Towards the Within

by Reece Willis

  I walked, hopefully the way I'd come, but was stumped when I came to a fork leading off in two separate directions. I prayed for divine intervention and somebody up there must have taken pity on me because after a half hour of walking along the path I chose, I heard talking and laughing, and then from around a large boulder, I came into a clearing of army vehicles and goods carriers.

  'I see you have been introduced to the climate of Drass. It is rather challenging weather wouldn't you say?' Jumeet joined me in the doorway of a hut to escape the force of the wind.

  'I thought British winters were cold, but this makes those feel like a spring day in Delhi.'

  'Quite the contrast from Delhi. You wouldn't believe we were in the same country. We have the best of both worlds. When it is too hot in Delhi, we employ others to manage our restaurant while we take pleasant summers in Leh. When too cold in Leh, we return to Delhi.'

  'Sounds like you've got it all worked out, Jumeet.'

  'May we tempt you to join us for dinner in one hour? We will take food in the shelter and warmth of our room.'

  'Are you sure you don't mind?' It was difficult to say no considering the lack of alternative options I was presented with.

  'A guest is a gift from God. It would be our pleasure. One hour then, it is settled.'

  India had again shown me that the generosity of its people had no bounds. Over dinner, the two gentlemen explained to me what it was to be Sikh. 'The Sikh who wears all five Kakaars is considered a true Sikh,’ began Adesh. ‘Kes: untrimmed hair; Kangha: the wooden comb – usually holding the hair in place; Kirpan: the curved sword – placed at the waistline; Kara: the iron wristlet, and Kachera: baggy under shorts. Sikhism is a simple way of gaining salvation attained by performing duties to society and family through honest labour, sharing food with others, meditation, charity and selfless deeds.'

  Jumeet poured some coffee and spoke where his friend left off, 'Like Kashmir, the state of Punjab also suffers with problems at the hands of the Indian government. A secessionist movement was sought to create a separate Sikh country called Khalistan from the region of Punjab. But India is just as defiant as it is with Kashmir. I will give India one thing, when she digs her heels in, she digs in firm and protects what she believes is rightfully hers. If she gave away Kashmir and the Punjab, what would be next? Every state in India would demand independence.

  'I feel something big awaits India on the horizon. A new India will be born from its continued strength. We may be looked upon by the rest of the world as one of the poorest countries, but one day we will be seen as one of the wealthiest. As for Kashmir, I see no solution any time soon. I fear that life for its people is getting worse by the day. A violent storm is brewing in these mountains, one that will take many more lives.'

  Adesh and Jumeet’s conversation was insightful and I looked forward to taking them up on their offer of a meal in their restaurant when I returned to Delhi. I could sleep in the bus which I was thankful for. Before I settled in, I sat outside with my back to the rear of the vehicle and smoked a cigarette.

  'Some people are liking five-star hotel, but I am preferring our five-million-star hotel,' Feroz said, squatting down beside me and staring out to the infinite space above us. A shooting star sped across the sky and disappeared out of sight. My thoughts returned to Kate.

  32

  The man lying in front woke me with his snoring. Considering the hard seat that was my bed, I’d slept relatively well. It had just gone 4am. Outside I stretched my stiff arms and legs and felt the chill of the morning seep into my clothes. I could just make out the black silhouettes of the mountains and a dark figure approaching me. Feroz's face came into view, 'I have made traditional Indian chai for you this morning, Sam. I hope you like. Please come and sit with us.' I sat with him and his father and uncle around a circle of stones that held a small fire beneath a boiling pan of tea. I was offered flat bread and dried salted meat which I chewed while Feroz spoke of his love of Michael Jackson and Manchester United Football Club.

  'Thank you for your gift,' Feroz's father said as Feroz went off to find a place to wash the cups. 'He has been hurting our ears for most of last evening, but it is good to see my son happy again. He has been much troubled of late since his brother was taken away by the Indian authorities.'

  'He never said anything to me, what happened?'

