Still Waters

Emerging from the airport, I inhaled deeply. Like an eager kid, I wanted to have as much as I could - the freshness and the crispness of it all. Far away from Gurgaon’s dust and heat, Srinagar’s air was rejuvenating. A mix of pine and apple. Farhan, the local driver was amused.
“Madam, where are you from?”
“Delhi,” I said.

“Aap India se ho?"
I swallowed hard as the husband nudged me to zip up. But Farhan continued, "I visited Deli once. So much pollution, I couldn't breathe,” he said. “We Kashmiris can’t live away from home.”

“I understand,” I muttered. 

A few meters away from the airport, I realized that the air was light, but atmosphere heavy. Gun toting CRPF men dotted the entire stretch. The sight of unemployed youth idling in groups next to closed shops was disturbing. It appeared as if the city was stuck in a time warp of the seventies. When the muezzin’s voice reverberated in the valley, the mountains echoed. Within minutes a veil of uneasiness clouded the excitement of visiting Srinagar after twenty-five years.

Dal - A view from my  hotel

As the day broke lazily, a customary Shikara ride was on the list. In a fit of a nostalgic reverie, I wanted to feel what Shammi Kapoor felt when he immortalized the shimmering waters. Since the ashes of the actor, were immersed in the Dal Lake, I expected the waters to sing ‘Tareef Karu Kya Uski’.

The lake, however was silent. Bearing the brunt of violence, ravaged by circumstances, the olive waters were festering with weeds. Even though sunlight danced on ripples and the backdrop transformed in different hues of green, the lake refused to sing.
Once we were in the midst of the lake the shikara owner - an old man lamented the lack of tourists. Routine strikes by separatists ensure that development remains a dream, he said.
“But the airport is crowded with hordes of tourists?” I asked.
“Most of them are Amarnath yatris. They go to Pahalgaon and the holy cave.” 
"So you support those who call for strikes and bandhs?"
To which he said, "This is our rozi roti. Unke bachche to bahar rehte hai, bahar padhte hai."

The loquacious old man narrated stories about ghosts descending on the terrace of Pari Mahal, located on the Zabarwan mountain range overlooking the lake. He truly believed in the mythical folklore.

“Why don’t they clean these weeds?”I tried to change the topic.

“They purchased weed cleaning machines worth lakhs. But the mechines don’t work.” 

After some prodding, he revealed that he would get one tenth of what we paid him for the shikara ride. The rest would be shared by a layered mafia. When we tried to pay extra, he refused saying there was no point. He would be strip searched at the end of the day."Don't give me money, aap mujhe Char Chinar par khana khila do." Char Chinar is a secluded piece of land in almost the centre of the lake.

During sightseeing, Farhan, my driver was polite but his angst was onbvious when he was frisked for a security check. He muttered swear words and swerved the vehicle with anger raging in his eyes. For any discerning tourist, mistrust between the locals and the army was palpable. The sales girl at an emporium was equally cold and clinical. While I marveled at her peaches and cream complexion she rebuffed me. “Don't open the shawl if you don't want to buy.”

Despite opting for ballot over bullet, the situation in the valley is beyond occasional tourists. It is beyond a complex law and order problem. It is beyond a pesky violent neighbor. It is beyond political apathy. I don’t know when the Dal will sing, 'Deewana Hua Badal'.What I know is that still waters run deep. Serene but scenic, they don't sing anymore.