Faheem's trips

Gurez-

faheem_jeelani — Sun, 3 Mar 2013 02:58:00 GMT

At Gurez you notice that the dwellers and the scenery are kind of alike. Men stand around a lot, flicking their hands, breaking wind, doing nothing in general. Mountains and trees follow them. They stand quiet in solitude. The similarity disguises a major difference in temperament. Gurezi's are soft-spoken mild-mannered fellows. It are the goblins in here that are ferocious.

While walking along a stream, in afternoon sunshine, that carried waters of Habba Khatoon spring, on the base of eponymous pyramid shaped peak, a couple of ladies sprawled indolently beside the Queens spring. Biting on the head scarf the sunbathers looked preposterously beautiful, as if aping the insouciance of the monarchs and courtiers who enjoyed this leisure back in the 16th century. With their imperial airs, the resident damsels appeared to be the inheritors of Habba's colossal beauty.

We had been actually walking for a hour or so, if thats what my calculation told me. You see it isn't difficult to get engrossed in this ancient land of Dards. Having chosen Gurez as our destination, with an eye to capture Habba's imagination, meandering as she used to in these ravines centuries ago, singing pathos in memory of her prince Yusuf Shah Chak, I was searching for: eyes open, senses glued; Tzche kemou sone myane bram nith neo nakho.

A little earlier in the day, when mid day sun was brimming bright and clouds still had not gathered around craggy peaks at Line Of Control, we had come back from what was the last Indian picket on the border- where the lieutenant ordered us to seek his officers permission. I protested and dragged Shawl and Akhter from there. I could not understand why we had to flash another piece of paper to have a glimpse of our own land, just across a ridge. The sentries, senile and ugly behavior added. Akhter would bring it up in days to come, very often- a missed opportunity that he saw in it.

My resentment had a reason. Since arriving in Bandipur two days earlier, where there were no taverns, no hotels, no pleasure boats to row

on the quaint Wular, everyone seemed to be amused about our trip- the glaring eyes pooping on our backpacks. A permit card from the district police officer was required must to travel further, we were told by our grey faced lodge owner. We understood the security concerns and thus approached the district police HQ at Bandipur. Our wide smiles and visible enthusiasm soon waned, like sun does, behind the whirling clouds of late spring afternoon Bandipur- once we were behind high walls and barbed wires of the freshly varnished cream colored building- whose gothic alleys reeked of spurious liquor and echoing invectives of the sentries. It would take us at least two days to get the required pass, we were told. The queue was long.

'It is an ill-planned travel. I had warned you', Akhter protested.

A bearded police constable offered some help.

'Come tomorrow morning. I will do something. Matter of some chai',

he shouted even as we walked away in increasing darkness towards our shanty lodge.

Shawl rang up someone while Akhter continued with his rants which were starting to annoy me now.

'Tomorrow morning at 9 we have to meet SP, Wasim Qadri. Permit will be ready',

Shawl shouted after dropping the call. Knowing people around helps and no one other than Shawl knows how to use it. I've always been amazed at his network and the ease with which he gets work done. Years of honchoing at big IT corporates he would often credit.

We were in Gurez the next day afternoon, with it's shops and ancient dressmakers, shanty lodges behind which sprawled lanes on either side by rickety wooden structures. The eerie silence broken every now and then by a scurrying monstrous LeyLand army truck. Our stay at the guest house was pleasant. Newly constructed and built in stone the single storey edifice offered much more than what we expected, more than 120 miles away from Srinagar.

The six hour drive from Bandipur though was arduous, every vertebrae of our back, crying on the drudgery of the road. Ascending on the Razdan pass led us through sparsely dense pine forests. The jungle robbery was done in day light, here. The pass, 1100 feet above, was bracingly cold even in May. At the pass, on our right was M L Steins Mohand Marg and Mount Harmukh; on left the plains of Kupwara and Handwara and facing us were the sparsely visible peaks of Nun and Kun in Nubra Valley- Ladakh. If the landscape had yet to mesmerize us, the first glimpse of a Dard village (Kanzalwan) almost flicked a switch in me. I could over hear Habba. The village and the setting was fairytale style. Log huts sprawled on either side of the KishenGanga river, the mist flurrying along their withered wooden fences. Lilacs and daisies grew alongside the flossy green moth by the raptous river. Due to the unusually late thaw, wild flowers were only just coming out on the hillsides.

Toying with Habba's songs in effervescent weather, we drove into the valley of Gurez- with its dark brown cultivable fields in this milder climate, hazy uplands, steep gorges and the town of Dawar at the distance- which seemed mostly of one-two storey houses with graceful upward curving eaves. I thought about the violence of history and the resilience with it, the response to hate and suffering this ancient forgotten place lives with it.

