The Autumnal Faces Of Srinagar And Dal Lake In Kashmir Mesmerises

David Beckam

Where by are the tunes of Spring? Ay, exactly where are they?

Believe not of them, thou hast thy songs too, – John Keats

I visited the Kashmir valley in a divided thoughts… there was the magnetic temptation of its ethereal appeal that fed my girlhood goals, and then, there ended up those people gory tales of the battered valley disintegrated by terror and mayhem. There have been 3 consecutive bomb blasts at Srinagar, the Money of Kashmir, on the working day I began my journey from Kolkata (the Funds metropolis of the point out of West Bengal) on a package tour. So my mind was in a condition of exhilaration to encounter the Beauty AND THE BEAST! My partner was upset with individuals entrance web page newspaper reports of carnage early morning and tried out to dissuade me from my impetuous solve. I pleaded with him to allow me go as there was no risk-free haven on Earth these days and I considered I would return property…

It was autumn- the year “of mists and mellow fruitfulness”… that was exactly what the silent voice of the Srinagar morning whispered to me the 1st working day. In fact, as I drew back again the floral curtains of my resort area, I stood spellbound as I encountered the autumnal experience of the blushing town which was still to awaken from its chill slumber! My heart skipped as the golden-bronze Chinar trees, alongside the highway, lit up, and the magical leaves rustled by the very first caress of sun-gentle! The more mature leaves of russet and gold fell off the branches silently at speedy succession only to generate the vermilion-golden path of prolonged stretches. My eyes travelled much and were being unquestionably riveted by the sight of the distant snow-capped regal Himalayas, glowing orange, as the to start with flush of sunrays slid down its slopes… I forgot about the bomb blast and terror attacks and ran down the picket stairs of my lodge to breathe in the “honey-dewed” morning air of the town so classy!

As I walked down the highway, I averted the CafĂ© Coffee Day as it reminded me of my crowded town and the usual Kolkata smell which I required to get away from… I was dying to are living Kashmir of my dream! So the to start with curious confront that greeted me with a warm smile was that of the ripe outdated encounter of Ahmad Kader Miya in a nearby tea stall. For the initial time I tasted kahwa its eco-friendly tea brewed with saffron, cloves, inexperienced cardamoms, cinnamon sticks and chopped almonds. Its mellow flavor blended effectively with the really feel of the mellowed year, embracing my spirit with a perception of heat. The taste of kahwa is lined with a fading bitterness which somehow received related with the nice bitter taste of walnut. The grandson of Kader Miya, the teenager-aged Abdul, who served the tea for the 2nd time with a shy smile reminded me of very similar innocent youthful faces on the go over web pages of Outlook Magazine, gunned down by the military on terror charges. Why do these small children give up every little thing to… ?

I diverted my feelings as I viewed Srinagar acquiring alongside silently with its daily pursuits: Does this silence signify peace restored or a lull ahead of yet another bomb assault? I couldn’t enable ponder above… I opened my purse absent-mindedly when I was woke up from my feelings by the cracked voice of the old person with hennaed beard and form brown eyes who instructed me that the tea was no cost as it was meant for “Mehman Newazi” which merely acquainted me with the community society of giving tea to the visitor who visits the town for the very first time…

During the later on component of the early morning, as we sauntered by, we saw the silver birch trees and the poplars aglow with warm sunlight. We also saw the exotic Nilgai (Blue- bull), the greatest Asian antelope grazing in the grey Scrub forest in the vicinity. We also encountered a herd of cute cashmere goats of gentle brown and milk white variety with shaggy coats and apricot nose, led by a shepherd. They ended up sporting curiously spiral horns! The locals informed that these goats make the finest wool, and the beautiful Pashmina shawls were being created from the fiber extracted from their overall body. Even with the busy market location, the city has its very own leisurely rate and we forgot about time… We walked down to a modest bus stand and took a bus-journey to the legendary Lake, the Dal. Even though bustling with activity by then, the lake alone is tranquil. I felt truly romantic with the dry Chinar leaves crackling beneath the feet as we headed in direction of the Shikaras (wood boats) for a experience. We walked silently, surrounded by these cluster of alluring Chinars, glittering golden in the mellowed daylight…

