by Reece Willis
'Srinagar is the summer capital of Jammu and Kashmir,' he said. 'It is situated in the Kashmir Valley and lies on the banks of the Jhelum River, a tributary of the great Indus. The city is famous for its glorious Moghul gardens, beautiful lakes and canals and exquisite houseboats. Also, Srinagar is famed for its Kashmiri carpets, handicrafts, woollen clothing and dry fruit. Nagin Lake is split by the road outside of your houseboat by Dal Lake. One of the highlights of Dal Lake is the vegetable market, where tradesmen sit in their shikaras crammed together competing for business. You must come and see for yourself if you get a chance.' I looked over to Nabi who shook his head in disapproval.
The salesman offered me a cigarette. I accepted and as I placed the tip in my mouth he struck a match and held the flame towards me, before extinguishing it with a flick of the wrist. 'Due to the dislike of British in Victorian times,' he continued, 'The Maharaja would not allow the British to build upon the land of Srinagar. Instead, they took to the water, building houseboats as a retreat from the sweltering plains.'
'When did all the trouble begin in the city?' I asked.
He was reluctant to answer at first, but when Nabi left the room and was out of earshot, he explained, 'After the partition of British India in 1947, India and Pakistan both laid claim to Kashmir and invasions by Pakistan lead to war. The government of India sent troops into Srinagar to defend the city and they have been here ever since. In 1987 the Indian government rigged state elections, arresting opposition candidates and supporters. The resentment of Indian rule and bad treatment of Kashmiris led to an eruption of violence that continues to this day.'
He paused to take a sip of Kewah, and then continued, 'The majority of the main fighting takes place in Srinagar's old city, but also spreads out over a two-hundred-kilometre-wide radius. These are very dangerous times with the up and coming elections in September. As a Kashmiri and citizen of Srinagar, there is no escape from the trouble. People get dragged from their homes in broad daylight and shot dead. School children are forced by militants to carry hand grenades in their school bags with instructions to throw them at Indian army posts. Once upon a time, Srinagar was the perfect place to holiday; houseboats and the city flourished with tourists from across India and the rest of the world. Now, the houseboats are all but empty and the streets run with blood.'
Nabi returned and cleared away the cups and ushered the salesman to the door. He didn't seem to want him to tell me more. The salesman bid me farewell and left with my jacket under his arm with a promise to return it in three hours.
Seven salesmen later, the tailor returned with my coat, professionally stitched with a black lining. He was followed on board by a man who sold colourfully embroidered wallets. I bought one to replace the wallet I left behind in Kargil.
Cabin fever was getting the better of me, so I asked Nabi if I could take a ride with him in his shikara. Refusing at first, he told me it was far too dangerous, but after offering him fifty rupees he quickly changed his mind. He paddled me out a short distance, nervously glancing in all directions, with our rectangular houseboat always in sight. Stretching my legs out I began to relax, catching a fleeting glimpse of a kingfisher or two and listening to the single oar ripple the water.
We made our way back after twenty minutes and were nearing the houseboat when the shikara came to a stop. The boat was grounded on some thick lake weeds. Nabi became tense, desperately trying to free us from the tangle as another shikara was seen approaching from the rear. He stabbed the weeds with the oar while keeping a close eye on the teenager in the oncoming boat. The boy came up level with us, held out a beautiful water lily and offered it to me. I took it and he simply glided away, just as Nabi managed to free us from the lake's clutches and docked us at the houseboat.
That night, the sporadic gunfire and explosions sounded nearer than yesterday and I lay awake unable to find peace. Since leaving Leh I had felt uneasy, not only because I was on a fool's trail where so few travellers feared to tread, but the news of my grandfather had awakened a corner of my soul, which had laid dormant for so long. Scars itched, yearning to be reopened. I remembered seeing him collapsed one early morning, lying in the darkness on the hall floor. I offered to help him, but his pride refused me and he implored me not to tell anyone. Not that I would have done, I never did. Every knock and tumble, each sore head and injury, were our little secret.
