by Reece Willis
'Pierre?' I said. What was he doing here? More so, how on earth had he found me?
'Oui, it is me. May I come in?' His whimsical French accent was a pleasure to hear. I wasted no more time in opening the door to his beaming face.
'Am I glad to see you,' I said, and hugged him much to his surprise.
'Ah yes, it is good to see you also,' he said. 'I have no luck finding transport to Padum. I hitch lift here with Tata truck. I will try again later this evening.'
'How did you find me?' I asked.
'Ah, it is not difficult. You and I are the only westerners here. I ask around and I find you. Do you have cigarette?' I pointed to the packet on the table, 'Merci. I am very hungry, have you eaten?'
'Yes, well sort of. I've just come back from town.'
'Ah, then you must take me to where you eat. I find it difficult to find good place here. What did you eat?'
'Chocolate custard.'
'Coostard? Ha ha, you find coostard in Kargil?'
'Yeah, it was a bit lumpy, but not so bad.'
'Ha, then I must get chocolate coostard.'
The adhan from the local mosque echoed across the town as we made our way through the back streets. I felt at ease in his company and we laughed our way into the restaurant. He paused for a moment and looked around the room and then walked boldly up to the counter, 'Okay, I know what we will eat. You let me choose for you, Sam?' I nodded and looked for the men that made me feel uneasy, but they were gone.
Pierre asked for two dishes of something called rista, some baked bread and two bowls of chocolate custard for afterwards. With some sweetened black tea, our meal shortly arrived. The rista was mutton meatballs in rich red gravy and Pierre assured me it would be safe to eat, 'Look about you, my friend. You see, three people eat the same, so I think it will be okay.' It was and I was pleased to have something more substantial.
'Ah yes, this coostard is very good, I enjoy,' Pierre said as he lapped up the last of it with a wooden spoon.
We navigated our way through the dark streets back to the hotel, stopping off to pick up some cigarettes from a man sitting in a shop alcove. He puffed away at a large hookah and offered us a smoke. Pierre, the first to try, inhaled a deep breath and blew a plume of tobacco smoke into the star filled sky. 'You try,' he said and passed me the pipe.
I tried to identify the familiar taste, 'Peach,' I said upon realisation.
'Yes, peach,' the shopkeeper confirmed with a smile.
Pierre bid me farewell at my room, 'I will now try to get transport to Padum,' he said. 'There are night vehicles travelling from Kargil apparently. Goodbye, my friend. Here is my address should you visit Paris one day.'
Alone again, I made sure I was packed and ready to leave. I set the alarm for 3.30am for my 4am departure and got my head down for some sleep.
31
BANG, BANG, BANG.
Pierre? I checked the time, it was 2.36am.
BANG, BANG, BANG.
This wasn't the light friendly tap of Pierre's knuckles. The metal door handle turned repeatedly. I kept silent, fear freezing me to the bed. The commotion stopped. I could hear voices, but the words were foreign. Footsteps marched along the corridor and the banging started again, this time on other doors. I listened, trying to make sense of what was going on.
'Sir, please, you must leave.' The distinctive voice of the hotel keeper whispered through the door. He sounded panicked.
I got up and spoke quietly back, 'What's going on?'
'Very bad men, sir, here to take you away. No time, please you must leave now.'
Already dressed, I rushed over to my backpack and guitar and put my hand on the key in the door, 'Are you sure it is safe?'
'Yes, but not for long, they will be back once they not find you. I tell them you leave for Padum earlier with friend.' The voices increased as the banging continued.
In the dark hallway, the hotel manager gently grabbed my arm and locked the door behind me. He rushed me down the stairs and instructed me to hide behind some hedges outside the hotel entrance, 'Wait there, I will tell you when they go.' I didn't need to be told twice as I heard the thundering marches from the landing above heading towards the stairwell. 'Go!' he said as he turned to face the oncoming force.
