Excuse Me But There's Sand In My Soup?

The long winding road finally took a rest in the late hours of the day at Bikaner, which became our resting point for the next two nights at a small haveli-like dwelling close to the Laxmi Niwas Palace. The town itself didn't hold much attractive allure saved the Junagarh Fort. At this point in our travels, perhaps I was becoming a bit accepting of the usual mad house of cows and dogs populating main small bumpy roads, sharing the day's passing with its human inhabitants and shouting wallah, blasting horns from trucks bringing goods across the border lines. Also, I was near my saturation and toleration points for forts, particularly dilapidated and uncared for forts bearing significant historic value.

So to be honest, I wasn't an eager bunny to jump on the drive to the fort. But, now I had to vouch that the traditional tribal dances and the sandstone buildings were hypnotic, the food was very good, the rest was much desired, Junagarh Fort restored my confidence in the belief within this continent that there was something worth pursuing for, whether from a tradition, lineage, history or future learning point of view, the royal family of Bikaner deserved credit and acknowledgement for their contribution and incessant work to ensure that what started as a spin-off from the Jodhpur empire that rose to become one of the most pivotal influence amongst the Rajasthani Maharaja Clan's collaboration with the British Empire during World War I (in which His Highness Maharaja Ganga Singh's regiment fought on Western Front) continued to provide as a source of learning for all, near and wide.

Personally I found his armoury collection impressive and the preservation of the palace's quarters that had been entrusted to the Heritage Trust well taken care of. The guides were properly trained to answer a lot of questions and some acted from their own discretion in taking us on a private peek into some stunning rooms, including the Maharani's sleeping and pooja room, adjacent to the bursting zenana and dancing courtyard. Inside, a bounty of miniature carving done hundreds of years ago by the Muslim carvers of the Usta clan still shone bright and colourful today as we stood in corridors of blue, orange, green and white with the military barracks in the far horizon, separated by a cooling English garden for the visual delight of the Maharani, in today's time, two lucky travellers.

Rajasthan is famous for many things, and one of the most desired amalgamation of the Mughal and Rajput cultures is miniature paintings. Highly detailed and poetic, I confessed I had spent many hours with passionate artists from the Brahmin caste in our next destination, Jaisalmer, discussing the finer points and feasting my eyes on their work and collection (and hubby, if you are reading this, I love you for all the pieces we got! Home will never be the same again!). Themes varied but could stretch from the Raas-lila of Lord Khrisna, British period to popular Rajasthani-styled of Dhola-Maroo and animals such as magical birds. My personal enjoyment is based on the fine strokes equivalent to the single hair of a squirrel's tail, formed in symmetrical forms out of the artist's minute brush slowly revealing the tones and shapes of a Sufi portrait or hunting scenes from the desert. Which leads me to the wonderland of the Great Thar Desert - Jaisalmer.

Our drive took five hours from Bikaner as we reached our desert base in Khuri. The night was balmy and we ushered into the night with some refreshments while enjoying sufi hymns sung by the immensely talented villagers. Sitting on mats and balancing our tea and snacks on delicate low tables, our camels bellowed in the darkness outside where the sand was beyond the reach of our lights. The night out on our first camp was about to begin soon after a quick dinner. We had done some late afternoon camel treks in Bikaner and the sandy plains nearby our base, but nothing could come close to our excitement despite our exhaustion from the long travels that we would (finally!) be making a move out in the darkness on a cart and our guide. The moon was only a third quarter of its potential but the night was still and we adjusted to the dark. Not much could be seen compared to the mice, deers, cows and foxes during the daytime. But our ears sharpened by the distant howls of village dogs and rolling grass balls and the odd fart and belch from our camel. That night was short but simple, we built a fire and lazed away into our sleep.

Next morning, after a bare breakfast we headed out with our guides from a nearby village for another longer trek deeper into Khuri. One of the guides who spoke excellent English despite not receiving any education and was illiterate, Devraji Singh from the Dhoba district delighted us with his desert survival skills (we even stole a few tips on cooking while he and his mates made lunch underneath a giant Neem tree) and shared tea and stories. On our way, we passed by his village. My first thought was that these people lived in a completely different type of poverty - their village looked like a drawing from a medieval history book. Many children ran out to greet us in their broken tout lines for Rupee, chocolate or pens. They were extremely aggressive, a worrying sign that the act to get them to start going back to school since five years ago wasn't really working effectively. We used to be able to visit a lot more of such villages but past tourists had (out of compassion given the benefit of the doubt) handed out many provisions and spoilt the natural way of life - helping around the house and going to school - the children learned that it was "easier" to just go where the peculiar looking tourists were and they would "get presents". To be fair, Devraji shared too that the teachers at the schools nearby were ill equipped and sometimes missed attendance more than their students. It was a gloomy growth of a road that just would only contribute to the vicious cycle of poverty here. Yet, I felt that these people reacted perhaps differently to the ideals of our comfortable world; such as hope and frustration, amazement and wonder, determination and belief, very differently from the many poor migrants I saw in Delhi. Each suffered the burden of keeping mouths fed and land watered, homes intact and boundaries protected. It probably didn't matter if you lived on a parched land that had seen little water for the past two years and worried about saving up during the ferocious summer, or pitched a tent on a dusty down town dirty roundabout island, drinking out of tepid water drains. These people showed a kind of tenacity that exuded a sense of direction of where they should be heading at the beginning of the day and at the end of it.

Just like the cows here in the desert knew when and where to head home, Devraji took us onto a different route that snaked through the sandy dunes dotted by thick thorny bushes and the odd rubble patch. My camel, Disco, danced pretty well amongst the pack. I took to learning the ropes literally and drove my camel, trying my best to steer away from the trees that looked suspiciously close to what the locals called "desert beans" (I've learned that at times, at odd, the best reply you get would be a "desert" in front of anything. For example, a "desert fox", a "desert deer", a "desert people"... you get the idea. Extremely frustrating as I was no Darwin) that bore long stringy pine needles of yummy green nutrition that Disco seemed to favour. He was cheeky, I had learned to nudged him to get him to run a bit and after a few miserable attempts at speed, he slowed and edged towards his breakfast again. I found the trick (much later after lunch) was to change our route's direction to get Disco into thinking that we were heading back home and that's when he charged up the dunes.

We stopped by a deserted mudhouse, popularly built in the desert for its resilience against such harsh environment, to draw water from a salty well. A village boy came by with a baby goat that was barely a day old. It had wandered off and lost its mum. I held it in my arms for a while and pondered on the hard truth of life here. The locals accepted it as it was but I, to be honest, was still struggling. I could not wrap my head around the fact that the kid could had been attacked by desert foxes yet it would be completely "the way of life here", if it survived without its mother's milk, it would had to learn to survive purely by instinct.