34
His face said it all without him muttering a single word; a lightning switch from a cheery good morning smile to an uneasy frown. All it took was one question to induce the panic of Bashir's blurted excuses. 'Could you drive me into the city today please?' I asked. Each justification was brushed away with answers of my own self responsibility, but it wasn't enough to sway him. I had one more trick up my sleeve. The sight of one thousand rupees snapped his frown into a confused head tilt, eyes of wonder at the illusion before him. His objections became lost, his mouth numbed as he considered the offer. He looked left and right for the disapproving face of Nabi, reached out to the notes, paused and drew them from my grip.
'Please, we will not stay too long, maybe one hour,' he said as he stuffed the money in his shirt pocket.
'Come on Bashir, until lunchtime at least,' I countered.
'Okay, until twelve o'clock only.'
I glanced at my wristwatch. It'd just gone eight. By the time I got ready and had breakfast we could leave by nine. I washed in front of the mirror and caught the nervousness in my eyes. 'The war takes place during the night,' I said to myself, but my half-cocked smile did little to convince my diminishing confidence.
It was a bright, crisp morning and the sun warmed the back of my neck as we made our way to a white Maruti hatchback. Bashir ushered me into the back seat and quickly took his place behind the wheel. He was clearly agitated. We drove along the road, which separated the two lakes and was flanked either side by tall poplar trees and lines of moored houseboats. In the distance the city rose on the horizon and traffic thickened as transportation was stopped before a bridge. Soldiers were checking the contents of vehicles and drivers were heavily scrutinised. When our turn came, two armed uniformed officers approached our car. One pointed a lathi at Bashir and ordered him to get out while the other circled the vehicle with suspicion.
Bashir looked over the seat to me and then back to the soldier who was tapping the windscreen. He stayed calm, but nervous tension was evident in his eyes. The soldiers became irate, 'Get out!' one of them shouted to Bashir. Bashir stayed motionless with a look of increasing frustration. The officer slammed the stick on the roof and demanded he step out immediately. The other officer fell behind his colleague and raised an automatic rifle at the car.
With the uncertainty of what might happen next, I urged Bashir to do as they said. He clicked the door open and was pulled out, hauled across the bonnet, questioned and searched for any weapons or suspicious contraband. I was told to stay put. With the window rolled down and a gun in my face, question after question was fired at me, 'How do you know this man?', 'What is your country?', 'What is the purpose of your visit to Srinagar?' 'Where is your passport?' I answered him as fast as my rattled brain could calculate the questions. I was ordered to join Bashir by the front of the car and we were told not to speak to each other as they searched the vehicle. I was terrified that the two of us might become another statistic. What had I done convincing Bashir to take me into town?
We were finally given clearance and told to move on. Bashir apologised as we crossed the bridge over the Jhelum River. I tried to reassure him that I understood it was not his fault, and that it was I that was sorry for putting him in the predicament in the first place. 'I did not move at first because I was scared they arrest me for being nothing but Kashmiri,' he said. 'Please do not be sorry, it is a daily occurrence of Srinagar life.'
After a while we turned from the main road into a narrow street of bullet peppered buildings and businesses with their shutters closed. Apart from just a few civilians, only soldiers walked th
e streets, some of which wore camouflaged flak jackets, cricket shin pads and toughened metal helmets with caged face guards. We slowed to allow a horse and cart to pass. I looked out of the window to my left and it was as if a news report was playing out before me. Lying on the ground were two bodies covered by white sheets, crowded by a scattering of people. Voices were raised, some sobbing. Another body was carried out and placed alongside the other two. A young man, no older than me, lay motionless, with a swollen face, bruised and spattered with dried blood. The side of his head was partially missing, exposing a dark red mass and fragments of bone. An elderly woman knelt at his feet, tears streaming down her face. She raised her hands and yelled to the sky.
