chartandwaters

Indians call Kashmir "heaven on earth" for the most obvious reasons: Tall, pristine snowcapped mountains, valleys filled with shining lakes, clean streets with none of the rampant signs of poverty or a careless government so vivid in Delhi, and deeply, profoundly intact traditions of shepherding and farming. In addition, Kashmiris, as a rule, love their government, which is a really fascinating phenomenon. The government's slogan, posted frequently, is "With you for you always." (Ed. note: Actually I think this was the slogan of the Delhi government as well; is it the slogan of each state or all India?) And today I saw, where they are repairing a road, the government had posted a sign: "Inconvenience Regretted. Thank you." I believed them.

It takes startlingly little effort to love Kashmir; try to push it away and it will chase you down and hug you like the most endearing child. In Delhi I was repeatedly directed away from the hill stations (Darjeeling, Dharamshala, Shimla, etc.), with their current hypertourism, while getting mysteriously mixed reports about the "cool" microclimate in Bangalore (one person says it's cool, the next says it's 98 and humid, a French woman told me, "No it's cool, it has a special microclimate"-- a word that should always be pronounced with a French accent--to which the next person, from Chennai, guffawed.) I had vowed, however, not to go out of my way to go to Sri Lanka, or Indonesia, or anywhere where there was supposed increased risk of violence, like, uh, Kashmir. But I fell in with some (very nice) Kashmiri touts who work for one of the more trustworthy government-affiliated travel agencies in Delhi--had a long dinner with their family, and was so touched by their gentleness and kindness that I wanted fiercely to know whether this was something in the water in Kashmir. I asked and asked everyone I could in Delhi whether a visit there was wise, given my nationality and religion and all else. They all said, "Kashmir is heaven on earth. You'll be fine. Just stay with large groups."

My aunt tells a story of a waitress she knew, from Bordeaux, who had only one wine recommendation. In the upscale restaurant where she worked, this could only go so far. What shall I have with the pasta? "Bor- DEAUX", she would say in her thick accent. And the fish? "Bor-DEAUX". So it was with the Kashmiri travel agents, who really did know how to book things elsewhere but cherish Kashmir with all their hearts, and wish to show people how safe it is. (The state is currently flooded with tourism from India, with other countries slowly joining in. Many people think the incidences of separatist violence, scattered intermittently throughout the state, are staged by the Indian army, in part to justify its presence here.) And their families are all in the tourism industry, so horribly ravaged.

I think I inherited what I'm calling "strategic paranoia" from my grandmother on my dad's side (instead of how are you, she would ask, "are you okay?" on the assumption that you were always on a precipice with a terrible cliff on one side). If your default mode is nervousness, you'll always be prepared. It can be both efficient, the way default modes are, and totally ineffective, in the way that, if I don't shut off my camera's default flash, the pictures are complete misrepresentations. But weirdly I think I've also inherited my mother's strategic optimism--when something wonderful happens, she's prepared to enjoy it. Strategic optimism told me Kashmir was where I was supposed to go next, the only magnificent option. Strategic pessimism put me in an unholy funk once I got here, because I was suddenly petrified of travelling anywhere alone, could not find anyone who spoke English I understood, and the person I was coming with became completely sidetracked with a serious family drama.

Some people may be concerned that I'm Jewish and Srinigar is predominantly Muslim. But my Jewishness is about as obvious as my being from the U.S: not. Second, I will tell tomorrow all the amazing discussions I've had with people here, about America (and Canada, where I'm frequently from), their feelings about it, their feelings about being Kashmiri, from heaven on earth, full of incredible resources including diamonds, timber, and wool, and watching their livelihoods simply be mangled for money. And how all of this has yanked me out of my unholy funk and put me in a much holier one... Till tomorrow, here are some signs in Sringigar:

Tuk 3: Seabucktthorn Based Drink
Amul Pasteurized Butter: Utterly butterly delicious.
Cement Agency.
Vigor, Vitality, and Stamina: Commando Capsule.
Inshallah Motors
The weirdest one is for a life insurance company: It reads, "Children's Money Back Policy"

Much love to all--

P.S. Who doesn't love a pillow? In the middle Eastern style, all the floors here are lined with pillows; and people sleep on the floor, or sometimes on a low mattress on the floor. For eating a cloth is laid on the floor, and everyone is given their own individual bowls of each dish, as well as one big aluminum bowl--beautifully fluted, with a stem--full of rice, into which you mix all your other little servings of food. With all these personal little bowls, you feel like a queen. Everything else takes place on the floor: the women wash the dishes in a tray on the floor; many salespeople sit on the floor and display their wares from there. I think most people, um, unless they have knee problems, would have to fall in love with this, but when I was a kid I designed my dream home, one room with pillows all over the floor, and in college doing a lot of dance I was really good at anything that involved rolling around on the floor (you do a shocking amount of this in modern dance). When I was thinking about leaving this place, I realized how sorry I would be to give up the floor.

In addition, when someone showed me exactly how to eat with your hand, when my thumb, cupped in my palm, popped the food into my mouth and rice didn't spill everywhere I was actually exhilarated. It really makes chairs, tables, and utensils all seem so comical.

Today Tasleema, the 19 year old daughter, said nervously that she was uncomfortable with the fact that my upperlip was growing that moustache shadow that I have a weird pride in, as I associate it with being Eastern European and because in Texas very few people I knew growing up had it. "Are you going to do something about it?" she asked. So she did the "threading" thing where you weave thread around each hair and yank. With each yank I screamed and curled up into a fetal position. "Please, Gabi, it doesn't look nice," she'd say again and again each time I pulled away. "Please, Gabi. Stop." I looked a lot better afterwards and even imagined the family smiled at me in relief.