  'Feroz is a proud boy and very strong, but I see the hurt when his mother weeps for his brother's return. We do not know what happened to Ahmed. One morning, two officers broke into our house and took him away. That was three months ago. We try desperately to get more information about what he has done and where he is, but we are told that if we continue our pursuit of information, we will meet the same fate. Ahmed was a good boy and would do nothing to dishonour his family. We cannot believe he has done anything wrong.' A look of sorrow scarred his eyes as he recounted the memory.

  Feroz returned and asked if I would talk to one of the officers and find out when we would be moving, 'Maybe you will have more luck than we do. You are westerner; they will respect you more than us Kashmiris.' The officers I was pointed to showed little interest in me. Their awkward attitude reminded me of the policeman I had dealings with in Paharganj. It was difficult to get any attention and when I did, they swatted me away like an annoying fly.

  At 11am, much to everyone’s relief, a line of green, dust stained military vehicles appeared on the horizon. It was the convoy that everyone had been waiting for. Lorries thundered past and the passengers of the awaiting buses let out a triumphant cheer. I joined in, but my clapping slowed to a stop as I witnessed war weary soldiers crammed into the back of trucks, heads down and clutching firearms. Tanks on trailers and ammunition carriers sped past. Ski-goggled men gripped heavy artillery from the back of Jeeps. What was merely talk and fantasy was now reality. The cold stone of war fell into place with a heavy thud. Carrier after carrier rushed by throwing dust into the air until the last was seen heading around a bend. Half an hour later we were granted permission to travel and commenced our slow journey towards Zoji La.

  The road became a dirt track and the tyres struggled to keep a grip on the slippery mud from recent rains. The bus splashed through sludge and slid towards the edge with terrifying views below. There were moments when anxiety shot through me and had me clinging to my seat as if it were my last second on earth, but the driver, as so many of these skilled drivers do, took complete control with the assistance of his guide calling out corrections to him.

  The Kashmiris on board had warmed to me with the friendship I'd gained from Feroz, though at times I felt they were becoming a little too friendly. Some of them took to exploring my shoulder bag and the driver was handed my sunglasses to wear. But it all seemed to be in good humour and they were returned sometime later.

  I was listening to my music, trying to take my mind from the road when we were brought to a halt again. Along with some of the other passengers, I stepped down from the bus and saw a group of soldiers squatting and peering over the cliff edge. I walked over to them and followed their eyes down to where an upturned goods carrier had fallen from the road; its front end crumpled by the impact; axle lying to one side. Despite being fully equipped to assist the situation the soldiers did nothing but laugh and make jokes. I grew irritated and asked if there was nothing they could do. 'Not our problem,' was the answer I received with another round of laughter. There was no movement from the smashed cab, only an eerie silence. I looked again at the officers, frustrated and appalled. I tried again to appeal to their good nature, but there was none to be found. Instead I was ordered back to the bus where I sat looking on hopelessly until we moved away from the scene.

  Within an hour, we'd stopped yet again, this time for a rest break. The only place available for something to eat was crowded by road workers, their bodies and clothes blackened from endless hours of hard graft. Squeezing my way through to the front, I was dismayed by what was on offer. Workers pushed and shoved to order portions of
fried strands of batter. When I received my turn, I could see why it was so popular. It was incredibly cheap, fifty paise to be precise. As I crunched the greasy mess, I looked about me and saw how quickly the workers were consuming it. I had no doubt this was the first thing they'd eaten for a long while. By the looks on their faces, they were overjoyed by the measly portions. I was humbled once more.

  My mood sank as we moved off – an amalgamation of the last few days and tiredness. Although the other passengers were friendly enough, I was unable to escape certain memories of late, dark shards cutting into my thoughts and tormenting me. I suddenly felt very alone. Hoping to shake off the visions in my head I switched on my music again. The landscape blended from sparse rock faces to a world of brilliant green. Stunning meadows filled with long grass and flowers, silver ribbons of water weaved through the countryside and tall pines rose to soaring heights to meet the pure snow of the Karakoram and Pir Panjal mountains.

  The bus stopped, once again delayed by the convoy. I stepped down to the fresh air of the valley and looked upon the most beautiful land I'd ever seen. Accompanied by a soundtrack of atmospheric drums and the haunting voice of Enya, tears fell without warning. I'd travelled so far to reach this point. My past was gaining on me and I was struggling to leave it behind. I hadn’t cried since I was eleven years old. ‘Be a man,’ my father would say.