I was dumbfounded.

As vultures circled above us, we moved on towards the dying rays of the day. The temperature plummeted drastically as we built camp. That night, we ate another simple vegetarian dinner, peppered by sand from the Great Thar. Devraji scared me with lots of stories of sati practice, djinn and old tribal tradition that modern day Hinduism existed harmoniously along in a mish mash of spells, festivals, and clan customs. That night we slept under a million stars as the shy moon hid away late into the night. I had to get up in the middle of the darkness to head down to the dunes for a quick relief, I had never been that scared before - not because of the al fresco bathroom experience, but of desert djinns carrying me away into the night and never letting me to return!

The final day we made our way back and I was thrilled with my experience, although (as it had been happening every time this come up: good byes) I felt a mix of sadness and disbelief that I may never return or see Devraji again. His sun ravaged skin, bright Rajasthani flower earrings on both sides, his proud warrior moustache that he twitched pointedly every time I asked him to pose for me, how he shared that God took his first three sons away at a young age only to "return" them to him with another three sons, how the desert gypsies were the hardiest people here (a pregnant gypsy woman delivered one night in his village, only to continue the long walk out into the desert the next morning, stories of their children sleeping out on the sandy dunes in winter were not unheard of), and of his aspirations to start his own camel trekking business one day. He was so much younger than his appearance. I felt again a deep sense of regret that he didn't have the privilege of education as he parroted so many things and languages from interacting with travellers. I think my guilt will always be here, but I also realised that what people like Devraji didn't need was my empathy. They need a growing demand for camel treks, they need work, they need empowerment. They didn't need handouts.

Just as how the saying went "dialects, cuisine, water, and turbans in Rajasthan change every twelve miles" I deemed that Devraji and the Dhoba district people may hold up different traditions and survival skills from another village many a gust of wind away, but as our drive coursed through the long straight road peppered by mirage rising in an even wave, I think I may had drifted away into the egg shell beige of the sand, rocks, and dried up trees that kept many secrets that I probably would not understand or know in my lifetime. But I saw with my own eyes, beautiful bright ghagra-odhnis worn by the women added a stunning punctuation to the landscape as the different turban colours bobbed up and down the roads as men headed out their business, told by the colour selection such as pink for marriage, yellow for a spring that was to come, red for shepherding.

As we relaxed on our roof top haveli stay for the night in front of the Jaisalmer Fort, cooling down from a day's fulfilment of art appreciation and dodging aggressive touts, I tried to put together a hazy puzzle of our learnings out in the desert at Khuri to now, the biggest but perhaps also the most threatened inhabited fort in the world. Maybe India had made me a melodrama but I could not help but think about the women in their odhani and silver jewellery. Not all looked like what you see on glossy travel books on this region. Many wore what I would say was their utility odhani, layered by dust compiled from a hard laborious exertion of collection wood, chopping trees, digging out sand pits and watering their plots. Many had children helping, with their offspring running around in baggy pre-loved clothes, and goats and donkeys herding towards salty water holes. It never ceased to amaze me that they kept to their traditional roles and also earned a living outside with full purdah-like ensemble. Essentially, the women here, just like many elsewhere in India, were working two full time jobs, although many were under appreciated for their role as mother and wife at home and many men didn't recognise it as a legitimate job. Yes, the men shared the same hot sun boring down on their backs as they worked in the stone quarry, but as the men cut, the women had to walk with small dish pots carrying those heavy ingots exchangeable for a meagre return, with only a small kneaded cloth to cushion her head. Think this, multiply by sunrise to sunset, then extrapolate to months and years. Think this and think that the women actually would be lucky to get to earn, although at half what a man would receive. Life still goes on here, I suppose, despite whatever my own misgivings on the lack of fusing the duality of a woman and a man's role in such environments.

The colourful shawl also demarcated the married and not. Hence, a married woman could only reveal her face to her husband. Even though it was less severe compared to Islamic extremist-driven countries, these women still had to carry about their hard labour outside of their house with the shawl drawn over their faces. Initially I thought it was for sun protection, but everywhere I looked, many covered and saw their daily worlds in hues of shocking pink, electric blue, spinach green and whatever colour may fall on their chosen garment of the day. It never was a pain for them. It was just again, how it had been for their grandmothers and mothers, and it would be for their daughters and nieces.

From Jaipur to Bikaner and now Jaisalmer, Rajasthan continued to shock and amuse, titillate and drown you in a spellbinding journey into what rocks the core of a human, delights the heart and toughens the soul. As we made our way to the imposing Meherangarh Fort of Jodhpur, I rest to continue another day of this amazing discovery of life and in a mysterious way at times, my own strengths and weaknesses.

The Spell Of Jaipur

Think pink, the grandeur of a bygone era. Think purdah screened palaces and hammam, turban-wearing guards on elephants and camels, stomping their anklets and bells through the streets. Think of the high caloric smell of thick pungent sauces wafting up from bronze bowls of tantalizing meats. Cold dry November winter, the romance of the Rajput kingdom still weave an obsession today.

Be it a well-worn traveller or a tour bus seasoned pro-colonial fan, you can always find your own Disneyland here in the capital of the Rajasthani state. We arrived on an overnight train travel after 16 hours crammed on single "beds" that resembled more a chopping table, but the fun of spending the night with a Sikh family of four, some loud Indian locals that I could not make out which states churned them out, and a wailing baby from the neighbouring berth, chai wallahs running up and down filling up the zoned out looking passengers like us - was in short, priceless.

The station was packed with so many people it was impossible to waddle my way to the toilet without crossing so many mix of travellers, me checking them out and vice versa. The cubicle I used, needless to say, was nothing but a hole filled with unimaginable and unmentionable filth, with little running water to sanitize one's hands. Ah, the highlight of train travels. Anyway, making our way out, I could see cows and goats waiting to snoop down on any unguarded piles of fruits and vegetables. Muscular lads pushed carts of luggages and boxes that were to make their way to their destinations overnight by train. Mothers tugged their children from wandering too far. The bookseller tried to get me to buy the "Top 100 Bollywood Scandals of 2009" by parting with my Rs150. I settled for the local Vogue which happened to kick some real ass!

As I daydreamed away wishing I was born with a headful of those lovely thick locks as all Indian ladies are blessed with, it was soon time to head to our platform. Two donkeys stood looking forlornly at me, I wished I had a fruit for them.

