Different shades of paradise

Flying over the Peer-Panjaal mountain ranges, the plane dives down and glides to the Kashmir valley. The meticulous green square of paddy fields is visible through the window pane; villages have houses with red conical tin-roofs that glisten with the reflection of sunrays; and the roads down look like a black ribbon, dotted with willow and chinar trees.

Welcome to Kashmir, Kascmir, Cashmere, Qashmir, or the more powerful, Kerseymere; whatever one may call it.

My work regularly takes me to Srinagar; it’s an old, beautiful city on the bank of the river Jhelum and has 7-8 bridges to criss-cross either side of the city. The city has beautiful mosques and equally beautiful temples; "Lal Chowk" is the city centre and a hotbed both politically and culturally.

The city greets me with deafening silence as I make my way into the most militarised city in the world. I see head-scarf girls in bright white dresses walking to school, wandering youths on their phones, middle-aged men warming themselves with kangris in their pherans and anxious-looking women holding their toddlers.

The city's downtown, "Maisuma," with its crumpled buildings and abandoned, half-burned wooden houses, seems desolate. In contrast, the other part of the city has the best golf course, exotic hotels, lush green forests, and Dal Lake overlooking the pine-clad mountains of Zabarvan with Shikaras (wooden boats) floating over it.

During this visit, the old Shikaras felt to me like decaying planks of wood floating over the Dal's silent, dark greenish waters. The gloomy silence prevails as boat glides and transverse its way. Driving along Dal, on Boulevard Road, dotted with towering chinars and shady willows, has its own charm, and this drive takes you to the beautiful gardens of Mughal and Nishant, where one can see young couples under the shades of Chinar trees, their chiselled tree trunks depicting their never-ending eternal love. I love seeing love bloom in this conflict zone.

I drive down the Gupkar Road, which houses the VIPs guarded by scores of armed guards, further to the Sonawar area, and further still to the largest military base in the world, Badami Bagh. My friend who was with me was born in the very military hospital at Badami Bagh about four decades ago and wishes to see the birthplace (hospital); but we were apprehensive, as visiting a military camp will require a series of explanations. Anyhow, I made an attempt; the soldier looked at my ID and asked the purpose of our visit. I could tell the tall bury soldier was from my home state of Haryana from his rustic dialect. Having told him of our intention to visit the military hospital, I asked if he too was from Haryana. As we both chatted, the soldier instructed my friend to go and see the birthplace (hospital).

The next day, as I drive back to the airport through the city's silent, uncertain streets, I am certain that I will return.