  Although he never hit me, my father filled my life with terror and military routine. He never wanted children, but loved my mother and so accepted the package; except that the extra baggage was locked away in a room upstairs. In India, I had experienced freedom beyond what I could possibly imagine. This left me feeling torn. I was lucky to be alive and able to travel this amazing land. I was not one of the unfortunates like the beggars and the poor I had seen so many times. Their struggle continues day in and day out where mine was seemingly over. Yet it was becoming increasingly hard to forget the constant oppression I was once so accustomed to. Over the years, I accepted it as a way of life and when it finally ended I was too preoccupied with working hard and involving myself in relationships, that only with the benefit of hindsight, I know were destined to fail.

  I took a few deep breaths and wiped my face dry before returning to the bus. The convoy broke away at various points and travel became swift. The driver suggested that I should not register my passport at the various checkpoints, but lay down in the aisle out of view. His reasoning was enough for me to comply; he said there were militants posing as police and army to deceive travellers to kidnap them. We passed through Sonamarg, 'the Meadow of Gold', just as the sun was setting. A deep red, it had transformed a lake into a gigantic pool of blood, which reflected the dark mountains and an avenue of tall chinar trees. At last we’d reached Srinagar.

  It had gone eight by the time we stopped outside a moored houseboat. Feroz handed my luggage down from the roof and before we exchanged addresses, he presented me with two gifts.

  'This is phiran,’ he said. ‘It will keep you warm during cold nights and Kashmiri sweater, mine, to remember me by.' I took the grey phiran, the same loose tunic the other Kashmiri men wore, and pulled it over my head. 'Now you are real Kashmir man,' he laughed and embraced me tightly. 'Insha Allah my brother, you are in my heart always.' I was thankful to Feroz for his friendship. His humour and the warmth of his family and the eventual acceptance from the other passengers had made the trip that much more bearable. Feroz returned to the bus and waved from his seat until the night consumed him.

  I was hurried inside the ornate wooden houseboat by a clean-shaven man in his early twenties, 'Please, come inside. It is curfew, not safe for you out here.' I had little time to admire the grand reception area. He was terribly flustered, 'Please sir, can you help me, I am in big trouble with police?'

  'What's the matter?' I asked, becoming somewhat flustered myself.

  'I am being accused of stealing from police officer, but I have been in houseboat all day. Please, will you be writing letter to say you know me to be of good character and that I would never do such a thing?'

  He awaited my answer, hands held together in prayer, begging almost. I was taken aback by his request, 'I don't know you, and I’ve only just met you. I would be lying to say I did.'

  'My name is Bashir, this Nabi,' he pointed to a skull capped elderly gentlemen in the corner behind me. 'Now you know me, please can you help? If I get arrested, I will be sent to jail or maybe I get tortured. I would never steal from policeman; I am not crazy.'

  I was in a real quandary. I wasn't in the habit of lying and was conscious of my personal safety whilst in Srinagar. But what kind of reception would I have staying here for three nights if I didn’t carry out his request? 'Okay, I'll do it, but I'll keep it brief. Do you have a pen and paper?'

  'Of course, thank you so much.' He searched a chestnut drawer and gave me the items.

  'Dear Sir,' I wrote. 'I have stayed with Bashir on his houseboat before and have always found him to be polite, conscientious and above all, honest. In my opinion I do not believe he is capable of the crime he has been accused of.' I signed off at the end and ripped the page from the jotter.

  He thanked me again and headed out of the door. I was left with Nabi who showed me along a narrow corridor to my bedroom. 'Dinner in half hour,' he mumbled and slid the door shut behind me.

  I kicked off my shoes and sat on the bed to unwind, running my hand along the embroidered bedspread. The room had an en-suite bathroom with a proper bathtub – a luxury I'd long forgotten about. I ran the bath only to find brown murky water and the occasional leaf float to the surface. Deciding against a bath which was evidently drawn from the lake, I washed from the sink instead where the water was marginally clearer.

