My Unforgettable Trip to Kashmir | Day 3

Akbar Fort | Ali Shah Carpets | Dal Lake

“I have a special treat for you today,” Shakeel grins as I climb into the car.

“More mosques?” I ask eagerly.

“No. How many more mosques do you want to see? This is better,” Shakeel says.

He weaves in and out of traffic. Before long, we are racing along the Dal Lake road, through the Kashmir International Conference Complex, through Nehru Park and Mughal Garden into the inner lanes.

“There, see that fort over there?” Shakeel grinds the car to a halt, “That’s Akbar Fort.”

I jump out of the car with my trusty camera. Poles and telephone cables block my angle so I climb on top of the railing and leap into the ground filled with marble slabs. A few passers-by stare at me in apparent consternation. Shakeel honks the car once, then twice. I pay no attention.

 

Got the shot. I look back at Shakeel in triumph; he motions for me to hurry. I look down, then around me.

“Ah…”

I’m standing in a cemetery, on top of a grave marker.

I practically run for my life back inside the car. Shakeel waves over my hasty apologies.

“Don’t worry. I used to play cricket here with my friends. The dead don’t care who treads upon them. But some of the people here don’t see things that way.”

*****

Of Carpets and Countdowns

“Do we have to go here?” I groan, as Shakeel wheels inside the gate.

“Yes, we do,” he replies firmly.

We’re in the driveway of Ali Shah Emporium. Carpet weavers par excellence, Shakeel tells me. My requests for wanting to see some more mosques are waved aside, again. So we head inside, Shakeel leading and I, somewhat resignedly, following.

A bespectacled gentleman at the door has a quick conversation with Shakeel, then greets me politely and leads the way through a back entrance. I suddenly find myself in a long, dimly-lit room, filled with what look like thick strings.

“Welcome to the behind-the-scenes of true carpet weaving,” our host announces grandly.

Weavers in rows of twos sit behind unfinished carpet threads, working them at dizzying speeds with nimble fingers. Balls of wool – red, yellow, magenta – hang overhead. So engrossed they are in their work, they barely register my presence.

The man motions for me to follow. “Let me take you to the owner of Ali Shah. You’ll hear it straight from the horse’s mouth.”

I am suddenly aware of how unprepared I am for this meeting.

The door opens to a handsome study. A sofa on the corner sits across a large mahogany desk, behind which sits a man perusing a sheaf of papers. The light of the afternoon sun throws his features into sharp relief.

Tall, distinguished, sporting a classic white beard over a casual grey suit, Mr. Mohammad Rafiq Shah stands up to offer me a handshake.

“You can call me Rafiq. How may I be of service?”

Despite his stately persona, Mr. Rafiq turns out to be very easy to speak to. Before long, we are deep in conversation about his favourite topic – carpets.

“Carpet weaving is an ancient art,” he begins, “Brought from the Persians to Kashmir about 600 years ago, hand-woven carpet weaving has evolved into a culture unto itself – embedding itself into the Kashmiri way of life.”

He offers to show me around the place.

“Unfortunately, it’s also a dying art. Carpet weaving takes patience, an year or so of dedication to one piece of work in order to create a masterpiece. The young don’t have such patience nowadays. They only want to make quick bucks,” he comments with disdain.

 

He directs an assistant to bring out a particular carpet.

“This carpet you see right here, it’s almost 160 years old. It’s value – priceless. Among the rich and royal, carpets are relics, family heirlooms never to be sold,” he tells me.

As we walk towards the shawl emporium, I pause momentarily by a gallery of carpet weavers in action. He doubles back. Quite sprightly for his age, is Mr. Rafiq.

“These photographs were taken back in the 90s. Back then, there were about 350 families engaged in carpet-weaving. Now, there are only 34. Carpet weaving is on its last legs here in Kashmir.”

I am taken aback by the sharp fall in those numbers, and the melancholy in Mr. Rafiq’s tone.

“I wager that true carpet weaving won’t last beyond the next twenty years in the Kashmir. Anyway,” he seems to pull himself together, “let’s go see some shawls.”

Still somewhat dazed by his statement, I follow Mr. Rafiq into the shawl emporium.

“Now, here you will only find authentic hand-woven shawls. More painstaking effort means a higher price tag. This shawl right here,” he lays an exquisitely-designed piece on the table, “it costs Rs. 1,35,000. And this one,” he takes another one off the rack, “it’ll set you back Rs. 2,20,000.”

I am dazzled by those numbers. But more dazzled by the shawls. I thank Mr. Rafiq for his time, and leave Ali Shah Emporium.

 

 

Back inside the car, I read the visiting card he has given me. The tagline reads ‘Home. Craft. Couture.’ Somehow, I feel the tagline, ‘Craft. Culture. Countdown.’ would have been more fitting.

*****

Dal Delight

Dal Gate is similar to India Gate in some respects. A haven for evening walkers, friends and lovers, Dal Gate offers great views of the lake, peppered with water fountains, geese and reeds.

