Travelling, nowadays, is filled with trepidation. Not because of security issues, but because you’re always wary of a drunk, probably incontinent, fellow passenger next to you on the flight. Thankfully, there were no drunken lunatics on our way to Srinagar.
The first time I visited Kashmir was over 30 years ago, when Yahoo! was not yet a tech company – never mind a defunct tech company – but something Shammi Kapoor shouted while rolling about in the snow. (The scene from Junglee was actually shot in Kufri, a ski resort close to Shimla in Himachal Pradesh.) It was then pristine beauty, few tourists, perfect weather, snow-capped mountains and water so clean that you could drink it straight from Pahalgam’s streams. I wouldn’t recommend doing that now.
This time, it was my third visit to Kashmir. Setting aside my constant fear that I might bump into the cinematic genius of Vivek Agnihotri, visiting Kashmir was like a spa treatment for the mind and senses. Which, I suppose, all spa treatments are, but you know what I mean.
The hills, though, are now alive – with the sound of tourists. The oddly named ‘gondola’ chair-car in Gulmarg – it looks nothing like any boat bobbing along the canals of Venice – was booked out for a month. Flights to Srinagar from Delhi are so packed, you can’t get seats even weeks in advance.
All this is heartening, I guess, for a state that depends so much on tourism. Not so heartening for some of us who’d travelled high up to the hills of Pahalgam to get away from this very crowd. We had the bucolic silence shattered by shouting families asking for ‘chakna’ and vegetarian food in a restaurant called The Trout House. Full points to the staff for addressing all shakahari requests without blinking an eyelid.
When you land in Srinagar, you realise why the city is the summer capital of the state-turned-union territory. It was a crisp 10°C on the first week of April when I landed. Despite the madding crowds, there are enough small boutique hotels set in unending stretches of lawns rolling up to the Nageen or Dal Lake, to fill you with a sense of Ramzan quietude. For those not fasting, you can have your fill of flaky bakarkhani, rogan josh, yakhni, and haq. Little bakeries dot the streets. And Srinagar is one of the few places where you’re not harangued when you walk into a carpet or handicraft emporium. The beauty of Doodhpatri, Sonmarg and snow-covered Gulmarg, can make even the most jaded traveller pause at the sheer untouched beauty on display.
Pahalgam has found a unique way of ensuring locals get their piece of tourist pie. When you take a break from staring at the snow-capped ranges, you have no choice but to hire a taxi union car to sightsee in the town. No private cars or taxis from outside town are allowed. Clever.
But every time you pass a stunning mansion, swathes of verdant land, or cordoned off corners of the Dal, you’re informed that it all belongs to bigwig politicians or the old royal families of Kashmir. It’s a bit jarring. The hill stations are full of overfed tourists just off malnourished ponies. And the thousands of gun-toting security force personnel you see dotting every road, especially in Srinagar and along the highways, remind you that all is not as pristine as it seems.
But Kashmir remains a sparkling jewel in the crown. If you can’t make it to Gstaad, you can hotfoot it to Gulmarg. I knew I had truly arrived when one of the locals told me while paddling along the Dal Lake that Kartik Aaryan had also been paddling by just a few hours before, shooting for his new film. If not Bollywood, hopefully the G20 lot will ensure that Kashmir gets its due again.
