The killing fields

The water was still and yet just fifteen feet deep at its deep end. The shikara cut through the weeds with the faintest of splashing on the side. Just enough to let you know you're on a lake. A lake in the middle of the city. The touristy bits faced the road - in full view of all who were smitten by the house boat bug. Not me. I wanted to see what life resided behind. 

I took the shikara in the narrow water lanes by the side. Barely squeezing through the weeds and the old dilapitated hutments. The locals sitting quietly in their porches, sipping on hot tea on this cold evening. Little pink-cheeked kids screaming, playing hide and seek, while their mothers pluck supper from their vegetable gardens. Gardens which are in their own backyard - in the middle of the lake. The narrow back alleys were just like ones you'd see in any city - Mumbai, London, New York. The florist, the cafe, the vegetable seller - all in one place. 

The sun was all but gone. The orange hues began invading the skies. The clouds took this opportunity to roll in and make the already perfect scene better still. I asked the man to stop rowing. We were in the middle of the lake. I wanted to capture it, just like any annoying tourist with a camera should. And as I clicked away furiously trying not to miss a single moment, I realised why I was the fool. I put my lenscap back on and lay back. This was not one for the camera. 

I must have been staring at the fading light for a good thirty minutes before I heard another voice to my side. "Sahib, if you're going to be here for more time I suggest you take this. It will keep you warm", said the man handing over an angeethi full of red coal. I looked at him wondering what a life that must be. I thanked him and asked my oarsman to join me around the angeethi. We talked about the golden era when Kashmir regularly had choc-a-bloc streets full of tourists and when Bollywood came calling on a regular basis. The days which earned this valley its moniker of 'Heaven on earth'. How it was revered to be the most beautiful place one had ever seen and how it all has gone sour. He pointed out the structures by the banks where bombs had, at one point or another, razed the structures completely. The streets where day long gun battles had led to mass exodus of the locals. We spoke of the army and what its presence meant to the locals. We spoke of the Kashmiris and why they'd flown. The stories would have taken me months to pen down and years for him to recite. I could feel the lump in his throat and swallowed hard trying foolishly to make it go away. I asked him to take me back. I promised I'd return. Soon.

Kashmir will always be one of the most beautiful places in my heart. I'd seen Scotland at its prettiest and while its no Swiss Alps pretty it is nowhere close to the pristine beauty that is this valley. There is more character at every bend and every little cottage in here than I'd ever seen. 

I vowed to come back. 

A promise I'm yet to fulfill.

A choice is made of free will
Just like the choice to kill
In the speed of a moment
Life stands still now you're standing in my killing field