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.