I darted behind an apricot tree amongst thick bushes. My heart thumped against my rib cage and my breathing sounded like a violent ocean in my head. I did everything I could to control it and quieten myself as the sound of shouting echoed from the reception area. From where I was situated I couldn't see inside the building, but only ahead and to the right-hand side. I crouched low into the darkest shadows and moved my backpack over my torso. I dared not move. I took up steady breathing exercises that Ciri taught me to calm my mind, but it wasn't doing much good.
Stepping out from the hotel to my eye line, three men appeared quizzing the manager with intent. I recognised them instantly from the bus and the restaurant. They wore identical phirans with shalwar-kurtas underneath. One had a green camouflaged jacket and beneath, the muzzle of an automatic rifle glinted in the light from the hotel interior.
My backpack tipped forward against the bush in front of me. I pulled it back, but it snagged a branch and rustled the leaves. The men stopped talking and tuned the air for the source of the noise. The man with the gun walked to my position, stopped half a metre away and scanned the darkness. I could now see him more clearly – his cold eyes, his full beard, his flat felt hat and the Kalashnikov that hung from his shoulder within his jacket.
Suddenly the manager dropped to his knees and started wailing. Their attention snapped over to him. They pushed him face down into the gravel and started yelling at him. Agitated, the man with the gun stuck the barrel to the back of his neck and shouted something. The manager's wails quickly became whimpers. After he was questioned some more they promptly left, storming into the blackness of the night.
Too terrified to move or utter a word to each other, the hotel keeper and I remained silent and motionless. This was a scenario I knew only too well. While the circumstance of being dragged into the mountains to be murdered provided a new variant, the fear of harassment entwined with imminent violence and harm was familiar territory. I glanced at my watch. It was approaching 3am. I needed to move soon, but stayed in position for a few more minutes.
I looked over at the manager who lay still, like me, petrified of their return, 'Are you okay?' I whispered. He was quiet for a moment and then nodded his head. 'Is there a way to avoid the bazaar?'
'Behind hotel, upside and right. Follow road, keep out of light,' he whispered back.
'Thank you. I'm so sorry.'
I stood, looked around and followed his directions away from the hotel. Around the back of the building, I skimmed a wall with my heart fit to burst, turned right as directed and walked slowly down a slope, careful to keep my eye out for any movement. From a distance, I heard a vehicle approaching. I dived into an alleyway and a goods carrier passed. Out of the shadows and into the dim silver light of the moon I walked on, all the while sticking to the shaded edges of the roadside.
At the end of the street, I saw my destination. As I drew closer I heard voices and paused to deliberate my next move. Were they here? Questioning the passengers on the bus? If I stayed hidden, the bus would leave without me. If I moved forward, I could walk straight into the hands of the potential kidnappers. I advanced slowly while trying to analyse the environment. The teenager who was looking and smiling yesterday was walking directly towards me. I stayed still, hoping I wasn't seen.
'I bring Kashmiri salt tea. You like? Please come and join us.' He placed a stainless-steel beaker on a segment of wall next to me and walked back to where the light was shining. My paranoia was in overdrive. I put the hot cup under my nose and sniffed with suspicion, my eyes alert for the slightest flicker of danger. I wasn't going to take anything for granted and poured the drink into the dirt.
A few minutes later I summoned the courage to approach the bus. A grou
p of six men, plus the boy who brought me the tea, were crowded around a torch pointing upwards from the ground. I thanked the teenager as I returned the beaker and boarded the bus, which was almost full with the other Kashmiris, except for three vacant seats. In the relative safety of my own seat I leaned forward and pretended my shoe laces needed retying in hope I wouldn't be seen by anybody outside.
Relief only came when the bus began to move away. I became aware I was shivering and tucked my hands into my pockets. Over and over I played the scenes of the morning in my head, recalling flashes of what had happened, feeling guilt for the hotel manager and fear of what might have happened had he not helped me. I kept looking around, paranoia in overdrive that they were still on the bus. I even questioned the authenticity of the shopkeeper who sold me the bus ticket. Was he part of this? What would be waiting for me on the houseboat? Occasionally I looked up and found the young man smiling at me. I smiled back and nodded as I had done since the beginning of the trip.
