By the Dal

by Debabrata Sarkar (India)

Making a local connection India

Strife and Kashmir have existed alongside each other for too long. Phases of social unrest and countries that don’t quite understand what they want has left it in a sort of suspended animation. The only constant being unrest. Not many years ago, I found myself in this northern state in India. I had driven up from Leh, in the Ladakhi side of Kashmir, to Srinagar. Once past the high mountain pass of Zozila, we descended upon the valley where dreams could be scripted. However, a short distance away, slight aberrations began to appear. Paramilitary forces roamed the fields and it wasn’t uncommon to pass bomb-proof vehicles while they patrolled the countryside. Srinagar itself was under lockdown. A stone pelting incident had led to guns being fired by the army and a boy who was yet to see his teens was left dead. We worked our way around barriers to find a hotel that would accept us for a couple of nights. Needless to say, we were the only guests. Dal Lake was devoid of a single tourist and the shikaras lay empty. The locals, beginning from our hosts at the hotel, did not make much of the curfew and encouraged us to walk about neighbouring areas and explore markets. We proceeded to take a ride in a shikara on the lake and heard the most soulful Azaan. It was during the holy month of Ramadan. Our boatman found us a carpet shop and excused himself to offer prayers in silence. Every inhabitant we came across, an entire community lives on the water, had a smile on their faces as they waved us by. It was after this, set at ease by the warmth of the people, we decided to explore the market next door to try and find something to eat. It turned out to be slim pickings thanks to the curfew and the locals heading off to break their day-long fast. Walking along the streets, we picked up vegetarian snacks that were being sold out of a wicker basket, sort of sweet potato on a stick. The hawker complained of the political situation the sorry state of affairs with tourists deserting Srinagar. We carried on, with no real hope of finding a meal as darkness fell and the locals shuffled back home. A half open shutter to a ‘Wazwan’, Kashmiri cuisine, gave us hope. We walked up to the first floor and found chairs and tables stored one on top of the other and a small group of men sitting on the floor in the middle of the restaurant for their evening meal. We apologised, they apologised and before we knew it the lights had been switched on and a couple of tables had been set. They hadn’t seen a tourist in weeks and were overwhelmed to find us knocking on their door. They were low on supplies and had little to offer apart from what had been prepared for themselves. Quantities were doubled and everything from their kitchen was laid out for us to experience. Every time one of us tried to say no to a third helping of everything, they would tip a little spoonful over into our plates. All six staffers at the restaurant, who observed the holy fast through the day, stood around us with servings and smiles on their faces. We eventually convinced them to at least join us and carry on with their half finished meal. Stories of where we came from and where we have been were exchanged over dinner. Little bowls of delicacies that they did not have enough of were passed on to us to sample and the candles burned to stubs while our stomachs were filled well beyond their capacities. We made acquaintance only for a couple of hours, but it could easily have been years and the evening could have passed for a one back in the city we lived in, Bombay. But then, the clock struck nine o’clock and our gracious hosts urged us to make our way back to the hotel. With the crash of a clock hand, curfew had been realised and normalcy left the building.