We pulled up in front of a culvert at Village Badwan- home to Habba's mother. From here the pyramid shaped mysterious mountain named Habba Khatoon stood stilled. There were number of folklores associated with this mountain, one of which I heard from a friendly old farmer, while taking an evening walk around the tilled fields the next evening. It is said that once when moon poured magic silver down on the purple fields of iris, and workers were singing while plucking Berries in the garden, Zoon and Yusuf Shah took a walk. The emperor endowed by the beauty of Habba and Gurez, looked above at the starry skies, that glowed the expanse in rapturous vanity. At this the Mountains spoke and trees bowed- the eyes of the lovers met. The emperor in a spontaneous outpour of love, kissed his mademoiselle, and named the shimmering mountain in distance, as Habba Khatoon. The folklores of Habba and Yusuf Shah continue to reverberate in this land with quite a few versions. A land that is siphoned off from civilizations, clinging on its own history. Though, it needs more than a earful to sense it.

We spent next couple of days loitering around Gurez, making friends everywhere. Our cook, Nazir Gurezi, was a young boy with hopeful eyes. His Seekh kebabs over the breakfast were remarkably delicious. So was his green spinach that he cooked on the day we left, simmered on home-made ghee.

Exploring the landscape around Dawar: Markote, Achurr and Cherwan were ancient Dardic villages that played an important halt over the silk route, for centuries. The houses were made up of log wood, thudded over one another, clothing was mostly suited for winter. The striking features of this aboriginal Aryan race is the first thing that can catch a travelers eye.

Over the horizon I kept seeing the birds that almost looked familiar, just as trees and flowers looked familiar here. This was the sheer variety of the gene pool or I was walking in a parallel universe, more ancient than the one I'm used to, and more strange. An old gray stone wall on the left side of the trail; one on the steepest parts. There were lots of wild flowers around. A deep forest smell. Tangles of wild grape in the undergrowth. I veneered inside, against my audible heart-beats. It looked like a hermit's shack, the little stone on through the wall served as an entrance to the grotto. I could not go go all the way in- but just inside framed by the arch of tunnel, a Buddhist stupa sits, carved out of stone and hugely calm.

I went outside again. The view across the pine covered mountains, some that touched in Drass, to the miles of fields was hazy, evanescent. It was intensely quiet, this moment. My heart hurt. I tried to absorb to what I was deeply attached to, even if it made me feel miserable. If ever I had wanted a brilliant, vindicating spiritual experience; my heart leapt towards it; like a dog greeting his master.

There is no great importance attached to many of such caves, that are man-made carved into these mountains- which is very surprising and immensely sad. Gurez having a strategic location on the silk route may have housed some Buddhist council meetings, if that may give some clue. The last such council held at Sharda in around 300-400 AD, is only a few miles away from here, on the other side of the border.

Aru- The Valley Of Nymphs

faheem_jeelani — Fri, 8 Jul 2011 03:08:00 GMT

It was around 2 in the afternoon when Hussain, our bemusing sturdy little shawl weaver friend from Pahalgam, dropped us in his rickety Maruti Zen at Aru- a pretty village set amidst tall Himalayan mountains, boundaring Lidderwatt valley on one side and Aram Pathri on the other. It had been 4 years since I was last here; not that much had changed here, except, perhaps for odd tourist's- one's riding those cross-breeded, malnutrishined horses (or Mules I should say). The horsemen on their own treated callow and credulous tourists with their self made tales to attract awe. I overheard one horseman pointing to the JK Tourism café- proudly declaring it the Mansion that Amrita Singh owned in Betaabmovie. Betaab was shot some 20 kms away from Aru.

We yearned for a cup of tea to plan our trip on. Last time when I was here I had befriended a very noble man named- Ashraf. Ashraf had a modest motel back then but his cooking skills were far from modest. I looked around for him. Unfortunately the motel was rented to some other guy it seemed this year. Just as when we finished our tea, Ashraf walked in to my wanting surprise. He looked pale and had lost weight. I greeted him, to which he responded. He recalled that we had parked our car in this motel's backyard and how we relished his late candle-lit dinner in rain drenched clothes. Four years back the high alpine torrential rains had followed us all over from Aru to Kolohai Glacier. For this year Ashraf had taken a provision store near the other alley of the village. He told me he was not well and had some neurotic disorder, for which he was treated in Shehar(Srinagar).

