We had been planning this trip for a while. Last year we couldn’t do it as Sadhvi had just turned two in May and it would have been too cumbersome and demanding to travel with her. However, this year I had made up my mind. We hadn’t been anywhere after our honeymoon, which was just a short trip to Goa five years ago, and since then had been very busy as new parents taking care of our daughter in addition to the workload of my new job. And, not to forget the rising prices nowadays. Life had become a bit monotonous and some time off would be rejuvenating. Pooja, my wife, was also exhausted by the never changing routine of taking care of a young baby and household chores and certainly deserved a holiday.
I had taken a leave of 5 working days, and we were set to travel from Delhi to Srinagar on Sunday 20 April with a return the next Sunday. Sadhvi was excited as it was her first journey in an aeroplane while I could see the happiness in Pooja’s eyes when we reached Terminal 3 of Delhi Airport for our flight at 10 in the morning. She knew I had been saving for this trip for a long time and had also taken some money from Ravi, my elder brother. She kept holding my hand firmly while juggling Sadhvi and our luggage. This was her way of expressing her appreciation.
The flight was eventful. Pooja kept looking through the window as we got a birds-eye view of the snow-covered Pir Panjal while Sadhvi kept singing her rhymes which she was enjoying on my phone, a few of which I had downloaded before we took off. At times, she would stand up and start walking towards the front of the aircraft upon which she would be brought back by the stewardess in her lap with a chocolate layered biscuit in her hand and a big smile on her face. The lunch was mediocre, but the service made up for the rather tasteless food. Closer to our landing we were treated to a view of the Zabarwan mountains surrounding Srinagar. While raindrops diminished its splendour abit, it didn’t matter, as we knew that we would be enjoying these majestic mountains from close-by the next few days.
Ghulam Hassan, our driver for the coming week, received us at Srinagar Airport in his white Maruti Dzire. He greeted us with folded hands while saying “Namaste, welcome to Kashmir”. Somewhere mid-forty, with a greying well-kept beard and wavy hair, he instantly struck me as a jolly and helpful person while he took our luggage from me. He was very talkative, in the best sense of the word, and kept telling us about Kashmir while we drove to our hotel in Dalgate. We had booked Ghulam Hassan’s car through our travel agent for Rs 2,500 a day, and the hotel, a reasonable three-star property, was Rs 7,000 per night. Not cheap, but the hotel was close to the Dal Lake and a dedicated driver made our trip with a small child so much more comfortable. We arrived at the hotel at around 3 PM and were greeted with delicious Kashmiri Kehwa with almonds. Sadhvi got a chips packet and juice which again made her jump in joy.
After taking some rest, we went for a stroll on Boulevard Road overlooking the Dal Lake with those picturesque Houseboats, colourful Shikaras and a feeling of old Shammi Kapoor songs. Pooja certainly looked more beautiful than Sharmila Tagore and kept smiling mischievously when I started humming, “Yeh chaand sa roshan chehra….Zulfon ka rang sunehra…”. Love was in the air and Kashmir played cupido. We ended up having our dinner at a famous vegetarian restaurant, Punjabi Darbar on Boulevard Road and walked back to our hotel afterwards. On our return, I had reincarnated as Shashi Kapoor and this time was humming “Pardesiyon se na ankhiyan milana…”. Pooja couldn’t stop laughing.
In the morning, the famous Tulip Garden and Nishat Garden were on our itinerary as Srinagar was bustling and the traffic was almost as bad as Delhi with the movement of VIPs, CRPF and Kashmir police making it sometimes even worse. I know these forces are here for our security, but was it really necessary to disrupt tourists and locals this way? I saw a big CRPF bulletproof vehicle, the size of a tank, trying to squeeze itself through a space which couldn’t even accommodate a scooter with a soldier at the back harping on his whistle and motioning his hand and gun in the most maniacal way. Even the traffic police carried Kalashnikovs and automatic weapons. How did the locals manage this on a daily basis? Ghulam Hassan smiled when I asked him and said, “Sir, everything is fine. This is normal for us. We have been living with this for the last 35 years”.
The next day, we would be heading towards Pahalgam as Ghulam Hassan came to our hotel at 8 AM and by 9 we left for this popular tourist destination. It was the most beautiful drive I have ever experienced in life. The most exquisite place I had ever seen. Pooja and I were both in awe as we saw the torrent of the Lidder romancing the curves of the Himalaya. It felt as if God was on top of these imperial mountains orchestrating the rhythmic flow of the water below us through some divine composition He had made especially for Kashmir.
We reached Pahalgam around 12:30 PM due to heavy traffic, and went directly to Dana Pani, a famous vegetarian restaurant near Pahalgam Hotel and had our lunch as we were starving from the long trip.
Ghulam Hassan told us about the various sights we could visit in Pahalgam. There were a few options; One package was called ABC, which stood for three places, Aru, Betaab Valley and Chandanwari. By car, this trip was around Rs 2,350 and would take us anything between 5 to 6 hours. Then there was also another option which was a trip to Baisaran by pony ride which would take us around 45 minutes to get up and 45 minutes to return while we could spend an hour or two at ‘Mini Switzerland’, the other name for Baisaran, which would make a total of around 3 hours. We could also combine the ABC package with a trip to Baisaran which would mean a total of 8 hours of sightseeing.