Fastforward, we arrived at Jaipur on a cool morning. Finishing my chai from a terracotta cup, I got my bags out and hopped off the train like an eager bunny, following hubby en route to our car to our stay for the next two nights: Sajjan Niwas, a heritage mansion, or more known as a haveli. Once a building commanding impressive wealth, what many of these haveli would have been sold off to entrepreneurs dabbling into offering tired travellers like us, a tiny slice of the bygone opulence, spiced with the very today's level of traditional Indian hospitality.

There were many photographs showing off past Maharaja on hunts and the very famous, Maharani Gayathri Devi (who unfortunately passed on a few months ago). I was not very impressed given they were mainly rich exhibitions of the well-offs amongst the tiny fraction of the nation, goring down on tigers and panthers with their hunting guns. Maybe I am just that tad against killing animals for fun. Let's not get down that pipe...

I sit here, on my little half an octagon of a sofa by the window, listening to the night's air of dogs barking gleefully into the late hours, music and bangings of drums emanating from near and far. It is election tomorrow and tonight of all nights, the last minute campaigning will drown out the prosperous shows of weddings. Yes, the night before, we slowly fell into our slumber through the consistent beats and hums of old Rajputi songs and firework's bums and bams, culminating to an orgasm of trumpets, blares, shouts and claps. Then it was silence. The city slept, we rested and the Pink City succumbed into the blue misty ebony air of the night.

Between the shoulders of 48 hours, we had a heady mix of the City Palace, Hawa Mahal, Tripoliya Bazaar, Jaigar Fort and the Amber Fort. Many things had to be missed such as the newly acquired (by the Taj Hotel Group) Lake Palace, and the numerous counts of eateries sending off a thick perfume of cumin, coriander and yoghurt to a hungry stomach. I had never seen such a place that felt so much propelled like a stone on a bow from thousands of years ago into our present day. Yet elephants decorated in a myriad of paints, camels bearing the many sizes of singing bells and dogs, cats, turbaned men in pink, electric blue, sea green and women, glorious in their Rajasthani saree glittering in the midday sun, all sharing a small road with beggars, peddlers, rickshaws and bicycles, non-functioning traffic policemen, buses and cars, dazzling shops boring all the best traditional souvenirs from drums to carpets and shawls, shoes with their curled up toes and fruits and bread in all shapes.

One rule: learn the art of walking away when you haggle and you will still be shock to learn that these smart peddlers can earn a keep / profit by giving you a face that you had shortened them. Sigh.

Next rule: Smiling (for me at least) was not a final "no" answer. Case in point, we walked out of our successful second conquer (only after saying we weren't out for shopping in the first shop and nailed a great Rs300 kill for a huge blue Rajasthani elephant motif drape that hugged a huge wall and a traditional emerald dress for myself, yay!) of two medium-sized table cloths of immeasurable beauty of "Rs320 final? No, oh look darling, there is another shop down there selling the same!" Rs300 (our target price) to a hovering next shop owner asking "Ma'm, now what about my shop?". Sometimes it is no fun to be perceived as a walking ATM.

Another rule: Never let them intimidate you into thinking you knew nothing about "quality". Of course you already know that but I am going to share anyway. We spotted a stunning carpet woven from old heirloom saree which we knew would still give a profit at Rs1500, and these guys were trying to convince us that we were getting a steal with their Rs3600. Much loud voices (I suspected the louder they got, the more they truly believed that they could no. 1 pressured me, and no.2 convinced me that they were telling the truth?) later, we walked out and only 3 paces away, the price came tumbling down like Humpty Dumpty to Rs2000 ("Final Ma'm! My best price!) and 2 more paces, more disapproval nods from me to hubby, and trying to keep myself from bursting out laughing from this fun charade, I tried my best to look utterly displeased - Rs1600. Jackpot.

Final rule: Have fun and do something outrageous. We spent 10 mins and Rs20 to pose for an old German make of a camera (think the silent movies days) for our couple shot. We spoke to an amazing friendly photographer who inherited that machine from his grandfather and it was again, eye opening to see how "shutter speed", "aperture", and "zoom" took on a new description when you operate in the world of non-DSLR or heck, even the modern SLRs. We loved our shot and it was exactly what we both wanted, a traditional photograph of us both but done back in the days of our grandparents. Of course the development phase seeing the guy threw that piece of paper which was supposed to be our photograph into a small bucket of liquid in the style of a waving arm shooting up in the air like a dancing puppet, again, funny, strange and priceless.

I could go on and on but I will only say one thing. I had never got that much "attention" from any other places than Jaipur. Initially I thought it was a liquid dream of serene flowing energy in an exotic city. I was wrong, that was probably just the post effect of 16 hours on a train berth shared with snoring aunties.

Yes, many greeted me with Japanese sayings. I nodded, and then a thousand men and women from nowhere appeared all around me to haggle, sell, provoke, beg. India is a generous lady. You get as much as you give in. Or as little. What I am coming around in my own time to learn is that India is a land of anything. She has the capability to create anything that you can fathom. There is always a way.

Jaipur had me under her spell. It is hard to not like this place although it is not always easy to get acquainted. I guess she picks and chooses, tests and embraces. Maybe Jaipur is not fast to make friends but once you are hers, it's never simple to let go.

I would ask of anyone with the means to see India beyond the richness of a comfortably designed world from the Oberoi, Grand Hyatt and Taj. By all means, these artificially inseminated spin-offs of India's wealth and history of living it up to the hilt could come in useful when you hit your point of saturation, it is still essential to visit the harsher side of India. Then when you are blessed to sit somewhere in between when everything melts in perfectly like a cup of decadent masala chai, you know then, that you have finally found your own piece of that perfect India.

As we leave Jaipur tomorrow into the deserts, I may think that I could be getting closer to that somewhere in the middle of nowhere of perfect love. Although I feel that I am moving further away from who I was, I think again mischievously that whoever I may be, or moving towards, that I think I am perfectly again, where I am supposed to be. So many times I had been blessed in that way, and that my friends, is a marvelous way to go to bed.

Lots of love, from now, on a warm dancing Jaipur night.

Holy Gosh, It's Amritsar Again!

We paid our visits to the temples, including the famed Golden Temple during a warm active day of honking, cows, donkeys, aggressive rickshaws with much a swear phrase for the unheeding bus, and amidst the dust and commotion, we thought we had seen it all in town. Tired as we were, we stopped and "chai-ed" up, headed out again to see the town only to edge closer to the holy grail: The retreat of guards at the Wagha Border.

The fuss? Think a cricket showdown between India and Pakistan. Throw in some masala music blaring from worn speakers on both sides, youths springing up and down the strip with their national flags, and lots of people just cheering patriotic slogans, in all colours imaginable. Oh yes, popcorn included and DVDs of the show, should you be so inclined.