Ashraf was actually from Sallar- a beautiful village on the road between Bijbehara and Pahalgam. Meanwhile we were introduced to Ali Bab- a 50 something year old man, who owned two horses and ferried tourists around Aru on them. He was tall, strong and had a slight bent back. He resembled Clint Eastwood. Ali Bab agreed to help us and offered one of his accomplices as our guide for our next days trek to Aram Pathri, as we layed our map on the dark brown table, sipping lipton chai. Mohsin, Ali Bab, Javed ( the motel owner), Ashraf and I drawing our essential items required for the trip. Ali Bab knew we wanted him to be our guide and agreed. As we came to know later, Ali Bab's true love lied in mountains. People respected him a lot, fondly calling him the ‘Akash’ of these mountains. He offered us to stay with him at his house for the night and leave tomorrow early morning for Aram Pathri. We buoyantly agreed. We preferred to stay close to village life for a day. Eat in their utensils, share their joy and assemble some memories.

As we passed through the narrow alleys of Aru Village, life seemed sullen and dull- a quiet oasis. No one seemed to be in any haste. An old couple was sitting on the porch puffing hukka by turns; colorful dorking roosters with flowing earlobes were crowning almost from every house- houses that had thatched rooftops and brown sludged barns; aspen like Poplar trees were swirling with the wind carried from the surrounding mountains; pretty village girls lined up near the narrow stream, which flowed right through this hamlet, were washing clothes: smiling and giggling within as we passed through them, whispering jokes in sneaky tones. Perhaps they were amused to see two city dwellers walking into a village, a village which visibly hadn't hosted a visitor for a longtime.

Ali Bab's house was a typical village log-hut- warm with lots of wood work and clay quoting. In the hallway lied stack of rice bags and whole gram. Good indication that the family was doing well. After all, Ali Bab had been tending foreign tourists over the years. As he said later that afternoon while sipping noon chai in his koshur pyale, that his life was different before '90.

We took to the guest room, which was on the first floor, through a wooden stair-way that amplicated the noise of footsteps. The wooden stair-way reminded me off my childhood days at my ancestral house in Khanyar. The sound produced by the footsteps were distinct, for our each family member. Father's were delicate but brisk. Grandfather's were the first I used to hear early in the morning. His resembled as if someone was playing drum beats with great musical taste. The room was large with beige clay quoting on walls and tiny shapeless mirrors engraved at some places. Windows from two opposite far ends ventilated the room perfectly. Calendars from yesteryears officiated as decorative hangings.

- Tantray Brothers- A house of hosiery goods, declared one.

By now it was evening, calm and meloncholic. Smokey chimneys left grey incense clouds in the air, which in the evening hue looked like fairies dancing, as I gaped through the window. The village looked straight from those story books, read years ago at school. Ali bab came back from the days work and tied his two horses in the barn.

Dinner was ready and we were called out to join. Kitchen was neat and shiny. Copper appliances adorned the shelves right across the entire lengths of its walls. The radio played kashmiri songs in the voice of Waheed Jeelani. Ali Bab's wife Hasina was puffing hooka and daughter Zahida was busy giving final touches to the chicken which Ali bab had brought from the nearby shop. Soon a mid aged man entered and introduced himself.

- 'I'm Mushtaq Ahmed Shah'

stressing outwardly on Shah. As Shawl later told me , Shah is a revered and elite cast in villages. Mushtaq worked in the forest dept. and was posted at Aru. He was Hasina's distant relative, who meanwhile still was concentrating on her hukka. Hasina on her part had grown old. Wrinkles on her face spoke a nonchant tale about her hard life. She had deep green graceful eyes, the ones which generate warmth and acceptance easily. Years of carrying brooks as firewood from the forest could be seen written all over her . And she was visibly irritated at her husband's penchant for mountains. I think the idea of being left all alone, all by themselves ,was the reason for such churlishness. The couple had 3 daughters- two were married. Walls in the living room adorned pictures of those two son-in-laws. Zahida was their youngest child and still unmarried. She had a distinct village girl look. Fair, young and exceedingly orange. In fact she was orange right from her crochet sweater to her plump cheeks. While waiting for the dinner I couldn't help but think about the scene where Ali Bab's daughters marriage must have been ceremonised. Guests must have poured from near and far. The open patch of land near the barn must have been decorated with red and yellow draperies for Grooms welcome. Women must have dancedrouf and sang songs of folkfare. Biding adeiu to his daughters must have been painful for Ali Bab and Hasina. The tough man must have wiped tears flowing over his stubble beard.