Pooja suggested a pony ride to Baisaran as 8 hours of sightseeing with Sadhvi would be too much and we had already been in the car for over three hours. She was also keen to go to Baisaran as it included a pony ride and neither she nor Sadhvi had ever been on a pony, and this would be something new and different. In addition, a visit to one tourist destination was more than enough as our appetite for Kashmir’s beauty had already been satisfied on the way to Pahalgam.
Ghulam Hassan took us to Pahalgam’s main bus stand from where we were supposed to book our pony rides to Baisaran. There were no fixed rates here and everything came down to one’s negotiation skills. Initially we were quoted the most absurd prices, but with Ghulam Hassan’s intervention in Kashmiri we agreed upon Rs 4,800 for two ponies as Sadhvi would ride with me. Around two we left with our ponies for Baisaran assisted by our pony-wallahs, Bilal and Bashir.
The route to Baisaran was anything but pleasant as it was a muddy dirt track with small and huge boulders, some water flowing down the track littered with finished chips packets, empty water bottles and other junk left behind by tourists and locals. We had difficulty balancing ourselves on our ponies while trying to take a good look at the surrounding area of dense forests. There were no soldiers or policemen in this area and after about 40 minutes I asked Bilal how much more time it would take us to get to Baisaran. He answered, “Just another ten minutes more”.
It was about 7 or 9 minutes later when we were just approaching the gates of the meadow that we heard gunshots and stopped immediately. Bilal and Bashir held our ponies firmly while we waited in anguish and with complete silence. Sadhvi started crying and I saw Pooja gasping for air, looking frantically at me. I too was scared and instinctively remained as still as possible as if something bad would happen if I moved. I held my breath and kept Sadhvi close to my chest. It was just a few minutes later that we saw people running towards us through the gate. Crying, screeching and howling. Men, women, children and the elderly. Injured, limping, holding others covered in blood, pushing and hysterically gushing towards us.
Bashir turned the pony and shouted, “Run”. We started scurrying back, while we kept hearing gunshots in the background. People behind us ran rabidly, leaping over the big boulders, falling, pushing and shoving, moving on hands and knees while crying the names of their Gods. Hell had descended upon us, and I loudly started reciting ‘Om Namah Shivaye, Om Namah Shivaye’ while holding Sadhvi with one hand and the rope of my pony with the other, kicking the pony with both my feet. Pooja was numb staring in front of her with a desultory gaze and Bilal and Bashir were running on foot along with our ponies.
At least half an hour later when we were closing in on Pahalgam, we saw the first soldiers, police officials and even pony-wallahs and ordinary Kashmiris on ATVs, ponies and on foot going up the dirt track towards Baisaran. Ghulam Hassan was in tears and ran towards us taking Sadhvi from my lap and helping Pooja get off her Pony. Kashmiri women were crying and helping the ladies and children. Many of them with band aids in their hands and some tearing their scarves to stop the bleeding of those who had come back.
I saw Kashmiri men carrying the injured on their backs while loud sirens of ambulances and police cars in the background could not dampen the loud screams, woes, wails and cries for divine intervention around us. I saw young, old, male and female Kashmiris crying, beating their chests, folding their hands, touching our feet. Some fell on the ground while exclaiming, “Ya Allah raham, Khudayo raham”. There was hysteria all over.
We jumped into Ghulam Hassan’s car and cried that we wanted to get out. We sped through the sea of people, ambulances and police vehicles towards Srinagar. Kashmiris were lined up along the road with water bottles, towels, juice, tea and biscuits. With folded hands, they kept stopping us and inviting us into their homes and mosques. But we just wanted to go back. To Srinagar. To safety. Away from the bullets, deaths, ambulances and cries of people.
Throughout the journey, we were on the phone with our loved ones back home. Everyone was worried and was enquiring about our well-being. Mama started crying when she heard Pooja on the phone, Papa was adamant that we come back as soon as possible and told us that he is booking our tickets for tomorrow. We were just panting and could not utter any coherent sentence. “We are fine. We are fine”, we kept repeating.
We reached our hotel late in the evening around 10 PM. The owner of the hotel was standing at the reception and was relieved to see us as he enquired about our safety. He instructed one of his boys to make some hot tea for us and bring some biscuits. He kept saying that we will be safe here and nothing will happen to us. He assured us that he would sacrifice his children’s lives but would not let any harm come to us.
We went to our room shakingly as we were yet to recover from the trauma. Sadhvi was already asleep. Pooja laid her down on the bed and snuggled next to her. I made my way to the only chair in the room and held my head in my hands while looking at the wooden flooring of our room. I sat there for minutes, perhaps half an hour, thinking about everything that had happened when suddenly my phone rang. It was Papa on the other side. “Ashwin, I have booked your tickets. You are leaving tomorrow morning at 9:30”.