A commotion ahead brought our bus to a standstill. Tyres were burning on the road, sending black smoke spiralling into the morning sky, while a group of about thirty teenaged boys shouted and hurled stones at any vehicles that dared to pass. Our driver opted to pull over, but the bus behind us tried to push through the melting rubber barricade. It was immediately pelted with rocks, one of them smashing the windscreen. The driver brought the bus to a halt and stepped down, hands cradling his bloody head. The group of boys immediately set on him, crowding him and shouting. Luckily his passengers were quick to drag him to safety.
Three hours passed and I watched the chaos play out until it finally subsided. We were given passage forward, but were drawn to a halt again only twenty minutes later, this time by the military. Our driver was instructed to pull over and we were told to alight. Nobody was travelling any further today. An army convoy was on its way from Srinagar and the road was too narrow in places to pass other vehicles either side. My passport was checked and I was told to await further instructions.
We were situated in the town of Drass, noted to be the second coldest place on earth after Siberia, with recorded winter temperatures of -60⁰C. It was nowhere near as cold as that now, but it was still very chilly. I looked around the handful of hotels in the village, but all were fully accommodated. Hardly surprising as we weren't the only ones stranded – there were also two other buses and a lot of army vehicles. Unsure what to do from here, I took a seat on some steps alongside two Sikh gentlemen.
'Welcome to India, my friend. May I ask what you are doing in remote Drass?'
'Hoping to get to Srinagar.' I cupped my hands, blew into them and rubbed them together to keep warm.
'India has a way of slowing us all down wouldn't you say? Have you eaten yet?'
I turned to meet their faces, both with bushy beards and navy turbans, 'No, like the lack of accommodation, there seems to be a shortage of places to eat too.'
'Then I insist you join us. We have plenty to go around.' He produced a cylindrical tiffin tin from a holdall, sectioned off into different compartments holding separate meals of rice, curries, pickles and chapatis. The variety of spicy smells ignited my rumbling stomach. 'Please, help yourself to as much as you like.'
Although somewhat dubious, I saw they were eating the same too, so I tucked in. It tasted as good as it smelled. 'I hope you are enjoying the food,' said the other who wore a pair of dark shades. 'We pride ourselves on our cooking. We have restaurants in Delhi and Leh.’
‘What brings you here?’ I asked.
‘For the next few weeks we are on a holy pilgrimage to the Hindu shrine at Amarnath Cave. The pilgrimage was banned for many years due to threats from militants, but this year, the route is open. Many people from all religions are attending. This is why you find no hotels available here.' He brushed his hands free of crumbs and leant forward, 'Where are our manners? My name is Jumeet and this is my dear friend and business partner Adesh.' We exchanged greetings. 'If you are ever in Leh or Delhi, please look up our establishments. You will always be welcome.'
'I will do, thanks. Do you know anything about the protesters this morning?'
'The school children? Ah yes, they are upset as their teacher has been missing for over a week now, feared to be kidnapped or killed. They are seeking answers from the authorities, who do not seem to care. Kidnapping and murder is commonplace in these parts.'
I told them about the incident at the hotel in Kargil. 'Then you are extremely lucky to have escaped unhurt,' Adesh said. 'Count your blessings you sit and eat this meal with us. As for Drass, I think we could be stuck here for some time to come. I spoke to one of the officers earlier, but he was very vague as to when we would start moving again.' Adesh's words concerned me. Not just for the lack of hotels and restaurants, I was worried my stay on the houseboat would be cancelled if I did not arrive on time. Plus, hanging around in the middle of nowhere with a western target pinned to my back did nothing for my sinking morale.
'You should not worry too much,' Jumeet said, as if reading my mind. 'It would not be wise for an attempt on your life to take place with such a heavy military presence. I do not think it would be in the militants' best interests. Kargil is a much easier spot for abduction I think, maybe your houseboat in Srinagar also. You must be on your highest alert in these parts.'
I thanked them for the meal and wandered off for a cigarette. I wasn't alone long before the young man from the bus joined me. He was between sixteen and eighteen I guessed. Like his companions, there was a hardened look in his eyes. 'Hello, my name, Feroz. What is your name please?' he asked gently.
'Sam. Thanks again for the tea this morning. Do you live in Srinagar?'
