by You Jin
Whilst we were looking around in interest, Mazur urged us to get back on the road. I quickly finished the tea I was holding, then passed one hundred rupees to the young boy who had served us tea. Whilst I was waiting for him to give me my change, he handed the money back coldly, saying in a tone that did not invite discussion, “We only accept US dollars here.” Even at an exorbitant exchange rate, one hundred rupees was well below a single US dollar.
Mazur had already walked to the car, but as soon as he heard this, he rushed back, yelling, “You thief! You want US dollars? That’s robbery.”
His adversary’s temper flared, and Mazur stared back, not giving way at all. In that kind of hot weather when even our own sweat could scald us, conflicts like this could explode anytime. Just in time, our security guard came out from the washroom and asked what was going on. He took the rupees and put it in the man’s hand for me and, uttering some persuasive words, managed to dispel a potentially explosive confrontation. When we boarded the car, we could still hear the man crying angrily, “Thieves! Damn thieves!”
Mazur shouted back, “Black marketeer! Damn black marketeer!”
Still angry, he told the driver to turn back and go to the checkpoint where he had just met his old friend. He implored his friend to go teach a lesson to that black market shop who just wanted to cheat tourists.
That day, our vehicle drove all the way to the Afghan border. There were several trees scattered along a deserted unending cliff, lonely and desolate. They looked like they were mourning the years of war in Afghanistan.
The Hospitable Pathan People
By the time we returned from the Khyber Pass to Peshawar, the northwestern border town of Pakistan, it was already three in the afternoon. Mazur, who planned to say goodbye to us here, said with warm sincerity, “Come to my house for a whilst. I’d like for you to try some Pathan cooking.”
At the thought of how I had been granted permission to walk into Pathan life, my eyes immediately became bright as the midday sun. I was not at all hesitant. We caught a trishaw and went to his house right away.
I had read an article in a magazine about the Pathan tribe. It had said, The Pathans are very hospitable. They would rather fire a gun at you than let you deprive them of the opportunity of serving a guest.
Mazur embodied the typical Pathan character. We had met by chance, but he treated us like royalty.
His house was spacious. It had three storeys, and over ten rooms. His father, two mothers, four sisters, ten brothers, and four sisters-in-law all lived together. It was really bustling. When we went in, everyone in the house gathered round to greet us. It was a very congenial scene.
After we had sat in the living room a short whilst, Mazur said, “Come with me. Let me show you my collection.”
We made several turns as we walked for a while along the passageway, and finally reached his room. He took out a key and secretively unlocked a large wooden cabinet. I looked at it, and gasped. Hanging or laid out in the cabinet were more than twenty guns of all shapes and sizes. Chinese, American, German, Russian and Pakistani, he had them all. Each had different functions, styles and features. It was dazzling.
Seeing my dumbfounded expression, Mazur laughed. He said, “To me, guns aren’t weapons for hurting people. They are just collectibles that add interest to my life. You don’t need to be so afraid of them! Sometimes I use them for hunting. Life needs a little spicing up, so you won’t get bored.”
Just then, his nephews came in and each reached out and took a gun from the cabinet. Then they jumped on the bed and started playing with them. Thinking of all the handgun accidents I’d heard about, I could not help but ask, “Hey, do you have bullets in your guns?”
He laughed and replied, “Some do, some don’t, but none of these are loaded. Don’t worry.”
When I heard this, I hurried out of the room. In the kitchen downstairs, Mazur’s sisters were preparing dinner, so I went in to help. They taught me to make Pakistani bread—you first poured the mixed dough into a black pot, then covered it before slowly roasting it over the fire. I roasted it too long, and did not manage the fire well, so when I took out the bread, it was black and hard, making everyone laugh. It was lots of fun.