Like the Venetian gondolas, Shikaras are the cultural symbol of Kashmir. Some of the oarsmen in vibrant Phi ran (a extended embroidered woolen gown), puffed absent at their hukkas, a community tobacco in merry spirit. These adult males are tough-doing work and courteous in their manners. They flashed smiles and my eyes admired the faint blush that spread around their rugged, weather-beaten faces and their blue eyes that shone with peculiar light-weight! They welcomed us and we employed two shikaras.

There was a mischievous interaction of mists and sunlight which designed a magic as we reclined ourselves on the velvet, dazzling colored cushions in the shikara, surrounded by vibrant, floral canopies. As the oarsmen lustily dipped their spade-shaped oars into the chill waters of the lake, the lengthy-beaked shikaras floated low in the water like a crocodile. The furrows created by the movement of the oars shone golden green at occasions. Orange mild oozed over the distant mountain tops that surrounded the lake and the white snowy cliffs reflected the hue. It was a calm, passionate experience when time seemed not to slip out of hand…

The boys clicked absent to capture the enchanting views of the pine- protected Himalayas encompassing the lake from all corners from the distance. The pine trees stood in tall greenness on the majestic mountains and the clusters shaped different geometric patterns though the Chinars, nearby, blushed as my eyes thirstily soaked in the unimaginable shade and lines around. We also had a flashing glimpse of the silver black of a kingfisher’s again as it emerged out of the placid lake to fish its breakfast. The water appeared so clear! The cluster of floating white lilies appeared so serene! The solar-kissed lotuses smiled pink… The smaller ducks, white Egrets and pond Herons floated by blissfully…

The chill in the air whispered the information of the arrival of wintertime. The boats guy regaled us with neighborhood tunes on our ask for and as the wild, impressive melodies floated in the air, I breathed in Kashmir… Some women of the valley rode by, heading toward their property, that floated on the lake, to the other side… They carried veggies, fuels and things of day by day wants… their phi ran seemed so discolored which, having said that, unsuccessful to fade away their dimpled, rosy smiles. Even with life’s severe dictates on them, the Kashmiri adult males and women of all ages appeared to get lifetime in their stride. I never uncovered them complain about life’s injustice, whether nature’s harshness or, a lot more frequently, man’s crudeness. If their aquiline nose, blue eyes and blushing cheeks appeared to be in hanging harmony with the natural abundance that fostered them, their cheerful spirit, in the facial area of grim violence that bled the valley terminally, spoke volumes about their tricky genetic created that matched the majestic Himalayas.

As we glided alongside the Jhelum river, we handed the crumbling residences whose only evidence of lifetime ended up some vegetable patches and chickens in the yard pecking at the grains in the frozen dirt. This component of old Srinagar conveys a tale of a crumbling previous that might have been wonderful after, as is related in Rushdie’s “Midnight’s Kids”…

We crossed a nestled cove, surrounded by golden-inexperienced trees and lush meadows positioned at one more corner of the Dal lake which appeared like keats’ “fairyland forlorn”… The elegant Houseboats beckoned us from the distance to expend the night floating on the lake. The Marble dome of Hazrat Bal, seen like an “egg-formed pearl” from the length allured us to feel its ancient tale of Moi-e-Muqqadus, the sacred hair of Prophet Mohammad…
The distant deal with of an outdated fisherman bent in research for lotus root reminded me of Tai, the mysteriously ageless boats man who arrives alive from Rushdie’s web page…

The Autumnal facial area of Srinagar and Dal conjures up me to say:

“No spring nor summer time elegance hath these types of grace

As I have noticed in just one autumnal facial area… ” JOHN DONNE.

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