As I sat next to hubby, nonchalantly guarding our little precious feet space, I breathed in the last warm light of the day looking over at the Pakistani border. Its little "stadium" was filled barely a 10% of what India had (and boy was it a turnout on India's side!) consisting mainly of women and children. What they lacked in numbers they made up loud and clear in their songs and chants "La illaha Illallah!". My thoughts drifted away above the loudness and noise to think for a minute, here I was, 50m away from Pakistan, breathing in the same dusky air yet it went beyond comprehension the difference in the level of economic wellness between both countries that had seen similar bloodshed and inflicted likeness on each other especially since the days of separation. Trains loaded with bodies that never made it alive, arriving in stations in Amritsar and Lahore like decaying unloved parcels. Here at the border, what was about to happen almost shamed such atrocity of the past with its pompous display of gaiety and celebration. Yes, the main stars were definitely the peacock parade of tall, gallant strappy guards.

And I meant the hours of training, the legend built behind the face, the strides, the turns, the puffed up chests, the adoration of the nation from their fellow men (after all, not all had the luxury of being blessed so well anatomically) and the women (dream, dream, dream...). Children cheered, grandmothers whooped, feet stamping and hands in the air. It was like watching a national wedding party in full bloom. Both sides had guards racing up and eye-balling each other, making more than a sombre affair of bringing down their flags on respective sides to retire for the day.

Funny, yes. New for me, definitely. But as most men tend to do with their off the cuff statements, hubby summed up the day very acutely with his sudden sharing of "how many soldiers do you know that walk over to a border and shake each other's hand every evening?".

I couldn't have said it better nor do I think I could. I was too swept away with the flair of such occasion repeated daily, rain, sun or storm. For all the world made of the border relationship, I saw with my own eyes, that Pakistan and India, shook hands and played together in one of the best assembled of national resources that I was honoured to witness. So much for doom and gloom, issues prevail but never forget that hands were shaken in earnest.

That to me, represents there is still hope. Leave them alone to sort it out.

I Love You Amritsar!

Here we are, four hours and forty minutes later.

I got out, thrilled to be touching solid ground. Our chosen driver (not that it was within our power of choosing) seemed to degenerate as the journey continued. He drove like a mad man, downhill. I gave up trying to concentrate of the traffic – a single lane shared by goat herds, autos, trucks, cabs, pedestrians, cyclists, bull carts, and the off pot hole – and realized no matter how hard I stared, it will not change the circumstances of life.

So I closed my eyes to rest as reading was made only impossible next to trying to grind my teeth into powder form. The driver didn’t have a concept of brakes or I hoped that he serviced them not too long ago (I think not). We crossed muddy raised paths across many a raging river, broken road parts that were cushioned by pebbles and rusty motor parts that got strewn along the way. We stopped for one of the best chai I had had since arriving in India, at a dhaba that had al fresco tables dotted by flies, flies, and flies. We were again, in the middle of nowhere, just the two of us, and we felt like we were exactly where we were supposed to be at that time in life.

Our roof for the night situated us very near the Amritsar Railway Station, a powerhouse in respect of one of the most tragic locations in light of India’s coming together as an independent nation. This station saw before in the time of 1947 a massacre of both Hindu and Sikh people in the separation of Pakistan from India. Her sister station of the same fate was in current day, Lahore. Luckily for us what we saw today, was a bustling station teemed with life and activities. Lanes burst into lights, sounds, and smells when the day gave way to night. We initially wanted to check out a local beer joint to have an aperitif only to amusingly discover that stretch of bars that we thought would be it – was indeed – some rowdy joints that did not permit lady entrance. I guessed it was more for our protection? Embarrassed to be denied of entry (I had never been told I can’t enter a bar before in my 30-odd years of existence!) we took a rickshaw and headed down Albert Road towards Lawrence Road, hopes high in the air that we will find something to chill and usher into the evening. Our old uncle huffed and puffed his way down, speaking no English and trying hard to find a bar that we may like – and it was dingier that anything I had come across! Laughing at our own luck, we asked uncle to take us back to Albert Road. We tipped him well, and walked onto Queens Road to discover there was a row entirely of lively dhaba and we eventually found a nice bar that allowed both male and female patrons, aptly named “Bottoms Up”.

We sat in a quiet courtyard reminiscence of the British Raj days, and not too far away, we discovered some black and white photographs depicting the very joint, was part of an old institution: The Grand Hotel – over a century of history, being the first hotel in Amritsar, it had served the greats including Nehru and Indira Gandhi herself. Sitting in the private enclosure, we found albeit a long way, that it was not impossible to have your moment of privacy and silence to soak in a day, with only the romantic horns of the departing trains in the railway station nearby droning a mournful sigh as the evening turned dark.

Many a rickshaw man said hello to us, all bearing an assortment of colourful turban that delighted the eyes. India is where my true womanly senses take courage to dive into the mix of the rare. Go ahead, wear orange with terracotta, mix your electric blue with a dash of wheat yellow, jump into a fusion of fuchsia and lavender. India encourages you to celebrate its colourful mix of language, religion, way of life, food and dialect. A short walk back to our place in the cold breathed a refreshing wake-up call that we were again, so lucky to be exactly where we were supposed to be, and I felt personally, I was seeing India again in her beautiful, yet private moment. Many stared, there were corners of unbearable stench but I was learning to walk amongst the crazy horning, the mad mix of auto and rickshaw and beaming lights from cars that were bordering on being bullies (I even instinctively gave out a hand signal to stop a car when none seemed to give our earlier rickshaw uncle a break!) and maneuver myself deftly around uneven sidewalks, senses all checking out where we shall be exploring tomorrow night.

As India, everywhere, wakes up to the chirping of birds and honks of the traffic, India retires with the dying sounds of the remnants of today’s hustle and bustle. There is much to see in this fabulous city that had seen so much in bloodshed, rising again like a phoenix, and soldering ahead, in what had made India Herself so fantastic as she is – the tenacity to go on and smile, say hello, and make a way for yourself.

Dharamsala, Blood, Rule And Faith

Our supposed to be 12-hour jeep journey ended up to be an arduous 15-hour perilous Dakar Rally-styled ride peppered with my praying (and closing my eyes a lot) and invoking any divine presence for a safe arrival. Safety belts search came with a blunt head shake that meant “not available” and I tried all I can to keep myself occupied – reading, sleeping, even almost tempting Fate to bring it all on – much to my dismay, didn’t end anywhere. We made two brief stops in the middle of nowhere, and we had to make a couple of U-turns because bridges leading to Dharamsala, more precisely, McLeod Ganj were swept away by monsoon rain and just bad delays in road repairs.

