The Journey to Kashmir

by McCall Mash (United States of America)

A leap into the unknown India

My panic rose as the car slithered higher up India’s western Himalayas. Like the region’s deadly viper, we gave a warning hiss around every switchback, and kaleidoscope trucks jumped away from our venomous bite that left victims hundreds of feet below Zoji La Pass. I’m terrified of South Asia’s lawless mountain roads, and Zoji La is considered among the worst of them. It also happens to be one of the most dangerous in the world. However, the 5.6 mile stretch of one-car wide two-way dirt road with no guardrails is a vital lifeline between Kashmir and Ladakh — it’s the sole driving route. Though I knew Zoji La was the only option, my hands grasped tightly onto anything they could find as we traversed uneven ground. After making the 1,500-mile journey from my home in Kathmandu, Nepal, Zoji La should be nothing, especially compared to Jammu and Kashmir (J&K), the most militarized conflict zone in the world and my final destination. India and Pakistan have fought four wars since the 1947 partition divided them, and Kasmir, a predominately Muslim territory and once essential trade route, has been at the epicenter of three of the wars. Despite this fact, I couldn’t wait to reach Srinagar, J&K’s summer capital. My body slid around the seatbeltless car while our driver Cyed sped through the dust. He didn’t say a word as we bounced between vehicles, but his eyes flicked into the rearview mirror to take us in before rolling the windows up; sweat dripped down my face in beat to Punjabi rap. Cyed, a solemn Kashmiri shaped by endless conflict, came into our lives days earlier when our hotel proprietor introduced us because he had an empty car, and we needed a ride. But when the day came, Cyed hesitated, “Are you sure you don’t want to take the public bus? They are nice enough and cheap.” We politely insisted he give us the promised ride. However, we regretted our decision the second Cyed accelerated faster through Ladakh’s high-altitude desert sun. “Now remember,” Cyed spoke for the first time as we rolled up to a military checkpoint a few hours later, “We are just friends traveling together.” By handing him 1,000 rupees earlier that day, our ride turned into a prohibited transaction — J&K’s tourism is monitored and regulated, like everyone else in the state. After our passports were registered, Cyed began his race toward Kargil, where we would break up the two-day journey, and there was no time for talking. The next day, as we silently barreled around Zoji La’s final turn, the car came to a screeching halt. Cyed began muttering and walked past stopped vehicles and heavily armed guards to the front of the line. He returned with a scowl on his face. “They’re doing controlled detonations for Modi’s bypass tunnel, and we missed getting through by 15 minutes. They say it won’t take long…” After a year in Nepal, I knew South Asia’s “not long” usually means hours. With nothing else to distract him, Cyed finally began to speak. A cacophony of Bollywood music, soft murmurs and a Sikh family barbecuing filled our lessening silence. Cyed explained that we were caught in the middle of an annual “Tirtha Yatra,” where potentially millions of devotees make their way to Amarnath Cave for an ancient Hindu pilgrimage. We coasted on smooth asphalt into Srinagar as the roads reopened and Cyed continued to tell us about life in Kashmir. However, he was interrupted by the thud of metal against cow — a dangerous mistake for a Muslim to make in the conservative Hindu nation, where cows symbolize the Goddess Aditi and are defended at all costs. With a collective gasp, India fell silent. But the cow was unfazed by our transgression; the street roared to life, and Cyed laughed as it lazily walked away. Though Kashmir is always on the brink of instability, it was in a state of relative peace when we crossed its contested border. One month after I boarded a train back for Nepal, India revoked J&K’s autonomy on August 5, 2019. Kashmir descended back into chaos.