 

I ask Shakeel to drive slow so I can click photos. Rows of shikaras line the ghats of Dal Lake – multicoloured, with names like Sweet Nile and Naazni. Up ahead in the distance, smaller rowboats carry the occasional passenger to the houseboat hotels. A man has parked his shikara in the middle of the waters and is re-filling his hookah. A group of bored boatmen have started a game of carom in one of the shikaras.

 

“There isn’t much for them to do from November till February. Most tourists think Dal Lake would be frozen so they don’t come here,” Shakeel observes, “But just look at this weather. Where Gulmarg cries for the lack of winter, Dal Lake rejoices.”

The shikara owners don’t look particularly joyous to me. I point this out to Shakeel and he nods.

“You know the weather is great for a shikara ride. I know the weather is great for a shikara ride. But the tourist doesn’t know that. Who will tell him?”

He drops me by the ghat across from the famous Chaar Chinaar. Four chinar trees stand out on a green platform in the middle of Dal Lake, with the rolling hills as a backdrop. It’s a photographer’s dream.

“You take a shikara ride. It’s Rs. 200 for 20 minutes. Don’t pay a paisa more,” Shakeel warns me.

*****

Shikara Speaking

“Tourism is the bread-and-butter of Kashmir,” says Nisaar Ahmad, “Here we go from day to day based on a simple code – tehzeeb. Respect the tourist. Make sure he has a great time so that he’ll go back and tell four other people to come here. That is what we try to do here.”

I’m sitting on a shikara called Lily of the Valley in the middle of Dal Lake. Nisaar Ahmad Khare is rowing at languid pace towards the Chaar Chinaar. Behind the mists, the silhouette of the mountains is visible. As we’ll approach sundown, their features will clear.

Balding, amply-fleshed and wearing the customary Kashmiri feran, Nisaar Ahmad is an old-timer in the shikara trade.

“I’ve been doing this since 1982. Then, there were less than a thousand shikaras plying their trade in Dal Lake. Now, there are more than five thousand.”

Nisaar has been around. Before settling into the shikara business, he was a jewellery-seller in Goa.

“I took original silver Kashmiri jewellery and handicrafts from here and opened a shop in South Goa. There weren’t too many Kashmiri shops in South India at that time so business was good. But as Goa started becoming popular, the big players turned up. I didn’t have the money to keep a bigger shop, to keep gold jewellery and two-three assistants. The competition swallowed me whole and spit me out.”

 

Not one to give up, Nisaar tried again, in Delhi.

“I wanted to settle in Delhi for my children,” he says, pulling a curtain to shield me from the sun, “I’ve been an angootha-chaap all my life. I wanted them to be educated, be doctors in Kashmir. But there too, I was barely able to make ends meet. So I had to come back here.”

How has the shikara business treated him, I ask.

“Fine, mostly. There’s no telling how many tourists will come through the year. But when they don’t come, it’s the shikaras and the hotels that suffer the most. But we get by, more or less.”

He talks on a wide variety of topics – the political stalemate in Kashmir, the lack of good doctors, the shady dealings in the aftermath of the floods.

“The central government was good to us. They gave us a lot of money to rebuild. So did a number of state governments and relief organizations. But a lot of people whose houses were untouched by the floods also got cheques.”

Sunsets across Dal Lake are to die for. The orange pastels of the dying sun create meringues among the clouds, clearly reflected upon the placid waters of the lake on which the shikaras lazily sail, now anonymously dark and eerily beautiful.

 

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Nisaar says to me, “Usually at this point, you’d find twenty-thirty shikaras out in the waters. Look around you now.”

I do. I count three.

“We need the tourism, bhaijaan. You go back to Delhi and tell your people to come here. We’ll take care of the rest.”

I get off the shikara, exchange numbers with Nisaar and make my way towards Shakeel, who’s listening to Euphoria’s Kabhi Aana Tu Meri Galli.

How apt.

*****

Epilogue

“There’s so much more I had to show you,” Shakeel says as we race back towards the hotel.

“Some other time. I’ll be back – you can count on it,” I reply.

He smiles. After a few minutes of silence, he starts again.

“I’ll come by midday tomorrow to pick you up. You’ll need to reach two hours before your flight. The check-in might take a while,” Shakeel says expressionlessly.

I’ll miss him.

As the lights from the storefronts go out one by one, and Srinagar prepares to tuck in for the night, I find myself fighting a mad desire to just…stay. With no end in sight. With no return flight ticket ushering me back to an urban jungle. I could get used to this.

Then I shrug, sigh and turn off the lights, with Shel Silverstein’s poem in my head:

There is a place where the sidewalk ends

And before the street begins,

And there the grass grows soft and white,

And there the sun burns crimson bright,

We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,

And watch where the chalk-white arrows go,

To the place where the sidewalk ends

*****

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