  Along the hallway of carved cedar panelling were two other bedrooms, both like mine, a kitchen and a storeroom, an open dining room and beyond that, a lounge and reception. Each room was laid out with patterned Kashmir rugs and comfortable Victorian chairs were complimented by a range of elegant walnut cabinets and tables. It was the most luxurious accommodation I'd stayed in; a palace fit for royalty.

  'Please sit,' Nabi said and presented me with my evening meal. Each serving of food was pointed out on the plate, 'Aab gosht – milk curry lamb; dum aloo – yoghurt gravy potato; nadir palak – lotus stem and spinach.' Lastly, he placed a steaming glass of creamy liquid before me, 'Kewah – almond and cardamom tea.' He waggled his head and left me alone to eat. The food was a comfort and tasted amazing. With my plate empty, I retired to my room and updated my journal, content with my decision of staying in Srinagar after all. My thoughts were interrupted when Nabi popped his head around the door, 'Please sir, be keeping shutters on windows closed at night because of kidnapping problem.'

  Somewhere across the lake, distant explosions and rapid gunfire were occasionally heard, but soon the noise drifted and disappeared into my dreams.

  33

  I awoke to the sounds of creaking wood, the splashing of oars and bird song as light danced through the branches of a tree and the slightly open slats of the shutters, casting flickering patterns across the bed. I looked out over Nagin Lake at the pretty lotus flowers and water lilies resting on the sparkling water. Canoe shaped shikara boats glided past, some with coloured tarpaulins taxiing locals, others packed with goods for sale; bright flowers, handicrafts, vegetables or textiles. On the far side of the lake, dark shadows lined the folds of the Zabarwan range as the sun rose, warming the rock a deep maroon. Perched upon the top of a hill opposite was the Hari Parbat Fort, first constructed by the Moghul emperor Akbar. It was hard to believe so much trouble existed in such tranquillity.

  Breakfast was simple; an omelette, toast and black tea.

  'Ah good morning, you are enjoying your stay on houseboat?' Bashir asked as he walked in with two brown paper bags filled with groceries.

  'It's lovely, thanks. How did you get on with the police last night?'

  'I did not need letter. Police catch suspect and I am free from trouble. B
ut thank you for help.'

  'I need to get a bus ticket to Jammu and a first-class train ticket from Jammu to Bombay. Could you tell me where the best place to get them from is?'

  'I will get them for you. You must stay on houseboat; it is very unsafe in city.'

  'Okay, what about cigarettes?'

  'Ask Nabi, he will get for you.'

  I handed over a thousand rupees for the bus and train ticket and Bashir disappeared out of the door again. I was about to sit on the veranda when I was stopped by Nabi. Apparently, it was too unsafe to even step outside. I asked him if he could get me some cigarettes, but he tilted his head unable to understand. 'Cigarettes? Smoke?' I said placing my pinched fingers to my lips.

  'Ah, smoke, yes,' he said and put his hand out. What usually cost no more than 50 rupees for a pack, suddenly turned into 300 by the time I finished leafing out the notes.

  The thought of not being able to leave the boat at all during my stay was disappointing and instantly made me feel claustrophobic. Sitting at the table, I looked out to the lake and wondered how to pass the hours. It wasn't long before my thoughts were answered by a papier-mâché salesman who seemed well acquainted with Nabi. On the table, one by one, the salesman displayed his wares: delicate elephants, mice, apples, trinket boxes and the like; all finely painted and crafted by hand to perfection. I heard his pitch but had to tell him that sadly anything so fragile would be destroyed in my luggage by the time I made it home. He left disappointed and I returned to my musings. Just twenty minutes passed before another salesman came on board, this time offering a selection of freshly cut flowers. I declined again and he paddled away in hope of another customer.

  Salesman after salesman arrived and departed throughout the day. Nabi told me times were hard with the lack of tourists and earning money was a rare opportunity, one that must be seized. Although my finances were comfortable, I still had to keep a close eye on my pocket, knowing that if I was frivolous, I would soon run out of cash again. After lunch a tailor arrived and I agreed to have a lining stitched into a jacket I had bought in Manali. I negotiated for him to tell me more information about the city as part of the deal, to which he was very obliging.