That night, there was plenty on the table besides bread, including mutton fried rice, mutton curry, an omelette, and brinjal cakes. My favourite was the brinjal cakes. Chopped onions were fried in oil, then cooked eggplant mashed into a muddy mixture was poured in and fried for a whilst. A beaten egg was added, and the eggplant mixture was fried until golden brown. It was bursting with flavour, and extremely appetising. After we ate dinner, we also had a big portion of Pakistani fruits, including mangoes, bananas, honeydews, lychees, peaches and pears. I was so full after that.
When we’d finished, Mazur picked up a short tree branch and, to our surprise, used it to clean his teeth. When he’d finished brushing, he said proudly, “Using this to brush will help you keep a mouthful of healthy teeth.”
I looked at his teeth and noticed they were very white and even. He said that this tree was called musak in the local language, and it had a special element that could protect the teeth. After long use, the teeth would be in top-notch condition. He boasted, “Even the animals in the forest see these tough teeth and run away! The dentists have tried all kinds of methods to destroy this tree, because it causes them to lose patients.”
This made us all laugh. Actually, in so many years of travel, I had found that there was a surprising amount of wisdom in the ways different tribal groups took care of the needs of daily life.
After dinner, Mazur said, “I’ve already arranged some entertainment for you—I’ve invited my good friend to play some music in the field across from here.”
When we said goodbye to his sisters, those warm-hearted young ladies adorned my wrists with glittering bracelets. The twenty or so on the left hand were silver and sparkling. The twenty or so on the right hand were rose red, bright and pretty. In the midst of a great deal of clanging and clinking, I reluctantly left them.
We went to an open space not far away: a building site. The old house had already been torn down, a new one waiting to be built, and there were piles of lumber and bricks lying all around. A lonely light bulb hung listlessly on the trellis, emitting a weak light. A horse was tied to a pole planted in the ground, and crudely polluted the air with the foul stench of manure. We sat on a simple bed frame knotted with rough ropes and waited. There was no breeze, and the nauseating smell of manure hovered over us, overpowering my senses. This was certainly a unique “theatre”! Several of Mazur’s friends who stayed nearby heard about the performance and came over.
We waited for about twenty minutes before the performer appeared. He sat on a heap of wood, carefully tuning his instrument. It was made of lambskin and wood, and shaped like a cross between a pipa and a guitar. The sounds coming from it were soft and delicate like the pipa, and lively and bold like the guitar. He was very absorbed in his music, which was all Pathan folk music that was played at celebrations. The notes danced, like bright gems flying through the air. Once they landed on a person, they would sink into them, illuminating them with joyous light.
The Smiling Mountain
FROM THE PHOTOS of Kashmir in all four seasons, it is obvious that it is intoxicatingly beautiful all year long. I went in late winter, just as it turned to spring, and loved the almost otherworldly beauty. Thinking back on it, it seems almost unreal.
We landed in Kashmir’s capital Srinagar at five in the afternoon. Though it was almost evening, the sky was still clear and bright. As soon as we exited the airport, we saw Baasim standing there waiting for us.
We had called Baasim in advance from New Delhi to arrange our tour. He owned a three-room houseboat. He had the face of a poet: a sharp chin, a thick moustache, and round black eyes that were always bright, creating the impression that he was clever and wise.
Baasim’s houseboat was situated on Nigeen Lake. When the taxi had taken us the half-hou
r journey to the site, I could not help but voice my approval. It was like a fairyland!
The twenty-two-foot houseboat sat quietly overlooking the water, its plain yellowy colour turned a light rose hue. The doors and windows were carved with delicate patterns. What was most amazing was that the houseboat faced the Himalayas, which were covered in the year-end snow. The mountains undulated with gentle contours. At first sight, I thought it looked like a woman’s upper lip turned up in a huge smile.
We unloaded our luggage and carried it inside. This houseboat was a deluxe model. Inside the boat were two rooms with attached bath, a living area, dining area and kitchen. All had thick carpet, beautiful curtains, and lovely furnishings. It was very impressive. Since the other room was not rented out, Risheng and I had the whole place to ourselves.
