Tasting the Valley

After spending weeks that turned into months, I couldn’t help but think ‘I know India’. Until I made a journey to Kashmir to experience the tumultuous relationship of tragedy and bliss, I was making a claim that now seems insincere. I was lucky to have a friend who invited me into his home in Srinigar. It is in this bustling little city where my discovery began. Post Partition, Kashmir and its residents have seen a long road filled with animosity and struggle, however, this road is filled with rays of peace and serenity too. Flying into the city of Srinagar, I looked out my window to see a valley surrounded by snow-capped mountains. Although it was winter at the time, rolling plains of green seemed to unravel like a scroll from up above. Unlike the dust filled air of Delhi, I was able to feel every cool, fresh particle of oxygen enter my lungs when I touched down. The noxious smells that billow into other parts of India were not present either. Sweet scents of kahwa tea and freshly charred embers from wood stoves comforted all of my senses. Winter in Kashmir also came with its own muted color scheme. Between a sea of grey and tan overcoats that blanketed the young and old lay a hazy sky and darkened trees. All of these elements provided the valley with a tame beauty unique to this season. As if etched by a bohemian artist, I could just make out the great wall of mountains that cascaded and surrounded Srinagar. Against this opaque skyline, one could easily be convinced that the great masses of rock were merely shadows from up above. The sounds of Srinagar were as equally remarkable as the sights. In the morning, the sun would rise and the crescendo of chirping birds would instantly commence into symphony. Throughout the day, the praises of the azaan could be heard bellowing from the many mosques that were scattered from street corners to downtown. These praises to Allah sounded as charismatic as the ocean; softly echoing about like the tides but not without a definite and symbolic aura of strength. Given the political struggle and the struggle to survive warring religions, the characteristics of the azaans seemed to be of some greater worth. Above all, the truly the harmonious sound was that of undiluted peace. In India, the volume always seems to be set on high. An escape from the constant horns, wallahs, and general tinkering that arises from masses of people is something you do not take for granted. I had been in India, yes, there was not doubt about that. What I did not expect to find was a mystic culture shock that comes from the unexpected wearing a mask of familiarity. I had taken a hour and fifteen minute flight from Delhi, but stepping into Kashmir was like stepping into a whole new journey both personally and geographically; a journey marked by ultimate confinement pinned against delirious freedom.