Srinagar
Overcharging tuktuk drivers, heckling vendors, begging invalids, conning travel agents. Within two days after staying in Delhi, I have very little patience left. Every errand takes ten times as long as expected, so I spend a good part of the day just bargaining for toilet paper or for a decent international phone rate. Skepticism and suspicions has taken over me, and am still uncertain if my bus ticket to Dharamsala is legit. Travel companies notoriously scam international tourists; I need to make sure that my promised luxury bus would take me out of Delhi.
I walked in the government travel office, greeted by a dark-skinned, bearded Al Pacino-look-alike. He introduced himself as Shaffi and ushered me into his office, “Relax! You are safe here. Feel free to put your bag down.” He ordered one of his workers to investigate my dubious ticket; in the meantime, we started chatting over milk tea. At first, we talked about the US and movies: he loves The Godfather, Scarface, and Carlito’s Way. Then, he spoke about his family, and his mother whom he adores. He recited some beautiful lines from the Koran, about kindness and compassion. After an hour, his employee reported that the ticket was in fact a fraud. Shaffi reimbursed me for the money that I was conned, Rs 600. He offered to get me a genuine ticket, so that I could leave for Dharamsala that night, but I enjoyed his company, so we continued to chat. Five cups of chai, coconut cookies, and five hours later, I felt enlightened and exhausted from our intense discussion on life and love. For the first time since being in Delhi, I felt that I could truly trust someone. I made a real friend. Under his advisement, he reserved me a hotel room in Delhi and a room on a houseboat Srinagar for five days. “Kashmir! I can’t go there!” He assured me that it was safe and that I would love it. I trusted him.
From the Air Sahara plane, I looked down onto Srinagar with a slight panic. Cameoflagued painted barracks lined the runway, and soldiers with machine guns stood on guard I trust Shaffi. I’m sure I will have a wonderful time. Yes, I trust Shaffi…I hope. Oy! But, once beyond the barbed-wired airport gate, the land seemed peaceful and serene. Billal and Ali, 24 and 26 year old sons of the family, met me at the airport and paddled me across the Dal Lake, to their houseboat home.
The house is unbelievable! Every each of the walnut wooden walls and furniture are intricately carved with flowers and other Mughal themes. There’s silk embroidery on the lace table cloths and drapes, and paper machie knickknacks in every possible nook. Besides Billal and Ali, there are three other travelers staying at the guest houseboat. Birgit is a 50-something, chimney-smoking Dane with soulful blue eyes and friendly facial lines. She is constantly making up songs and demanding: “Free dance!” Besides her frequent Cabaret-like performances, she mostly lays on her couched throne of red velvet, smoking her pipe and drinking beer. But, despite her laziness, she insists that she is busy. She is pretty vocal and always shares her deep thoughts with the group, but I do wonder what she thinks about when the living room is silent. The other two travelers are Norwegian sister and brother, Mica and Heinrich. Mica has a plain, but very kind face; she has a fateless romance going with Billal. Heinrich is pretty quiet, except for when he plays gentle folk music on the guitar. The six of us promise that we will eventually take a shower, but most of the chores are put off until the next day. Every night we stay up until three or four, just relaxing and enjoying. Breakfast is served at noon.
My days have not been all laziness. The grandfather of the house, Haji (one who makes pilgrimage to Mecca), and I have become very close. He even invited me for dinner with the family, instead of the western meal on the guestboat. All the men sit on the floor on cushions, with large wool Kashmiri ponchos and coal pots to keep warm. The helper-boy comes around with a silver pitcher of water and a bucket for everyone to wash their hands. Then, everyone receives a large silver casket of rice, and a smaller bowl of spiced stew. That night, pieces of chicken we mixed with vegetable oil, potatoes, onions, and spices. The men grabbed handfuls of stew with the right hand and mixed it into the rice. They cupped a small ball of food onto three fingers and pushed it into their mouths with their thumb. Haji offered me a fork and knife, but I managed to learn their customs and most of the food ended up in my mouth. After dinner, Haji’s wife came out from the kitchen and offered me a salty lassi (a milky drink) to cool my mouth from the spices. While the men and I sipped our dessert drinks, she pealed fresh apples and passed some slices around.
The next day, Haji took me to Srinagar’s famous White Mosque. There are only two in the world, the other one located in Mecca; and on Fridays, twenty thousand people gather for prayer. I dressed in my traditional Shwalkameeze that I purchased in Katmandu and we headed to pray. With delight, Haji was shocked to see how Indian I looked, “Like a real Kashmiri! Honestly!” Beneath the white marbled dome and towering minarette, thousands of people kneeled on the lawn, beside Dal Lake. I tried my best to pray; I have never been a religious person, and I welcomed this opportunity to try something new. Under my headscarf, I peered to the other women and followed their bowing and kneeling. Knowing that I am Jewish, Haji said he was honored that we could pray to the same God for the same things. After mosque, he put his arm around me and kissed my forehead, “I love you, honestly!”
Since then, Haji takes extra special care of me. He invites me for every meal and makes sure that I am buried beneath blankets. He took me to the market to buy fresh beans (dhal), cabbage (ghobi), apples, and meat. He showed me the best vendor to buy some of the licorice candy that I love so much. Yesterday, we even went for a four-hour boat ride around Dal Lake. We stopped on Golden Island for some views, and drank tea on a restaurant boat. There, we talked about family and prayer, and watched a hawk hunt for fish. Later, he also took me to the paper machie factory, where I learned and saw how these beautiful crafts are made. I had no choice but to buy some presents!
