Traveller: KASHMIR UNVEILED

KASHMIR UNVEILED

A short train ride through the Kashmir Valleys green vistas and quiet village scenes thoroughly charmed and disarmed Reshmi R Dasgupta

ITS not South Africas famousBlue Train, nor is it Europes Orient Express; its not Rajasthans Palace on Wheels or even Karnatakas Golden Chariot. It doesnt have a catchy name, it doesnt cost a fortune and there is no plush service on board. In fact, the only thing it has in common with the famous luxury trains that Ive mentioned, is the promise of unforgettable vistas. Yet a brief hours ride on a spanking new red-and-blue train of the just opened Baramulla-Anantnag rail link changed my entire perception of a state that is at once iconic and unsettling: Kashmir.
As I prepared to embark on my first-ever visit to the Himalayan paradise, my teenage son protested, Are you mad Srinagar Baramulla Sopore Anantnag Dont you see how these places make it to the papers every day And youre haring off there to see a train! It did sound kind of crazy even to me, after all I was no hard-nosed reporter of militancy and Indo-Pak issues. I dealt with the good life travel, food, wine... What was I doing literally courting trouble
Yet, the prospect of actually seeing for myself a state that seemed to make it to the headlines for all the wrong reasons was too enticing to forego. Moreover, the thought that Kashmir Valley has actually got a train 155 years after the first one ran in India between Bombay and Pune in 1853 was too piquant not to explore further! How could anyone have resisted linking Paradise to the rest of India with bands of steel for so long
Thus, with equal amounts of trepidation and excitement (and perspiration given the June temperature in Delhi) I set off for Srinagar with my photographer colleague from the Times of India, Manoj Kesharwani. The 80-minute flight was scarcely enough to gulp down some soggy lunch on board before craning our necks to see the craggy, still-snowy tops of the formidable Pir Panjal range, one of the Valleys rocky guardians and the Jammu-Srinagar rail links most implacable hurdle!
On the horizon, the even higher, white peaks of the Zanskar spurs glimmered through the clouds. Was that Nanga Parbat, rearing its proud head above the other massifs Or was it my imagination, given my life-long fascination for mountains The Himalayas looked grand even from 35,000 ft, but as the aircraft began its rather precipitous descent into the Valley, they seemed to grow taller. Below, the green expanse of the valley beckoned like Shangri-La an oasis amid the bare rocks and snow.
No wonder saints and seers, emperors and philosophers , poets and travellers alike have been enchanted by the valley for millennia. I could imagine why Jehangir kept returning there with his beloved Noorjehan , why Jesus was said to have spent his missing years here imbibing its unique syncretic ethos, and indeed why India has been sacrificing so many of our men in uniform for decades to protect this valley from vivisection. This was indeed paradise, and Srinagar its entrepot!
Srinagar, for most people (this writer included) means the Dal lake, flat-bottomed houseboats and skimming shikaras, flower-laden gardens dating back to the Mughal era and handicrafts images bolstered by Bollywood movies of yore. More recently Srinagar has meant bandhs at Lal Chowk, hartal calls by the Hurriyat, burning buses, flag marches by troops in camouflage fatigues, stone-throwing , scowling young men, and tales of militant attacks and casualties in encounters . I barely saw either stereotypical image!
Of the first, I had but a glimpse every day, from the beautifully manicured lawns of the imposing Lalit Grand Palace, the century-old colonial building, once the seat of Kashmirs royal family. Today its Srinagars only five-star hotel, perched atop a hill at the head of the high-security Gupkar Road with fabulous views of the Dal Lake below. The charm of the heritage wings Darbar Hall with its magnificent jail carpet specially woven in Rawalpindi, and the centuries-old chinar trees that frame a spectacular garden breakfast buffet is irresistible.
The palaces panelled walls, old mosaic floors, and mullioned windows bespeak a different kind of gracious living than that offered by the grand houseboats anchored on Dal lake, but I was still amazed that the hotels 125 rooms, suites and independent cottages were full! Peak tourist season, never mind the tension.... What sangfroid! Even when separatists called a bandh to demand the release of their leader (under house arrest not far from our hotel!) on the day we were to leave, the staff didnt turn a hair. Just show your air ticket and the CRPF will let you through, we were told. And they did!
We whizzed through the state capital on our way to various Northern Railway sites including the superlative main station at Srinagar with its unbelievably beautiful carved wooden panelling in the portico and waiting room but that was about as much as we saw of the usual sights, good or bad. No sullen mobs, no shut shops, but yes, plenty of uniforms of all kinds, including two amiable armed J&K Police men who were there to guard our expert guide, the deputy chief engineer of the railway project.
We also couldnt miss the speeding Army convoys and eagle-eyed , armed CRPF personnel in trucks guarding hordes of Amarnath yatris in a gaggle of buses , vans, cars and tempos on the highway. At one point a speeding CRPF bus tumbled straight into a paddy field, narrowly missing an old woman. Concerned, we stopped to help. A clearly tense paramilitary officer rudely told us to go away if anything happened to the old woman, an incident might ensue and we wouldnt want to be caught in the middle of it.... We obeyed. How could life go on under the shadow of a gun, militant or military, I wondered, not surprisingly. Yet it did.
As we ventured off the highway down winding country roads (just what tourists are advised not to do) and as we looked out of train windows, a timeless Kashmir unveiled itself. Each turn brought into view bucolic village habitations with Swiss chalet-like sloping roofs full of hay. The lowing of cows and baa-ing of sheep made the atmosphere even more Heidi-like ! Only, instead of a cherubic Swiss girl, chattering little schoolboys straggling along in twos and threes, looked curiously as our Scorpio or train went by.