I observed the scene in stunned silence. I had only ever seen one dead person before and that was my father. He collapsed from a heart attack in front of me one Sunday morning when I was eighteen. It was early Spring and the weather was not too dissimilar to what it was now. There was coolness in the air, but the sun was strong. Colours were vibrant, birds sang and families were out and about enjoying their weekend. The scene was filled with life; except for my father in the middle of it all lying on the ground dying. He no longer belonged; nature dictated that. This wasn’t the case here though. People’s lives were being taken prematurely and my reaction to what I had just witnessed was very different. Sweat poured from my face and nausea tied a knot in my stomach that grew bigger and tighter as each minute passed. Bashir saw my distress in the interior mirror. He manoeuvred the car around the cart and drove along the bunkered streets until he found a place to stop alongside a reel of circular barbed wire blocking a road.
'Are you okay, Sam?'
I took a sip of water and wiped my face clean of moisture, taking deep breaths as I tried to gain focus, 'Do you know what happened to those men?'
'Maybe caught in fighting from night time. Many die in city, very dangerous time after dark.' There was no element of surprise in his voice, 'Like Phil Collin sing, just another day in paradise.’
'Cello!' a soldier shouted as he whacked the roof of the car. Bashir quickly moved on.
Everybody was on edge here. As we drove we passed tired, burnt out buildings: businesses, people’s homes; some nothing more than rubble. 'Where Are Our Children?', 'Bring Back The Disappeared', 'Kashmir: Paradise Tortured', ‘Stop Rape Of Kashmiri Women’, 'Indians Go Home' and 'Give Us Back Our Homeland' were just some of the slogans that were seen either hanging from walls on banners or spray painted around the city. Men, women and children were being killed here daily, yet I'd never once seen anything on the news about Kashmir back home. This was no Hollywood blockbuster where Superman came to save the day. The ongoing struggle and suffering of the people here went on almost in secret as far as the rest of the world was concerned; all for a piece of land.
Bashir turned into a busying bazaar and pulled up in a side road. He leant over his seat, 'We will visit Jama Masjid, one of the oldest mosques in Kashmir. I think this is maybe what you look for in Srinagar.' We got out of the car and before me stood a large square building. Unlike other mosques I’d seen there was no dome, but a pagoda style roof. There was no denying the magnificence of the structure. Merchants lined the paths leading up to the entrance selling their various goods. A young boy whose arm was missing at the elbow and who had two stumps where his legs once were cried out, 'One-rupee sir, one rupee,' but Bashir had already ushered me past before I could donate. I removed my shoes and followed him through a high archway into a courtyard flourished with lawns, shrubs and small trees. The fawn stone walls were broken by grand entrances, topped in the centre by wooden minarets with a view of Hari Parbat Fort in the distance.
Bashir strolled alongside me into a spacious carpeted hallway of shiny deodar pillars that projected long lines of shadow from sunlight that pierced the arched windows. Beneath one of these windows a teenage boy and an old man knelt side by side reciting lines from the Qur’an.
'Look around, you will be safe here,' Bashir said. 'I will pray now.'
I left him to his prayers and wandered the quiet mosque, trying to shift the unease that resided within. My mind was cast back to the men laid upon the ground who yesterday, were alive, feeling, breathing and seeing the world around them. I couldn’t understand how people could cause such harm to one another.
Bashir finished his prayers and stood next to me eager to leave. I followed him from the courtyard into the street and bent down to the beggar boy and gave him ten rupees. I asked Bashir if he could ask him what happened. They spoke in Urdu and Bashir translated, 'Boy was playing with brother last year near broken bricks. Brother pick up piece of metal from ground and explosion kill brother and badly hurt this boy. There are many mines planted all around Kashmir, many people hurt each year.' I looked at the boy and pictured the scene, my stomach turning at the vision.
Undeterred by our presence, two starving dogs fought with each other over a dying raven by our car. Bashir laughed and got into the driver’s seat. This time I sat beside him. He appeared relaxed, maybe because of his time in the mosque. 'Now we go to Roza Bal, Tomb of Jesus Christ.’
I wasn't sure if I heard correctly, 'Did you just say the tomb of Jesus Christ?'