Srinagar is so much different than I expected. I am so lucky to have had this opportunity. I am constantly gauging my internal trust-meter, and I am glad to trust my instincts and place that trust in others. I certainly feel quieter inside and more in tune with others. Shaffi, Haji, and Birgit have bountiful human spirit. I’m happy here.
I walked in the government travel office, greeted by a dark-skinned, bearded Al Pacino-look-alike. He introduced himself as Shaffi and ushered me into his office, “Relax! You are safe here. Feel free to put your bag down.” He ordered one of his workers to investigate my dubious ticket; in the meantime, we started chatting over milk tea. At first, we talked about the US and movies: he loves The Godfather, Scarface, and Carlito’s Way. Then, he spoke about his family, and his mother whom he adores. He recited some beautiful lines from the Koran, about kindness and compassion. After an hour, his employee reported that the ticket was in fact a fraud. Shaffi reimbursed me for the money that I was conned, Rs 600. He offered to get me a genuine ticket, so that I could leave for Dharamsala that night, but I enjoyed his company, so we continued to chat. Five cups of chai, coconut cookies, and five hours later, I felt enlightened and exhausted from our intense discussion on life and love. For the first time since being in Delhi, I felt that I could truly trust someone. I made a real friend. Under his advisement, he reserved me a hotel room in Delhi and a room on a houseboat Srinagar for five days. “Kashmir! I can’t go there!” He assured me that it was safe and that I would love it. I trusted him.
From the Air Sahara plane, I looked down onto Srinagar with a slight panic. Cameoflagued painted barracks lined the runway, and soldiers with machine guns stood on guard I trust Shaffi. I’m sure I will have a wonderful time. Yes, I trust Shaffi…I hope. Oy! But, once beyond the barbed-wired airport gate, the land seemed peaceful and serene. Billal and Ali, 24 and 26 year old sons of the family, met me at the airport and paddled me across the Dal Lake, to their houseboat home.
The house is unbelievable! Every each of the walnut wooden walls and furniture are intricately carved with flowers and other Mughal themes. There’s silk embroidery on the lace table cloths and drapes, and paper machie knickknacks in every possible nook. Besides Billal and Ali, there are three other travelers staying at the guest houseboat. Birgit is a 50-something, chimney-smoking Dane with soulful blue eyes and friendly facial lines. She is constantly making up songs and demanding: “Free dance!” Besides her frequent Cabaret-like performances, she mostly lays on her couched throne of red velvet, smoking her pipe and drinking beer. But, despite her laziness, she insists that she is busy. She is pretty vocal and always shares her deep thoughts with the group, but I do wonder what she thinks about when the living room is silent. The other two travelers are Norwegian sister and brother, Mica and Heinrich. Mica has a plain, but very kind face; she has a fateless romance going with Billal. Heinrich is pretty quiet, except for when he plays gentle folk music on the guitar. The six of us promise that we will eventually take a shower, but most of the chores are put off until the next day. Every night we stay up until three or four, just relaxing and enjoying. Breakfast is served at noon.
My days have not been all laziness. The grandfather of the house, Haji (one who makes pilgrimage to Mecca), and I have become very close. He even invited me for dinner with the family, instead of the western meal on the guestboat. All the men sit on the floor on cushions, with large wool Kashmiri ponchos and coal pots to keep warm. The helper-boy comes around with a silver pitcher of water and a bucket for everyone to wash their hands. Then, everyone receives a large silver casket of rice, and a smaller bowl of spiced stew. That night, pieces of chicken we mixed with vegetable oil, potatoes, onions, and spices. The men grabbed handfuls of stew with the right hand and mixed it into the rice. They cupped a small ball of food onto three fingers and pushed it into their mouths with their thumb. Haji offered me a fork and knife, but I managed to learn their customs and most of the food ended up in my mouth. After dinner, Haji’s wife came out from the kitchen and offered me a salty lassi (a milky drink) to cool my mouth from the spices. While the men and I sipped our dessert drinks, she pealed fresh apples and passed some slices around.
The next day, Haji took me to Srinagar’s famous White Mosque. There are only two in the world, the other one located in Mecca; and on Fridays, twenty thousand people gather for prayer. I dressed in my traditional Shwalkameeze that I purchased in Katmandu and we headed to pray. With delight, Haji was shocked to see how Indian I looked, “Like a real Kashmiri! Honestly!” Beneath the white marbled dome and towering minarette, thousands of people kneeled on the lawn, beside Dal Lake. I tried my best to pray; I have never been a religious person, and I welcomed this opportunity to try something new. Under my headscarf, I peered to the other women and followed their bowing and kneeling. Knowing that I am Jewish, Haji said he was honored that we could pray to the same God for the same things. After mosque, he put his arm around me and kissed my forehead, “I love you, honestly!”
Since then, Haji takes extra special care of me. He invites me for every meal and makes sure that I am buried beneath blankets. He took me to the market to buy fresh beans (dhal), cabbage (ghobi), apples, and meat. He showed me the best vendor to buy some of the licorice candy that I love so much. Yesterday, we even went for a four-hour boat ride around Dal Lake. We stopped on Golden Island for some views, and drank tea on a restaurant boat. There, we talked about family and prayer, and watched a hawk hunt for fish. Later, he also took me to the paper machie factory, where I learned and saw how these beautiful crafts are made. I had no choice but to buy some presents!
Srinagar is so much different than I expected. I am so lucky to have had this opportunity. I am constantly gauging my internal trust-meter, and I am glad to trust my instincts and place that trust in others. I certainly feel quieter inside and more in tune with others. Shaffi, Haji, and Birgit have bountiful human spirit. I’m happy here.
posted by Jfefferman @ 6:37 AM
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