A meadow for all seasons

Photos: DEEPA ALEXANDER

ALPINE BEAUTY (Clockwise from left) The Affarwat mountain, buttercups run riot and the Maharani temple in the meadow

Mughal Emperor Jahangir was passionately obsessed with Kashmir. With his court, wives and concubines in tow, he is said to have journeyed to Kashmir eight times creating the pleasure gardens of Acchbal, Shalimar and Vernag. And, when asked what he wanted as he lay dying on a hot summer day in 1627, he is said to have murmured, “Kashmir, only Kashmir.”

That is how the story is told, and I believe it all the more as I journey from Srinagar to Gulmarg, 52 km away, on a clear day. There is a nip in the air as we refuel at Tanmarg at the foot of the ridge and tick off a checklist that includes tea, batteries and flavoured milk. The Scorpio hums a melody as the easy gradient on the ridge offers superb views — of the shimmering green fields of rice, of the darker foothills sloping down to the Valley, the greater pickets of the Himalayas, clusters of walnut, apple and cherry, and, in the far distance, Srinagar glinting in the sun. The smoke of evening fires mingles with the sharp scent of the pine and deodar, and settles like a soft haze with the dying rays of the sun — a smell and sight that is Kashmir, only Kashmir.

Gulmarg is rather like the Taj Mahal lost in an avalanche of tourist clichés that proclaim its beauty and yet, exactly like the mausoleum, reality far transcends expectations and you are quite unprepared for the enchantment of the place. A resort fit for a king and founded by one (Yusuf Shah Chak), Gulmarg lies at the base of the Affarwat mountains and up until the month of February, everything here is painted with snow — the streets, the pine branches, the roofs and stiles.

But, I am here in summer and the saucer-shaped ‘Meadow of Flowers’ is full of wind-blown crocuses, peonies and tiny carpet daisies. Not quite the one-horse town, Gulmarg’s gentle meadow is dotted with ponies grazing while their Cossack-looking Gujjar owners toast themselves in the sun.

I walk around the small town on foot, past the Gulmarg Golf Club set up by the British in 1904, the Army’s High Altitude Warfare School, its golfing green, the Maharani temple and the St. Mary’s Church.

When you play golf in Gulmarg, you get two caddies — one to carry your bag and track your shots, and one to serve you tea. Aslam and Najib are encouraging, but post-partum weight is not helping my backswing and I abandon playing and head instead to ride the Gondola Cable Car.

Said to be Asia’s highest and longest cable car project, the two-stage ropeway ferries people to and from Kongdoori Mountain, a shoulder of the nearby Affarwat Peak (4,200 m). The skiing season is almost over, but from a height, I can see a couple of tourists on skis take mirthful tumbles in the snow. The view from the top, near Khilanmarg, is magnificent. By now, my daughter is singing ‘Jingle Bells’, and I decide to dash through the snow in a no-horse-open-sleigh.

The sled gathers speed as we head downwards through the gentle slopes but most of the snow has melted and the sled trundles to a stop on a slushy embankment. The daughter looks from me to her father and decides it’s mom who is anchoring the sled — I get off and trek it back to base.

I weave my way through the woods, past a Gujjar horseman with unforgettable grey eyes, leading mules. I pass three Army jawans on a road patrol whistling ‘Kabhie Kabhie’ and startle a fall of warblers rendezvousing along the power lines.

I follow the pony track down to the ziarat of Baba Reshi (Baba Payam-ud-din). The pir who died in 1480 was a courtier in the palace of king Zain-ul-Abidin. I walk past tourists seeking favours at the holy man’s tomb and past a CRPF post with the signboard that reads ‘Respect All, Suspect All’. The shrine is beautiful with latticed woodwork, and quiet despite the crush of people at evening prayers in the nearby mosque.

It’s almost evening and the six-km trek has left me ravenous. Thankfully, the family comes to the rescue bringing our guide Babloo and the Scorpio and loads of piping hot food — naan, curried stalks of lotus, meatballs simmered in a creamy sauce of cardamom and thickened milk, washed down with cups of kahwa, tea flavoured with spices that is a memory of Kashmir, only Kashmir.

As we zig-zag our way up to Gulmarg, Babloo pulls up at what seems to be just another curve on the road. And suddenly there it is — mile upon mile of bottle green lined by the silver blue of rivers, walled in by white waves of mountains cresting with the Nanga Parbat. I hold my breath for what seems eternity. It is as if I see the whole world. But, it is only Kashmir.

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