Kashmir, Days 6&7: Things Get Sticky

As we were lounging around the morning of our last day in the mountains, Uncle-jee got a phone call from Mr. Rah telling us to get down the mountain as fast as we could. We weren't sure why at the time, but we bade farewell to our gypsy friends and headed off.
On the way down we met several soldiers in full camouflage down to feathers stuck all over their bodies.
At the base of the mountain we found Mr. Rah himself and his tiny car. On the trip up we had been in a large Land Cruiser, but now the political state of things made it impossible for Mr. Rah to hire that car and driver again. The government had shut down all the businesses, prohibited unnecessary traffic, and imposed a curfew. Apparently we had come home to the largest political disturbance in many years in Kashmir. The Indian government had granted some land to the Hindus for their annual pilgrimmage pit stops and the local Muslims were mad and had taken to the streets with their anger. Here is Mr. Rah looking worried as he talks to his brother Nazir in Delhi while driving us down the deserted streets back to Srinagar.
We had a few scary moments along the way--burning tires in the streets, young adults throwing rocks at our car . . .
We didn't take a lot of photos of these moments, for obvious reasons. But we made it back safely to our houseboat--the Royal Palace on Dal Lake. This time no shikara--they were also prohibited. The sweet houseboat guy Mr. Golam came himself to pick us up in a rowboat.
Then we had 24 hours locked down in our houseboat waiting until we could fly out the next day. Mr. Golam asked us what we'd like to eat, but then hastily added that he didn't have all that much food to offer since he hadn't been able to purchase food for a few days. We told him to make us whatever he had! Graham made a friend on the houseboat while hanging out . . .


We read a lot of books and played a lot of games. The first day I can remember in a long time in which we had absolutely nothing to do. It was very nice.

And after another tense ride to the airport the next day, driving past tanks, burning tires, military guys with machine guns pointed in our faces and lots of angry people . . .

We got to the airport and waited, relieved, for our flight back to Delhi.
Would we do it again? We've asked ourselves that question several times. Every time we consider it, Rich and I both look at each other and say together, "Yes!" Are we crazy? Probably. But Kashmir has an other-worldly beauty that was worth those tense moments at the end there. I wish everyone could go there and see what we mean. But hopefully ALL of these photos have given you a taste of it. Thanks for enduring the travelogue.

Now I'm reading Midnight's Children by Salman Rushdie. A very interesting, subversive, hilarious novel that begins in Kashmir and moves to Agra and then Delhi. I'm not sure where it will take me next, but I love reading about places I've been to, written by authors who have a special gift for capturing the essence and the incomprehensible nature of India. I miss it.

Several nights ago Rich and I were talking about how living in America is different from living in Delhi. We came up with this (likely flawed) comparison together: Living in Delhi is like being manic depressive and living in America is like being on an antidepressant that evens out those extreme highs and lows. We can't say either of us know what being manic or taking an antidepressant feels like, but judging from what we've heard from others, when you take an anti-depressant you feel pretty good all the time, but you don't get the super-highs and super-lows that you get when you're in manic-ville. Some days I feel so happy to feel the even-ness of America. But other days I long for that life where we jumped wildly day to day from wanting to tear our hair out to barely being able to contain our wonder and awe at what we saw and experienced.