At the same moment my thoughts travelled to the scene where Ali Bab's father or mother must have died. It must have been a tough wintry day. Everything must have been covered in thick white snow. The local cleric must have offered jinaza in the courtyard. Winters are tough for old to survive. Thinking about the years that must have gone by in this household made me pleasingly connected to this family. We ate our dinner together and left to sleep. Next day we had to start early.

We were heading for the mountains of Aram Pathri, a trek that would take us into a wilderness of peaks, inhabited by nomads who wound their way through untrammelled landscape. Aram Pathri is a valley that can lies straight above the cliff when looked from the Aru village verge. We started off early in the morning walking through the village first, where people greeted Ali Bab all along; then through the passage above the stream which carries waters from Katarnag and various other glaciers. The noise formed by the gushing waters hitting rocks early in the morning with pleasant air and absolute pristine clear blue skies gave enough of what was more to be expected. The aroma of cedar and pine was growing and Aru village seemed distance away, unseen now as we walked amidst tall pine trees. Our first brush with human habitation was at Gagan Gir- a tiny shepherd hamlet, which acted as the first halt for these yearly visitors. We decided to have tea in a shepherd hut called Dhoka.

The dhoka, was constructed of four sturdy trunks around which stone walls had been built, using mud as mortar. Someone had pushed little strands of wild plants into the cracks, allowing them to cascade down the walls. The family sat mute, smiling.

We entered the dhoka and made ourselves comfortable on the hay. Soon the hut was engulfed by children, who came to see the uninvited visitors. We clicked their pictures and a genuine smile was passed in return. Not bad for a bargain. The elder Shepherd men sported Babylion beards and could be easily mistaken as old testament prophets. Turbans were usually green and maroon colored. Shalwars and loose duffel shirts were topped by brocade jackets which seemed to have endless pockets. Women wore robes of beautiful color with beaded hair and shawls draped over. Jewellery was minimum but enough to grab an eye. Copper earnings and nose beads on those charming shy faces looked absolute pristine.

We pushed along a herder's path through creaking pines till we criss-crossed across ancient boulders, formed by thousands of years of sedimentation. Green pastures awaited us after few difficult jumps on the boulders were safely negotiated. The smell of lilac filled the air. The skies were clear, meadow bereaved even of grazing sheep- we were clearly a few weeks too early into these pastures. The wildflowers were only just coming out on the hillsides, springing up with extra vigor because of the snowmelt. Little streams wound between pollarded willows, their crystal-clear water flowing between banks of vivid green moss. We took small breathers, in between, inhaling the fresh spring air of high Himalayan alpine pastures.

We camped at a place called as lower Aram Pathri- as the snow ahead us didn't allow us to pitch our tent any where else. We had a empty shepherd's hut close-by, where Ali Bab tied his ponies and prepared hot sipping tea on the earthen fire pot, which would be used by its owners in a few weeks time. A small stream wafted along the ridges, where we had spotted a brown bear. A few annoying whistles by Ali Bab seemed to undeter him.

With enough time on hand, we spent the remaining late afternoon lazing around, reading books, giving rest to our tired legs, laying feet in extremely ice-cold water of the stream- firm in our belief that these pastures and meadows must have hosted many a sufi's and yogi's in olden times. The landscape could invoke spiritual highness, Shawl and I contemplated, as darkness deepened, with sun going down above the cragged peaks.

We spoke about many things seated near our campsite- sufism, spirituality, meditation, Kashmir. We go back a long way, me and Shawl. A friendship that fostered on mutual admiration and liking- we have too many things in common: which made us to call each others soul-mates. Its a wonderful feeling to have deep inside our heart, that there is a friend whom you can call anytime, for anything. Its always hard to define but there are feelings that go with it.

Our conversation kept on drifting, invoking deep and profound reverie on the spiritual up-liftment of the soul. Of how the wiseness lies in letting go off things, at times. 'Everything that we desire, may not necessarily belong to us,' said Shawl, while dragging another puff from his classic cigarette. I had recently laid my hands on a Zen book, that dwelled on- the purpose of life. We argued over desire- which suffocates our soul inside. Desire has no end, we both seemed to agree. The meteorite streaked skies above us, and Ali Bab's uninterrupted lipton chai, kept our conversation going. Suddenly, the absolute wilderness around us insinuated our expressiveness- the lack of which we all suffer from. 'We have to embrace the wisdom of humanity, the meaning of life is to serve the force that sent us into this world. Then life becomes a joy,' Shawl quoted Tolstoy. Let doubts dilate in us about our own existence, I quietly whispered to myself while Ali Bab refilled our cups. Small doubts, small enlightenment. Great doubt, great enlightenment, I remembered a Zen saying from the book that I'd been reading.