 metres). We were riding ponies. Sankalp was on Chetak while eight-year-old Raja, older and more experienced, was chosen to bear my heavier frame. Munir and Shabbir, their handlers, walked with us.
The ascent was easy at first, aided by breathtaking vistas of the Himalayas. We
passed the meadow of Baisaran, which is where most tourists turn back. The
never-ending trail headed for what looked like a sheer cliff, but we didn’t
stop. The handlers prodded the ponies, but about halfway up the narrow zigzag
trail, Raja struggled to cross a jutting rock. I dismounted gladly; the prospect
of hurtling to my death didn’t appeal to me.
We later ran into another group of pony riders, a Gujarati family settled in
Leeds, England. And an Australian - a weatherbeaten, sinewy old man who had
been trekking alone for two days, and easily overtook us on foot.
When we reached the point where the ponies could go no further, it was a
welcome break. My buttocks hurt and I was desperate to walk. But then the guide
pointed up, towards our destination a kilometre or so away. Only a couple of
glaciers and a sea of boulders to cross. My heart sank at this last-minute
addition of obstacles to what was becoming a ‘Hunger Games’ quest. To add to
our troubles, the Australian trekker returned, saying the first glacier was too
dangerous to cross. But everyone was going on ahead, with the exception of a
woman with a sprained ankle.
I straggled behind the rest, lost my footing several times on the glacier but
eventually slithered across. I lost sight of Sankalp, who had been bounding
like an antelope from one boulder to the other. It was getting colder by the
minute and I was wearing a T-shirt, but thankfully the sun was still shining
brightly. But I lost track of time, and was struggling to place one foot above
the other.
Tired, cold and irritated, I was ready to give up. And to my relief, so was a fellow
trekker. A sullen teenager from the Gujarati family had thrown in the towel,
and was leaning on a boulder, staring into nothingness. His dad offered words
of encouragement and eventually, the boy struggled to his feet and pressed
onwards.
I sighed. If he could do it, I couldn't stay behind. Damn this Tulian trip. Sankalp
got a few mental curses, for not gauging how difficult this trip would be for all
my 83 kilos. I brushed
the dust off my
jeans and trudged on. After what seemed like an hour, I reached the summit for
my first glimpse of why this expedition had been worth it.
I did not dip my toe in the lake. One of our pony handlers said the water was
poisonous; legend has it a Hydra-like serpent dwells within its blue depths. I
don’t believe in monsters; I was just too tired. So I rested on a boulder, clicked
and posed for photos, and gathered energy for the descent.
I wouldn't have believed it, but I soon realized going back down was the hard
part. I kept slipping on the boulders and small stones that littered the path, landing
with a rattling thump each time. Sankalp, who has good climbing genes (his
family is from hilly Nainital), came to my aid and held on to my arm as I
slowly made my way down the sea of boulders, and past the twin glaciers.
Near where our ponies were grazing, a Bakharwal (a nomadic tribe of goatherds)
woman took us to her hut for refreshments. I don’t drink tea, but even I
couldn’t resist a glass of steaming, milky tea that day. The wrinkled old woman
said she had been serving trekkers to Tulian during the climbing months for as
long as she could remember. Outside, a few Bakharwal children are playing with
a goat and I was going to have a sense of déjà vu at Thajiwas glacier near
Sonamarg, a trip we were to undertake a few days later.
But I wasn't quite in the home stretch yet. As the afternoon wore on, our guides
lost track of the trail and blundered further into the forest. As the slope was
very steep, I preferred to dismount and let the ponies go on ahead. As Sankalp
and the pony handlers quickly disappeared down the hill, I straggled behind. I
took tentative steps and found gravity was working just fine. Losing my
footing, I slid down the hill, grabbing nettles to slow my fall. I steadied
myself and looked around, trying to map the best way down. But I slipped again,
turning over on my back and sliding. Pebbles and sticks tore into my limbs like
razor blades till I caught hold of a low branch. My head was aching, there were
burrs stuck to my midriff and there didn’t seem any part of my body that wasn’t
bruised or sprained.
I was just entertaining dark thoughts when I heard Sankalp and Munir call out,
trying to figure out my location. I reply, relieved that I wasn’t going to meet
my maker after all. Someone told me to hurry up, there are bears in the area
and they come out in the evening. That did it for me. I stood up, slowly
digging my feet into the mud and shuffled along in a zigzag line. Munir caught
up with me, grasped my arm and helped me down, steadying me whenever I slipped,
my legs flailing out under me. They had found the trail again and I climbed on
to the pony, dead tired and aching all over, but knowing that within a few
hours I’ll be at the hotel, where I hoped to crawl into bed after rubbing pain
reliever cream all over. And I did just that. I felt much better the following
morning and the Tulian aches and sprains had healed by the end of the Kashmir trip.
After our stints in Srinagar and Pahalgam, Sankalp and I spent the rest of the
week in Gulmarg, Sonamarg and Manasbal; the first two are regular tourist
haunts. Gulmarg has its gondola car ride and overpriced "self-service" eateries
where employees ask for tips. Sonamarg has its pony ride and sledding on the
glacier. But Manasbal is somewhat off the tourist trail, with an army camp and
a village adjacent to a tranquil water body.
The ruins of Jharokha Bagh overlook Manasbal lake. Four centuries ago, Mughal
Empress Nur Jahan spent several summer hours here. There's something to be said
for the beauty and quiet of Manasbal, still unfrequented by most tourists
traipsing across Kashmir. Were she alive today, I can just about imagine Nur Jahan
curled up in her terraced garden, immersed in a book of Persian poetry on her
Kindle, occasionally lifting her regal gaze towards the placid waters.
(Photos taken on my Nokia Lumia 925 phone. Some photos have been Instagrammed)
NOTES FROM A KASHMIR TRIP
Part 1 - Srinagar, flatbread, and the Bengali
connection
Part 2 - The German flag, Cupid, and
Naseeruddin Shah