'Yes, in Srinagar,' he replied. He asked me the usual questions of what I did for a living and where I was from and finished by asking, 'And you have guitar? Do you play?'
'Yes, and you?'
'Oh no, I cannot afford guitar.'
'Wait here a minute, I'll go and get it.' I went to the bus and unhooked it from the roof-rack. I handed it to him and he unzipped the case and removed it. He strummed the open strings and cocked his head to the sound hole, intrigued by what he heard.
'Please, you show me.' He returned it and I fretted a few notes. 'Very good Sam, I like, please show me how to do.'
He took a short lesson and picked it up quickly, showing real talent for a first timer. At the end of the tutorial he handed the guitar back to me. I declined, 'You keep it, Feroz.'
'Okay, I will return it later to you.'
'No, you keep it. It's yours.'
'To own? What? I cannot take your guitar, what will you do without it?'
I laughed, 'I'm sure I'll be fine. In fact, you'd be doing me a favour, it's only weighing me down. I'll write down some scales and chords later to get you started.'
He was delighted, unable to believe his luck, 'Thank you, thank you,' he beamed. 'I am liking to do you favour by receiving this gift.' He began peeling away the Hindu Om sticker I'd stuck on the base. He looked up and saw my surprise, 'Please, I am very sorry, but I do not wish to have this on guitar. I am proud Kashmiri, not Indian; Muslim not Hindu.'
'No problem Feroz, it's yours to do what you will with it. So, I take it you're not fond of Indian people?' I was slightly confused. After all, wasn't Kashmir part of India, thus making him Indian?
'Indian military and police are very bad to Kashmiri people,' he explained. 'It makes me dislike them. Not hate, dislike. They take many innocent Kashmiri to prison for no reason and torture and kill also.' He paused for a moment, looked around as if he'd said too much already and lowered his voice, 'India fights for Kashmir and so does Pakistan, but we Kashmiris are caught in middle and suffer a great deal. We are just wanting to live our lives in peace.' His eyes surveyed the group of military uniforms kicking the dust and smoking cigarettes nearby. He changed the subject and pointed to a crowd of excited men shouting near the bus, 'Come and join in our game and share some Kashmiri salt tea. All my good friends.'<
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Feroz explained the rules, 'It is quite simple. Here you throw coin at rock, nearest coin to rock win all coins.' He invited me in and gave me four one paise coins. I was pitted against the chubby moustached driver of our bus, but I failed miserably, throwing a coin too wide on the fourth attempt. The driver scooped the pennies from the floor and did a little dance as his friends cheered him on. I reached in my pocket so I could check my wallet for more coins, but it wasn’t there. I excused myself to look in my backpack. Mentally I retraced my moves back to Kargil and the commotion at the hotel. And then it dawned on me. In my haste to leave, I had left it on the dresser. I didn't care for the money, there wouldn’t have been much in there anyway. It was the thought of losing Kate's telephone number that troubled me the most. I looked through all my things again, only to be met with disappointment. I double checked my journal in case I had written her number in there, but I hadn't. She was gone.
Feroz brought me the tea and asked if I was okay. 'Yeah, I'm fine thanks,' I lied and drank the lukewarm liquid, tasting of sea water. I gave him the empty cup, smiled and told him I was going for a walk, leaving him by the bus as I trailed off into the mountains.
Tenebrous clouds quilted the peaks with a threat of imminent rain. As I walked I rolled random combinations of digits in my head hoping one would click into place as her number, but none seemed correct. I could have kicked myself for being so careless. I was looking forward to meeting up with her again when I got home, but now there was no chance of that happening. To say she meant so much to me after knowing her just a few days could seem premature, but time is only relative and to some degree it felt as if I had known her forever.
It was getting colder by the minute and I started to shiver. Drops of water fell from the sky, biting hard at my face. A vicious wind was racing up behind too, tearing at my muscles and causing agonising cramps. I decided to turn back, but I must have strayed from the main path. Everywhere looked so different. Wrapped up in my own self-pity, I hadn't been keeping an eye on the scenery behind me to assist my route back to the bus.