When we had put our luggage down, we went to a place that sold flowers, fruit and other necessities. I bought a large, bright bouquet of chrysanthemums, half a kilo of walnuts, and several large mangoes. It was all so cheap I could hardly believe it.
When I had put the flowers in a vase, Baasim laughed and urged us, “The yacht is ready. If you set out early, there will be more to see.”
I took a big bag of walnuts and went out with Risheng to the little boat outside the house. We both hopped in and Baasim, carrying a thick blanket, followed behind. I suddenly remembered that I had left my purse in the house. When I said I wanted to go in and get it, Baasim said, “Don’t worry, ma’am. I can promise that even if you left gold bars inside the house, no one would go in and steal them. The security here is renowned.”
When he said this, I did not insist but, to tell the truth, I had mixed feelings. As if reading my doubts, he offered his reassurance. “Kashmir is very different from other parts of India. Here, you won’t see beggars, thieves or muggers. Everyone’s hands are too busy making a living.”
“What sort of work do people here do?”
“Farming, handicrafts and tourism. Do you know that here we rent more than a thousand houseboats out to tourists?”
“How long have you been in the tourism line?”
“It’s a family business. I was sixteen when I started working, which means I’ve been at it thirteen years,” he said, his eyes taking on a faraway look as he thought back. “I still remember very clearly the first time my brother and I came out to work. At the time, we took a group of women from Sri Lanka on tour. They liked outdoor life, so we brought them deep into the mountains for a camping trip. During the day, we went skiing. The whole world was pure white. It was a wonderful feeling flying down the slopes like that. At night, we pitched camp and cooked over an open fire under the stars, communing with nature. The whole universe was ours. At that time, I told myself that I wanted to take this glorious gift of nature and give it to all the guests who came to us from afar.”
I listened quietly as the boat drifted slowly along. We entered a world of green—the white poplars reflected in the water turned the whole surface of the lake green. I loved the poetic rhythms that surrounded us as we toured in the boat, the plonking sound of the oars. Their beat accompanied the birdsong, making us feel that the whole world was filled with beauty.
When the boat returned to another houseboat still under construction, Baasim asked enthusiastically, “Do you want to have a look? This is my fourth houseboat.”
Of course I was interested in seeing it. Inside, two workers were energetically at work carving a window. They chiselled and chipped away, very skillfully and with a great deal of care. They went about their work with careful attention to every detail, so it was quite time-consuming labour.
When we left the houseboat to resume our tour, the lake had turned a dark ashy colour. Night had fallen on us unawares.
I was cold and hungry, so I told Baasim I wanted to go back. He told the boat operator, and we made our way back between well-lit banks, from which the aroma of cooking meals wafted to us, a comforting, homely smell.
I leaned on the side of the boat, watching the play of the oars. Suddenly, the lights on both banks went out and the whole lake was thrown into pitch black darkness. Instinctively, I cried out in surprise. I heard Baasim’s voice saying, “Nothing to worry about, ma’am. The electricity has just gone out. There is not enough power in the winter, so this often happens.”
Because of the darkness of the sky, wind and lake, there was not much to be done. The boat plodded forward in the dark, and I started imagining things. My mind raced, and I suddenly heard a pow. It takes too long to tell, but it happened very quickly. The boat started to shake, its edges plunging into the water. It shook so much my head ached, and I heard the frantic voices of the two boatmen exchanging instructions. Luckily we had been moving slowly, or who knows what might have happened.
I’m not sure how long it took, but we finally returned to the houseboat. Baasim immediately helped us light candles throughout the house.
By the time I finished showering, dinner was on the table. I leaned over in the flickering candle light and looked. There was bright red mutton curry, huge brown mutton meatballs, and shiny grains of corn. Mutton is Kashmir’s staple food, and it is said that they have over fifty ways to cook it. I don’t usually like mutton but, strangely enough, the meat that night did not have lamb’s usual strong, gamey taste. The food was very good, and I was very hungry, so I ate heartily that night.