Our arrival heralded into an inn that was gobsmacked in the middle of the main bazaar road, although at midnight, it was pretty much dead. But being dog-tired, we crashed after a cold rinse sitting on a stool and scooping up mugs of water to wash off the day’s dirt. A hard bed had never felt cushier.

We woke to a day of thick mist blanketing the entire upper Dharamsala valley. And it was awesome. We walked up the bazaar street, dodging hagglers and checking out the monstrous display of the biggest counterfeit trade of turquoise stones and other jewel ornaments, house décor, carpets and momo, the local equivalent of a Chinese dumpling, steaming away into the early afternoon. Our visit to the residence of the Dalai led us to enjoy an afternoon of monks vociferously debating in the tradition of the Tibetan observance, and I must say, it broke my usual assumption of monks recoiling from public observation high up in the mountains. They mixed freely amongst us many café goers, and many local Tibetan residents walked around, rosary in hand, and we drank it the atmosphere of this ancient exotic mix of culture brought onto this part of India sadly by the exile of His Holiness, inter-mixing comfortably with the local Indian background and food. You just had to open up your senses to take it all in, and nothing even remotely close to the cold could dampen our enjoyment. We retired back to our room’s balcony to absorb the evening’s buzz of activities. While some local lads played a game of carom, some saffron robed nuns walked back to their homes and a child played with her toy while some dogs barked into twilight, and we could hear some local Tibetan music blasting from the grounds below, with foreigners and locals practicing some dance moves at the peril of the sound system. That night, we checked out a Japanese vegetarian restaurant that served up really great food, purely an institution that was ran as a non-profit business to aid the Tibetan refugee movement.

The next morning we woke to a great welcome of morning sun. Sitting again at the balcony, we soaked it all in a rare treat, with some hot chocolate. Life couldn’t be simpler and better. Onward we treaded only to be slightly disappointed to learn that a local Tibetan shop had ran out of their breakfast set – consisting of a plate of momo, some watery porridge and pickles – but we were not let down a few doors up at the “Yak Café” and got our tuck-in. Very nice. Did some bargaining with many Kashmiri traders in handloom carpets that were made from pieces of old saree and of course, a high quality thangka purchase. This is one of the little luxuries that hubby and I allowed ourselves – to collect good art pieces and home décor items for our eventual nest in Australia. Nothing thrilled us more than to have reminders of this wonderful journey that had taken us along the path to meet so much diversity and similarities, in many way than one.

Our last night was spent with the local inn owners watching a rerun of Seagal’s “Flight of Fury”. The blokes were so high on weed that they refilled my hot water bottle with ice cold water. No fuss, just asked for a change and they were literally floating like angels with a permanent smile on their face helping you. We suspected that the owner woke this morning to see us off, still partially high as we had to tell him how much the laundry and hot drinks order served up to on the bill!

Thus began another jeep journey downhill that was supposed to be a 6-hour ride to the state of Punjab, the land of five rivers.

Temple Of Heaven

I am writing this as we passed through the 9th Century town of Awantipora. Today, what remained from that Hindu legacy seemed to rest an eternal death of silence in the little pillars of rotting palaces, interspersed by cement shop houses going about their usual trading business. However, there wasn’t any sense of flatness, on the contrary, I felt the breaths of Awantipora continued through to the present form, held proudly by the people of Kashmir.

We are making our way on a 12-hour jeep journey to Dharamasala and end point for tonight will be McLeod Ganj, where the current Dalai Lama resides. As we left the town of Srinagar, for a while I immersed myself into the dusky early morning mist as I observed sepia-coloured silhouette wandering in and out of lanes, a bull cart crossed the road, some early rising cows and dogs dug into piles of rubbish burning on the road sides, while a woman in a black cador covering her face peered through the side windows of our jeep, our two worlds colliding momentarily before she tore her glance to continue her purpose of the day, walking quickly to the local butcher and getting her standing spot amidst the waiting dogs, looking hungrily at a lucky morsel being thrown out from the chopping board. It didn’t seem too long ago with only about less than 24 hours ago we passed by Kangan and had the most amazing mutton curry and kebab?

Onward, we passed by a garden of pink, yellow, bursts of greens and shimmering blues and reds. These were the young flowers of Kashmir, all waiting for the buses to stop en route to their school. Kashmiri ladies possessed one of the most striking looks I had come across in my travels. They looked comfortably in place with their choice of hijab head covering and shawls, their school books making a stark contrast to their otherwise, very colourful and cheerful ensemble of clothings. Most of these ladies will go to school yet they still have to succumb to their faith of marriage, children, and remaining faithful to one man for the rest of their lives, carving a life for themselves and their children depending on which village life takes you to. And my writing is interrupted by rows of Kashmiri willow trees and factories of cricket bat making. A good one starts from Rs500 and our driver, Nasheer, told us that the wood here is very good and hard. Moving ahead, as we talked about the lives of people in Kashmir, life was still not so poor. Outside, in the town of Sangan, I see another man sat outside his small mechanic shop, all in typical local fashion, dark from the black oil and waiting was what he was to do before his first client of the day arrived.

As the villages kept stretching ahead, one sees stacks of hay being prepared for winter’s food stock for the animals, ladies beating last week’s dust from their carpets, many people walking about as children running along the roads while road transports were honking in Kashmiri fashion to ask one to move aside. The demarcation of wheeled transports and pedestrians wasn’t too clear and many a time when I sat in our jeep, in our journeys to and fro Srinagar and Gagangir, and now to Dharamsala, I saw many cliffs and turns of my life flashing before me as another giant Tata truck just missed our jeep. The driver yesterday, Mohd. Latif, the man from the land of the one eye-brow, seemed nonchalant about it, I just thought if it’s time, it’s time. It is just what it is.

In Bijbehara now, and I see a slightly bigger town of steaming bakeries, men sipping their cardamom and cinnamon infused teas, while mothers and children haggled about the market between cages of chickens and hung slaughters of sheep, while pyramid-piles of limes and oranges all being displayed to create this coral beauty of daily life that I shall only see as a passer-by for today, that all came out in the heat of the mid-morning winter sun before shutting down all over again at dusk, only to spring back to life as usual tomorrow when trading hour starts. My thoughts went back to our 4-day trek at the one place on Earth where I thought I had died upon the first day of arrival, and woke to meet heaven. This place, is Gagangir.

