Hope afloat: Lone shikara in Kashmir’s troubled waters

In recent years, Kashmir had begun to reclaim its place on every traveller’s bucket list. The Valley buzzed back to life as tourists poured in.

Kashmiri embraces are disarmingly tight, almost enough to squeeze the breath out of you. I discovered this as a child while being welcomed at the doorways of family friends in Srinagar.

Tourism had once been Kashmir’s lifeline. After violence bled it dry, even a single boat ride became a cause for celebration. That afternoon, I understood the resilience of a people who refused to let despair define them. (AP)

My dad lived in Kashmir for years, overseeing mega construction projects. That allowed him to witness first-hand the glorious era of the Valley when it was the crown jewel of tourism. We visited him there often.

Before long, the region descended into its most turbulent chapter. In that pre-internet era, the landline phone was the only mode of communication between dad and us. Back home in Punjab, my mother clung to the 8pm news on TV, her heart racing at every update from Kashmir.

During those turbulent times, one summer my family retreated to Kashmir to spend the holidays with dad. After the warm welcome at the doorway, we would be ushered in and settled on couches where the huge traditional biscuits and a soft drink awaited us. Before long, we would be escorted into a room furnished with handwoven carpets and the authentic Kashmiri hospitality unfolded in all its splendour. A dastarkhan would be spread, offering a feast of keema-stuffed naan, succulent kebabs and fragrant biryanis.

By the time I was a teenager, I had learnt not to praise anything in their homes after I casually admired an exquisite papier-mache piece, and the host promptly wrapped it in newspaper and placed it in our car, despite my loud protests.

Inside those homes, everything felt enchanting but stepping outside revealed a starkly different reality. Tension lingered in the air. Palpable, unspoken. Streets would wear a deserted look after sunset. Occasionally, I’d wake up to sounds of gunshots in the dead of night and lie there wondering just how sturdy the windows of my room were.

While moving around in Srinagar, dad would remind us, “Dress up like the locals and merge with them. No one should know you are tourists.”

One afternoon, he took us to Dal Lake. It stretched out like liquid silver, encircled by the lofty Zabarwan mountains and the houseboats rocked gently in the breeze. Yet, something felt eerie. Ours was the only shikara gliding across the still waters, the bustle of tourists we had seen on earlier visits was replaced by an unsettling silence. Soon we heard boatmen calling out to each other. Noticing our curiosity, our shikarawala told us, “They are congratulating me. After a long time, we have tourists today.”

Tourism had once been Kashmir’s lifeline. After violence bled it dry, even a single boat ride became a cause for celebration. That afternoon, I understood the resilience of a people who refused to let despair define them.

In recent years, the state had begun to reclaim its place on every traveller’s bucket list. The Valley buzzed back to life as tourists poured in. But the tragedy in Pahalgam on April 22 has singed the soul of our nation.

My heart aches for the holidaymakers who became the victims — and for the countless Kashmiris whose fragile hopes now hang in balance again. Tourism, the thread that stitched livelihoods back together, will suffer. The fragile sense of normalcy, built slowly over years, will carry a heavy question mark. Yet, I know there will perhaps be a lone shikara floating on the troubled waters, as a vessel of hope and endurance, of dreams unmoored but not drowned. rupymand@gmail.com

The writer is a Jalandhar-based freelance contributor