'Yes, tomb of Jesus Christ. Buddhist, Arabic, Sanskrit, Persian and Kashmiri historical texts say Yuz Asaf, which was Jesus real name, did not die on cross, but was healed from his wounds and he migrate to Kashmir to continue word of God. He marry Kashmiri girl and they live in Pahalgam until he die of old age.' If this were the truth, was I about to enter the final resting place of Jesus?
Amongst old brick buildings was an unimpressive white building with two sloped roofs. We removed our shoes and walked into a secluded area overpowered by the scent of burning jasmine incense. Behind the glass of a wooden framed cabinet was a shrouded coffin and nearby, a stone cast of footprints said to be those of Yuz Asaf, showing imprints of crucifixion wounds. Bashir pointed out that the wooden sarcophagus was merely a façade, the real tomb was in an underground chamber below us. The tomb laid in an east-westerly direction – the Jewish direction of burial. 'It is not a Muslim tomb,' he whispered. 'Muslims bury their dead in south-westerly direction.' Whether the story held true or not, it was nothing short of captivating. I felt very lucky to have been brought here.
The drive back took us along wide avenues with sandbagged bunkers. Nervous soldiers peered out from behind protective mesh, guns pointing ready for any signs of trouble. It was not long before we stumbled upon our own set of problems. We turned a corner and in the centre of the road was a white buckled van, alight with roaring flames. Thirty or more young men dressed in t-shirts and jeans were shouting, throwing rocks and pieces of timber at a line of khaki clad officers armed with truncheons and riot shields. Bashir was quick to reverse in search of an alternative route. I gripped the seat as we swung from street to street, passing over bridge after bridge. All the while the medieval backdrop of the old city lined the banks of the Jhelum. Bashir increased his speed. 'I do not like driving. Grenades can be thrown or we could hit mine at any time.'
I'd been incredibly stupid and selfish. It was one thing not to consider my own safety, but I had ignored Bashir’s also. He had been so good to me all morning. I sat quietly. The only thing that came from my mouth was an apology, but to this he said, 'Please do not apologise. It is good you have seen for yourself what we Kashmiris must suffer. Do not forget us when you leave. I have one more place I would like to show you.' We arrived at a clump of chinar trees and got out to the haunting sound of the adhan. Across the water was a large white mosque with a single minaret and huge dome with the mountains behind, mirrored in the glass of Dal Lake.
'This is Hazratbal Shrine,' Bashir said. 'The subedar of Moghul Emperor Shah Jahan construct Ishrat Mahal along with garden at site of mosque in 1623. During visit, Shah Jahan order building to be converted into prayer house. Inside is Holy Relic, Moi-e-Muqaddas, the sacred hair from beard of Prophet Muhammad.'
Just then there was an explosion s
omewhere nearby and we sought cover under the chinars. This was followed by the blunt sounds of automatic gunfire. I was grounded with fear, but Bashir grabbed me, 'We must go now, Mujahideen maybe near.' We ran to the car with our backs low and he hurtled us back to the safety of the houseboat.
That evening I asked Bashir and Nabi if they would join me for my meal. They had previously eaten in separate quarters, but tonight, my last, I insisted they spend it with me. We spoke more about Kashmir and of that morning and after dinner, as the sun set gold upon the lake, Nabi sat with a one hundred stringed instrument – a walnut box known as a santoor. He hammered out the strings emitting soothing strains as the golden shimmer on the lake turned a deep blue and night fell.
35
It was early when Nabi entered my room to wake me, 'Time, Mr Sam.' The sun had not yet risen. Colours of dawn melted across the sky releasing the shadows slowly from the mountains. When a simple breakfast of eggs and toast was served, Nabi retired to the porch and the comfort of his hookah. Trails of smoke fogged the glow of the lantern perched beside him. In my room, I packed. I held the sweater Feroz gave me, hoping he would be kept safe in the dangerous city he called home. Placing the garment over my head I slipped my arms through the sleeves and felt the soft wool glide across my skin. I packed his phiran and folded my newly lined jacket. 'Smoking jacket,' Nabi said at the bedroom doorway.