The road to Gagangir was a snaking tarmac route that most probably would fit only a one way traffic safely at a time but occupied in use by many on both fronts. Although a lot of work carried on by the Beacon Development Authority is still progressing to widen the roads, the ride by jeep, short to say, was still nerve wreckingly good. We saw towns that had become almost a common sight of village life that beamed out like a loud banner of lively examples of the Kashmiri spirit. Even though the weather outside was dull, the people and activities stood as a strong contrast. You can see men stopping to shake hands, shops selling a mountain of heater urn baskets that the locals lovingly put warm amber so that you can carry your “winter wife” with you underneath your faran or poncho, to just make that stopping to say hello lasts a bit better and longer… after all, there is much tales and gossip to catch on and your friend may need a short sharing of the heat. What I saw too, was not short in supply, was the smiles and waves. I still get a lot of curious stares and am getting a bit more comfortable with it as I learned that I am as much a unique specimen to them as their lives were to me. It felt like the classroom of the world all over again.

The dogs here on the way all to Gagangir, were in much better condition than many of the city dogs I saw in Delhi. But life was still a constant fight as you see some threw themselves heavily on the carcass of a sheep while some crows fought over the entrails of a dead chicken. In many a way, these animals helped to clean up the town, just as I found out from talking to the locals that the many cows that hung about the dumps, the village people had no trouble discovering different treasures upon slaughtering cows for meat as the poor animal’s stomachs contained paper cards, rotten vegetables, and sometimes, even a money note.

We slowly got used to the heavy military presence and I suspected they were as curious about us as we were about them. Our trip broke at the heart of the Gagangir town, just 13km from Sonamarg, the Golden Valley. Our host during the duration of the stay was the tiny figure of a man that we respectful called “Rahim Cha Cha” which meant Uncle Rahim, especially nice for an older senior member of acquaintance. I took to that this area is predominantly Sunni Muslims, and I greeted Rahim Cha Cha with the typical Asalamualaikum and remembering to keep my observance of the sensitivity of a very warm and loving Muslim family. Cha Cha spoke a mangle of English words but he spoke them loud and proud. I mean this both figuratively and literally given that his understanding of catching your attention was to bellow out a ground-shattering “HELLO! YOU OK? YOU GOOD? YOU COLD?” just to ask simply if you were doing fine and whether you need an extra blanket. Then as sudden as a lake of mist snaking into the valley, Cha Cha will share about the previous trekker (a lady apparently, whose sense of co-ordination wasn’t part of her repertoire) and the treks that his son, Tariq took out with, and she had stumbled miserably and that she walked “like a buffalo” in that old man slur that he spoke in, much to do with chewing a lot of paan I suspect. However, there wasn’t any malice in his statement, he just said it as it was.

Taking the lead, Rahim Cha Cha took us around the house through a muddy lane smeared on both sides by snow. Yes, our timing couldn’t had been better. It snowed just before and everywhere we looked, it was pure virginal snowy grounds waiting for the first crunch of our shoes. Showing us our room, Rahim Cha Cha made us sat down on carpets and offered us the local Kashmiri tea. He threw on at least 3 layers of thick blankets on me to make sure that I was warm, prompting hubby to chuckle that I was Cha Cha’s long lost daughter. Even as (entirely my own lack of co-ordination) I walked outside towards the horse barn, balancing precariously on the broken rocks and muddy path, I kept banging my head on the small satellite dish (their only sense of modern entertainment – a black and white television that blasted out loud machismo old flicks from the good old Bachan days) only to note that Cha Cha had decreed to his second son, Tariq to remove it to another part of the roof. Our room was a hoot. We even had a residence small brown mouse the size no bigger than my thumb that rummaged quietly for the bag of walnuts that I kept by the windows, only to try to avoid my tracking it down one morning.

We met Cha Cha’s family that made up of three generations under a roof. The matriarch of the family, Cha Cha’s wife, was initially very distant from us. However given time, on a day before our departure, we “talked” through our smiles and eyes. She was trying to tell me about her grandchildren and beckoning me to go sit down at the reserved spot to entertain visitors. The home was small, nothing beyond three rooms where each generation of family slept together on the floor. It was void of any furniture, saved for a gas cooking stove in the “guest room” where our guide cooked for us. But we enjoyed most being invited to the real family’s kitchen that was next to the room that the animals (where horses and chooks) shared at night. Here, Cha Cha’s two daughter-in-laws, both wives of his sons, Farooq and Tariq respectively, tended to the daily chores of gathering firewood and pails of water from the River Sindh that flowed noisily beyond the garden down the hill, cooking and caring for the old and young. There were three toddlers that joined the small community forming in this household everyday. People dropped by, and there was always a serving of tea and flattened bread made by hand. Once a while, the women will stop and take a pause to suckle their young, and then steal tiny glances at us. I think we must had looked like aliens to them – an Indian that spoke a smattering of Hindi and a Chinese that looked nothing like Chinese, digging into those Kashmiri teas.

That was the type of hospitality that you will never get from a manufactured, trained big-chained hotel. The kindness and warmth were genuinely real, sometimes loud (when Cha Cha bellowed again) and at other times ridiculously funny (when Cha Cha slammed the door sopened to enter our dining room, sort of like a Darth Vader figure appearing as he wore his faran) and always, making sure that we were being taken care in the best way in every way possible with what little they had. Tariq, while taking us through a walk on the only tarmac road in the village shared with us about an old tower of a home that was made up by planks of wood being nailed together. That was his first home, which was the home that his grandfather built. It was old now and nobody lived there but the story behind it – his grandfather was being asked for the reason that he decided on that spot to erect a home. Back then, there was not a single house in sight on that road. Why?

His answer – so that whomever shall pass by this road on their journey, whomever shall be in need for some refreshment or a roof to rest the night, we could help.

That kindness still lives today although Tariq’s grandfather had passed on. We were thousands of miles away from home. We didn’t know anyone, yet this family opened their arms to us. We knew that they were getting very little as the middle man that arranged for this trip took most of the earnings. But in this 4-day stay, Cha Cha’s family gave nothing short of the best for us and now knowing the way to figure out getting back to Gagangir in the summer, we will definitely go direct to the family and ensure they get all the earnings that come with it. After all, these were the people that took care of us.