I wanted to speak and argue with him and tell him that we were fine and that I didn’t want to leave yet, but the only thing that came out of my mouth was, “Ok, Papa”. He replied, “And these airline people are savage bastards. Now that suddenly everyone is leaving Kashmir, they have hiked the prices. Rs 90,000 for the three of you. Do they even care? Are they even humans? Bloody cockroaches”. I listened but couldn’t really focus on what he was saying. I just replied, “Ok, Papa. We will be there”.
I switched on the TV and every News Channel was showing reports about the carnage in Pahalgam. Many channels had an angry anchor punching the air with his or her fist while the rest of the screen was divided into those small windows in which caged people were screaming at each other as if begging for freedom from these small prisons on the screen;
“Pakistan killed our people, Kashmiris are Terrorists, This wouldn’t have been possible without local support, Islam is the problem, Muslims are terrorists, Send them to Pakistan, We must teach Muslims a lesson, We must go to war with Pakistan and teach them a lesson, Boycott Muslims, Boycott Kashmir and Kashmiris, To hell with Kashmir, We cannot live with Muslims, This is an attack on Sanatan Dharma, We will show these children of Aurangzeb”, and what not.
I was not a political person, but I was reasonably well read and aware about current affairs. Sure, this attack was most probably sponsored by Pakistan like all earlier attacks, and it was also quite certain that it couldn’t have happened without some level of local support, but what did all Kashmiris have to do with it? Kashmiris were the most peace-loving and hospitable people I had ever met. Had it not been for Kashmiris, my family and I wouldn’t have been alive today. What did all Muslims have to do with it? And why was Islam being blamed? Why must we teach Muslims a lesson? Why must we boycott Muslims, Kashmiris and Kashmir? Tens of thousands of Kashmiri Muslims have died in Kashmir because of Terrorism. Kashmiri Muslims who were Indians. Not Pakistanis.
This was a heinous act of wild boars who massacred innocent people. We must punish these terrorists and their facilitators. I wanted to see them dead, cut into pieces and fed to dogs. I wanted that Rawalpindi, Lahore and Karachi would be bombed back to the stone age. To hell with Pakistan!
At the same time, I also felt that we needed justice more than revenge. It was said that after the nullification of Article 370, terrorism was finished in Kashmir. According to these jokers on TV, Terrorism had been converted into Tourism by our leaders, then what had happened today? Why was there no security at such a happening tourist spot? Where was our country’s intelligence, our police, our security forces and all those leaders who vowed to protect us? We were told by our leaders that Kashmir was safe, and we must go there to enjoy its beauty and boost tourism. Even buy land there.
If one had to believe these News Channels, then India was a Vishwa Guru, a World Leader, a Superpower. My foot! My country with a defense budget of almost 80 billion US Dollars and Lakhs of troops stationed in Kashmir could not prevent a massacre of its own people. Let alone preventing, it couldn’t even catch those animals who did it. And now, the only thing we were left with was hyperbolic news anchors in cozy studios in Noida and Mumbai who were quick in telling everyone what to do but could not muster the courage to ask why such a catastrophe had taken place at the most popular tourist destination in Kashmir, perhaps even in the whole of India.
Revenge is valuable, but what about justice? What about accountability? What about all those families who had lost their loved ones? There were enough condemnations from the government, but where were the resignations? Who would manifest courage and take responsibility?
It was almost half past five in the morning, and I realized that we had to leave for the airport soon. I took out my phone and called Ghulam Hassan. “Ji, Sir”, he said as he almost instantly picked up his phone. “Ghulam Hassan, we are leaving. We have a flight in 4 hours. When can you be here to bring us to the airport”, I asked him. “I am downstairs, Sir. In the car. I didn’t want to leave you alone. I am ready”, he replied. It again made me fall in love with Kashmir and its unmatched hospitality. “We will be down by 6”, I said.
I gently woke up Pooja by placing a hand on her back while whispering her name. She stiffly opened her eyes and looked at me. “Darling, we are leaving. Let’s go”, I said. With Sadhvi still sleeping, we were in the lobby at ten past 6. Ghulam Hassan and the boy at the reception quickly went to our room and got our luggage. Not a word was said in the car on the way to the airport, but it was as if we all understood each other. All our questions were answered by our silence. Silence which echoed the pain, the remorse, the uncertainty, but also trust, hope and relief.
We reached the airport around quarter past 7 and Ghulam Hassan helped us with our luggage. His eyes filled with tears and visibly trembling, he folded his hands and bowed down to touch my feet while saying, “Humme maaf kardijiye, Sir”. I put my hand on his shoulder and pulled him up and embraced this Kashmiri driver, whom I had only known for three days, as tightly as I could.
“Ghulam Hassan Bhai. No matter what happens, I promise that we will be back next year. Come what may! Kashmir is beautiful and Kashmiris are even more beautiful. You are our brothers and sisters. India’s crown and pride. You saved our lives”.
With folded hands and tears rolling down my cheeks, I said, “Khudayes Hawaal”.
(The Author is the Director of European Foundation for South Asian Studies (EFSAS) and can be reached at [email protected])
