Visiting for first time, worst time

Quite recently, Satyapal Malik, former Governor of Jammu and Kashmir, stirred up a hornet’s nest with his remarks on the Pulwama attack of February 2019. While questions of intelligence failure may continue to haunt the deadly terror strike, I recalled my trip to Kashmir around that rather grim and tumultuous period.

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In late January that year, I’d got a call from a friend asking if I was interested in a group trip to Kashmir. I had just taken a sabbatical, and a journey anywhere was welcome. And Kashmir, more so. Soon, the hotel and flight bookings were done. Even the online tickets for the gondola (cable car) ride in Gulmarg were booked.

It was the season of snow in the Valley, and some of us in the group of six had never experienced it. So the excitement was palpable. We had just a week to go. On WhatsApp, we exchanged notes on the places to visit, the food to eat and the essentials to carry.

And then came the horrific jolt: the suicide attack on a CRPF convoy killing 40 personnel in Pulwama on February 14. The enormity of the tragedy couldn’t quite be spelt out in words. We realised that Kashmir, for all its stunning beauty, also unmasked its visage of fear from time to time. I was reminded of the oft-quoted line by poet Rainer Maria Rilke, which could well apply to this paradise on Earth.

“Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror.

Just keep going. No feeling is final.”

There were other worries too. Tempers were running high in the Valley over apprehensions that Article 35A, which gave special rights to permanent residents of J&K, would be scrapped. We were now faced with the difficult choice: to go or not to go. A retaliatory strike over Pulwama was imminent. Friends and family were suggesting we call off the trip. We dithered, we mulled, we worked the phones to check the situation, scoured social media sites and connected with groups already touring Kashmir. Finally, we made the decision to go.

On our flight to Srinagar, the first sight of snow-capped mountains melted away some of our worries. As we made our way to the hotel, amid the nippy weather and heavy security blanket, the welcome steaming cups of spice-infused, almond-laden kahwa warmed us to Kashmir.

Most tour operators follow a fixed travel itinerary. Ours wasn’t any different with the usual Srinagar-Gulmarg-Pahalgam-Sonmarg circuit. Since it was off-season, and perhaps also because of the terror attack, there were not too many tourists. While the Dal Lake looked desolate, the flowerless gardens, dotted only with bare chinar trees, exuded a denuded charm of their own. But a city is better known by walking through its streets, and that’s what we did. Travel writer Bruce Chatwin believes walking is a virtue, and tourism a deadly sin. He may well be right, for city walks give you a less sanitised, more wholesome connect with a place, its people and heritage. The experience isn’t really about going out, but about going in.

This was no curated city walk but an impromptu one, aided by a local journalist who we had befriended just before our trip. He walked us down Srinagar, past its exquisite wooden bridges, craft shops, spice bazaars and bakeries that sell delicious walnut cookies. We walked past roads and walls inked with graffiti that screamed ‘Do or Die’, warning against the abrogation of Article 35A. We stood in reverential silence at the spot where journalist Shujaat Bukhari had been gunned down in front of the Press Enclave. We hesitantly walked past hordes of gun-toting CRPF men near the Ghanta Ghar at Lal Chowk, which has, for long, been sadly associated with jingoism. One friendly soldier advised us not to linger too long out in the streets because “mahaul achcha nahin hai”.

On way to Pahalgam, our driver Shabroz bhai indicated to us that we would cross Lethpora, ground zero of the Pulwama tragedy. As we neared the barricaded spot on the highway, there was a numbing silence. We saw the link road from where the explosive-laden vehicle had driven down and ambushed the convoy.

Beauty and terror would thus resonate all along our trip. At the peaceful Hazratbal shrine, where women accosted us and asked why their children studying in other states were being beaten up over Pulwama. At the valleys, where we marvelled at the glorious and endless white landscape. At the long, frequent traffic holdups, where locals would share their angst and also invite us to their homes. Or at the village near Bijbehara, where Shabroz bhai’s mother welcomed us with kahwa and kulchas, baqarkhani and biskuts before hugging us goodbye.

And then, just a day before our departure, came the next jolt: the Balakot strike. In a retaliatory mission, IAF planes had targeted a terrorist camp inside Pakistan. Srinagar airport was shut and so were most airstrips in the north. In other words, we were stranded in Kashmir. Thankfully, the airports reopened the next day. As we boarded the flight back home, each one of us carried our own stories and souvenirs from Kashmir. We had witnessed three shutdowns in the six days that we had spent. What couldn’t be shut away was the terrifying beauty of the memories.