Our first day, we were taken to visit the gypsies. During the summer, many of them stayed up in the mountains, only to abandon and lock up their houses (that looked deliciously like slices of carrot cakes with the snow icing on top of their roofs in winter) to make way down to the warmer (in relative terms) plains during the harsher months. Again, a home that was the most humble in all sense yet the lady of the house quickly got to making fresh flattened bread and a local version of the tea, which was a red tea brew with salted milk. This was an incredible woman. Her children of six clamoured around her yet she never lose her sense of happiness. The eyes never lie and the looks on the children, inviting their friends over to see us, never lie. As we walked back to Cha Cha’s house, we passé by more gypsy houses. The ladies waved and yelled excitedly to the rest of their family to “come and see” us. We were never harassed, never cornered to give anything. We gave what we could to help, but the best part was to just share that instantaneous moment of recognition between two human beings and two lives.

Our nights were fueled by spicy, freshly cooked meals of lamb and chicken, brightened by the mash of cabbage and cauliflower stew. At night, the men played cards around a gas tank that bloomed up a steel of pipe that was encased with a cloth-looking thing that burnt and “became” a bulb that lasted for three nights of hard core 500-point scoring games of jin. Cha Cha would come along (after slamming the door open, of course) to join us and watch. I was the point keeper, hubby was exceptionally good in this version of jin that I reminded myself quietly to never take up a game with him, as he was absolutely too good (although he shall say he was too lucky) and even beat the local jin fanatic *smile*.

We covered close to 50km of trekking during our stays. Tariq became fast friends with us and shared a lot of his values and life stories with us. What amazed us most was that here people were never afraid to be honest with you. What you would find in a big city of walls between human communication, here, the Gagangir locals will tell you about their growing up years of Cha Cha trying to hunt his 16-year old boy stealing out of the home in the darkness of the night to see his girlfriend (this was Tariq before he got married through an arrangement at 17) only to have his son hiding underneath a drain for fear of being beaten up for his mischief. Tariq is 21 now, blessed with a wife he loves a lot and a beautiful daughter, yet his respect for his father is unwavering.

One of the highlights was a stop on top of a giant rock, where we swapped our thoughts on life and marriage, and Tariq, as with a lot of Indian locals that we have met here, enquired about our matrimonial union…

Tariq: You laou-oou (love) marriage?

Us: Yes, how about you and your wife?

Tariq: Arranged. But my wife before marriage, she laou-oou me a lot but I no laou-oou her, but then afterwards now I laou-oou my wife a lot and our child.

Us: That’s nice, how do you find life now compared with before?

Tariq: I now think more about myself and actions, how it will affect my family. I am father and husband now. Once my wife and I big fight, I asked her to leave house for one month. I missed her and I drank with armies with rum, I smoked ganja. My father (Cha Cha) found out and told me if I do again, he will kill me (and we thought Tariq meant it literally). I went to see my wife and then we… (here he initiated a gesture of giving a hug with his arms) and then we came home. I laou-oou my wife very much. I lucky man...

And much more we shared. For a man of 21 (he got married at 17, and what was I doing at that age?!) he exemplified a lot of maturity that came from a way of life that may seemed alien to many of us, but formed a set path towards the coming of age. One may shudder to think that your matrimonial choice should even be taken by parties that are not to be involved in your life onwards but here, the dynamics work very differently and we celebrate this difference.

During our trek to Sonamarg, we came home very late, my first experience riding a horse in the dark, passing valleys of absolutely splitting cold from the chilling winds, and with 4km left to go, we saw a lone figure approaching us. It was Cha Cha. He had came looking for us in the dark, with no torch, nothing but his ponco and his loud bellowing voice, scolding his son for bringing us back late in the cold. It was by no fault of Tariq’s, it was the weather and just how fast or slow we wanted to make the trek. We enjoyed so much from the day and Tariq took care and was genuinely worried when I got a short bout of chill during our stop at Sonamarg. As Cha Cha bellowed (what else?) Tariq apologized quietly and led my horse, Raja, back to the house.

The next morning’s trek began with a communal breakfast with the family at the kitchen. The children were playing and my little camera seemed to have broke the ice with Cha Cha’s eldest grandchild. He loved getting his photograph taken so much that we became instant best friends. He called me “Mim Mim” which roughly translated to “M’am” and he asked me to put away my camera first, eat breakfast and then we “can take photograph” in his charming boyish baby language Kashmir style. I felt very honoured that I was allowed to photograph a lot of the wonderful people I met here during our treks through the mountains and villages – Kashmiri and gypsies alike. Think, one man was carrying a back-breaking load of hay and he caught me focusing on him. He stopped and smiled. I had my shot. We waved and that was a friendship that formed without any words. Some women were more shy but I learned to break down my own wall of shyness and ask. After all, it was not rejection, it was just they didn’t want their photographs taken. Simple as that. On another hand, I had my chance when two military guards greeted us and Tariq in one of our hikes. We spoke and I just asked if we could take a photograph of them. They obliged happily. I was again, walking on sunshine.

This is a valley of rivers and mountains, of an amalgamation of turquoise and grey, white and powdery breaths of snow cascading down slopes of walnut and pine trees. Wild bears and mountain foxes were sighted. Vultures and ravens circled in the heights above. We saw all these. Kashmir is a beautiful place, but what touched my heart is the people here. We were shown of little nooks and crannies around this valley where we found our moment of peace. In a season of such barrenness I found it to be a fertile ground of inspiration as I tend to daydream away riding my other horses, Lalu (which in the Malay language meant “cross”, how appropriate when we were cutting through a mountain of snowy cliffs) and Michael (he farted a lot but he was hardworking). The highest peak we could trek by foot was up to 9,000ft but we were not short of “oohs” and “aahs” moments. There were many treks that were covered in snow but Tariq led us through cleverly like a mountain goat that I felt like the most unfit urban slob keeping up with him and my horse. I really felt and appreciated even more the adage “you live and die by your horse’ here in Kashmir.

I gave some of my most prized little pots of badam, or almond oil cream and bergamot body wash to both Farooq and Tariq’s wives. They spoke little English but mainly Hindi and Urdu. Tariq spoke eloquently but we quietly suspect, after speaking and asking questions that English may be taught here at school, but it was not sufficient enough to promote anything beyond. Most of them confided that they learned English through tourists. Many still could not spell properly. But people are happy here. They sincerely believe that this is the place they are meant to be in, and that it is truly heaven.

Come next July, the best time in summer, we vow to come back to spend a couple of weeks trekking and camping with Tariq again. It took all I could to not bawl on the day of return to Srinagar, but as how they always begin with Asalamualaikum, they end with “see you, bye bye, come back Insyallah” with Allah’s will and happy faces and warm hugs – or in Cha Cha’s case, it’s a “SEE YOU, BYE BYE, COME BACK INSYALLAH!!”.

I miss their bellowing friendliness and touch of love. We hope to return. In time, and in God’s time. After all, they all do say, Kashmir is where the abode of God lays.