After dinner, Risheng and I enjoyed a thick, smoky cup of Kashmir green tea. Sitting on the roof of the houseboat and counting the stars, we felt very content. It was a once-in-a-lifetime moment.
Early the next morning, Baasim came to the houseboat to bring us for a tour of the snowy Gulmang Mountain.
The clothes I had brought for this trip were all summer clothes. Baasim took one look at what I was wearing and shook his head, laughing. He said, “You’ll freeze to death on this sort of snowy mountain.”
I waved him off, saying nonchalantly, “This is my thickest clothing.” He hesitated, then said, “If that’s the case, I think you better go to my house. I’ll ask my wife to lend you a sweater.”
“Is your house far?”
“No. I live in a houseboat nearby.”
We followed him, taking a small boat—we got there very quickly.
It was obviously a very simple houseboat, very narrow and dark. It looked like he had lived there many years.
Baasim called into the house, and immediately a face popped out. It was a very fair-skinned face, and very clean, so pale it called to mind the snow on top of the mountain. She wore a simple butterfly-sleeved Kashmiri suit, probably one that had been worn and washed often, judging by the faded colour. Standing at the front of the houseboat, she smiled broadly and, reaching out a long arm, helped me into the boat.
The interior of the houseboat was shockingly simple. What was most obvious was that there was no furniture in the living room, but only a square mat on the floor, with two boys four or five years old sitting on it, eating biscuits.
Baasim said a few words in Kashmiri, and his wife nodded politely, then with a friendly pull of my hand, led me into the bedroom. There was a carved wardrobe in one corner of the room, and she took a blue sweater with a white floral pattern out of it and handed it to me, smiling the whole time.
After I put it on, I told Baasim that I wanted to take a picture with the couple. Immediately, his wife’s eyes lit up. She quickly took off her headscarf and let her long hair spread out, then she applied a little powder, and finally stood beside us and faced the camera. Touched, I thought, This is a very easily satisfied woman.
As we headed out for Gulmang Mountain in the taxi Baasim had arranged for us, I could not resist asking, “How did you meet your wife?”
“It was an arranged marriage,” he said bluntly. “In our culture here, we are still very conservative. Dating freely is discouraged. Even after marriage, I rarely bring my wife out.”
“How long have you been married?” I asked.
“Nine years. I married at twenty, when my wife was onl
y nineteen. The two boys you just saw are my sons.”
I knew that about eighty-five per cent of Kashmir’s population was Muslim, so I asked Baasim, “How many wives do you plan to marry?”
“If you’ve already got the prettiest flower, would you still want more?” he answered, a smile filling every aspect of his face. “Having many wives is no blessing, nor is having many children. To me, one wife and two or three children is enough.”
Saying this, he paused, then went on, “Perhaps you think it strange. Why would I make the houseboat for tourists so beautiful, but then keep my own so simple? To tell the truth, the boat people here all live just as simply, and also just as happily. Though we don’t enjoy much luxury, we have clean homes and good meals. Our lives are quiet, and we are healthy. Tell me, what else do we need?”
As we chatted, the car slowly came to a spot on Gulmang Mountain, three thousand metres above sea level. The wind blew into the window, and I gasped. When the air entered my throat, it was like a gulp of pure spring water, completely refreshing.
I don’t know how much longer it took, but we finally stopped. I hopped out of the car and saw a breathtaking world covered in white. I looked on for a long time, speechless.
Though it was just snow, it was different from any other snowy landscape I had seen. The snow nearer us was thick, and several people were building snowmen or having snowball fights amid merry laughter. Their beautiful clothing made the already lovely mountaintop scene lively and vibrant. But the distant scene was so white it shone. It was dazzling. There were trees on the snow, and the trees seemed to weep, dropping rows of white tears. Looking at it taught one where real feelings of joy and sorrow sprouted from.