Srinagar, The Fabled Jewel

We left the madness of Delhi in a goose chase between the "New Delhi Train Station" which looked drabbed and confusing to Connaught Place, to pay bakshee service to "Government-approved" agencies to plan out our journey onwards. There wasn't a choice as everything was squeezed out in the chaos of the train station and we stood out as goose for killing. The difference was just to make sure we have enough blood left for the trail (ok, maybe I am dramatising a bit). Our instincts however, made us drove as hard a bargain in order to meet our prioritised plan in getting out of Delhi as soon as possible to start seeing something else too. Not the perfect hardened up traveller style but heck, sometimes, we just had to stoop the path less preferred.

Here I am, writing to you in our little bedroom on a house boat by one of the many beautiful lakes in Srinagar (ours called Nigeen). We were housed up in a quiet part of the town and loved every minute of it. My fingers are frozen and not much gets up to at this hour of the night. Our flight took us over the many farmed lands of Srinagar and a bigger part, Kashmir, famed as one of the gateways to this stunning landscape. Youesef, our caretaker got us comfortably settled in on the afternoon of our arrival. Our boat faced the imposing stature of the ancient Srinagar Castle built by the Great Akhbar. Today it stands as a military stronghold to watch over this city.

I forgot to mention, strong military presence is a given in Srinagar. After all we are almost a comfortable imagined sneeze away from the cold winds of the Line of Control bordering Pakistan. Our first night was a very relaxed affair of Kashmiri cuisine and spiced tea made from cardamom and cinnamon infusion of green tea leaves. Sleeping on top of our electric blanket and hugging our hot water bottle, we dreamt away into the Kashmir, paradise on earth.

A gloomy heavy rainy day greeted us. The mountain air was immensely cleansing and I was met again by the local flower man, Mr. Bul Bul whom came by yesterday to give me some free flowers. We bought some variety of flower seeds from him for hubby’s grandma who loves planting (I am completely hopeless in growing even a herb garden) and he threw in some fresh balsams to brighten an otherwise, grey day. The temperature heated up to barely comfortable for us to take a lake cruise in one of those old sampan boats. Our “cha cha” a 80-year old man that we fondly greeted as uncle took us on a slow leisurely ride to see the villages and their lifestyle of vegetable gardens, broken bridges, sprawling water lily gardens and an explosion of amber and canary leaves in the forests beyond at the hemline of the mountains. Rain came again and we admired how melancholic the place turned to be – with thousands of water droplets balancing precariously on top of floating plates of lily leaves, shimmering like precious plates that held the jewels of the Himalayan Gods. From afar, a soulful call to the faithful to perform theirazar prayers rang out like an old classical record in the mosque beyond the lake. We felt like we were the only people in the world, quietly appreciating a little show of secret of this piece of world. Cha Cha gave us his little urn of charcoal to keep beneath our blanket. Our flower man, Mr. Bul Bul adopted the same way to keep themselves warm while running about their daily business. The latter fondly called his “the little boy”.

Srinagar, survived many wars and in a strange way, carried themselves as proud Muslims professing the values of hard work, simple life and no begging. Yes, this place still carries a lot of poverty and it was common sight to see dogs and puppies finding scraps to tie up the day, goats and cows parading around rubbish bins, chickens and ducks washing off the dirt thrown off from the slush and wild Kingfishers and eagles soared high above, looking for a meal. Many adults go about their trade of woven goods, textile and drawn carts, usually by horses. Only a sharp focus brought us to a sight of a little child playing in the dump site, along with a mingle of homeless setting up camps on empty fields.

After all, it is winter setting in. Many of the rice terraces were bare. Fresh snow fell last night and we found ourselves immersed in the beauty of Gulmarg, the Flower Place up at 3,150m to try to get a view of Mount. K2 but the clouds meant it was to be. I came back to a pink sky and hoped that it will mean our 3-day trek will begin tomorrow.

Along the way home, we saw little cubicles of shops still bustling with activities and energy. An old man furiously turned his sewing machine to mend some clothes, another appeared to be uninterested in a price haggle, while another boiled fresh chai from the unit above. Kids were still playing on the streets in their huge poncho-looking garments to keep warm, another few puppies stood and drank from their mother’s teats, and a few young men peddled their meat kebabs, rubbing their palms on top of the burning amber.

People here loved tourism. They are Muslims but they do not associate with the terrorists who killed in the name of religion. Many abhorred the diversion of modernity and spoke proudly of the old values of hard work and respect. They understood that they needed to move with times and keep their own identity. Nobody knows about the future but as one of our caretakers here, Ramee spoke to us...

“I will have to choose for my daughter a good husband next time in the future. It is my duty. I cannot choose one that drinks and is lazy. I must choose well.”

Being married by arrangement at 15 and only to formally knew his wife at 22, with three children now and happily settled, working and learning in a job for more than 12 years, Ramee told us that he loves life here. In the big cities like Delhi, he spoke that “people are lazy and no work hard”.

For a man who never had the chance to learn at school and conversed very fluently in English with us, I think he knew something more than what was needed to survive in this place so far away from modern distractions yet filled with challenges. Power cut is common and I write to you from a room that is dark and cold now. Yet the people here are happy. There is a lot of “catching up” if you see it as lagging behind the flash and speed of a developed country but the people stop and talk to you, they take time to greet and gossip. The kids are never afraid. Animals intermingle with humans as easily as the sun rises.

I am bowled over by the beauty of this place. It feels like I am here, in another place far away from everything I knew but read about in books. Only now, the winter cold felt real, the conversations are real, the smiles are real. Like how they were used to say to me when I needed time to think “as you like madam” – there is so much to learn still and I never felt the pressure. Kashmir is getting to me gently in a way that Delhi had scared me a bit.

My first one and a half week in India had been revealing in so many different ways. Like how my heart was broken in so many pieces from Delhi, only to be nursed and empowered again when I befriended a stray here at Srinagar, India has a mysterious way to help and push you at the same time.

You just have to take it as it is. Her many people that I met, the eyes and intensity, the dialects, the thoughts and opinions. Sure, half of the population here looked like Saif Ali Khan (never a bad thing, could it?) and I personally think there is so much potential here to do so much as long as they want to, but sometimes you can’t help but think… India has been going well all along these times, with her ups and downs. Maybe it’s just us, who seem to think they could do it differently? I don’t know but I think I am just going to sit back and enjoy what comes along. Sure again, some of them that you meet here will test your patience to another level but you learn how the Indians had been handling it – to sheer thick skin policy – and suddenly you go “hey, it isn’t so bad now!”.

I supposed, when in India… just like in Rome.