I am a Kashmiri Pandit or should I say, I identify as a Kashmiri Pandit – though I was not born in the valley and have never lived there. And before Article 370 was abrogated, like most Indians, I could not have bought land there. I don’t speak the language. Neither could my greatgrandmother whom I remember faintly – wearing a saree with a seedha palla like most people in UP and speaking Hindustani. My family migrated to the plains in ‘Aurangzeb’s time’ and the reason for leaving and whether we fled religious persecution or migrated in search of better jobs, is buried so deep that it is never discussed. What is interesting is that as a community we clung on to the Kashmiri identity and preserved our physical and cultural differentiators by marrying strictly within our own kind: Kashmiris of the plains. We never thought or spoke of ourselves as Punjabis or UP-ites or Rajasthanis though these were the geographical locations where different branches of my family lived.

Given all of the above, I was always very keen to visit my ancestral land. However, troubles in the valley, coupled with the fact that I have spent many decades living outside India, did not make it possible – until this summer. With the petering out of the Covid threat and Kashmir’s bestever tourist season in decades, it suddenly felt like the right time. As I boarded the flight to Srinagar, I was excited. Will it feel like something I had seen before? In another life? Déjà vu? As it turned out, the flight got in after dark and when I did catch a glimpse of the stunning Nigeen Lake with its pink lotuses outside my hotel the next morning, it did look beautiful and familiar – though whether that was from Hindi films, images on the net, or genetically coded Kashmiri memory was not immediately clear. Like most beautiful objects and places in the world, Kashmir – like the Mona Lisa- has been plastered on the collective memory for so long, it feels faintly familiar when one finally sees it. But I don’t think one has to be an ethnically pure Kashmiri to realise that, just realistic.

If a further dose of realism was needed, it came in the form of the shock that my prepaid SIM did not work in Kashmir. So if, as the modern dictum has it, home is where you don’t pay roaming charges, Kashmir was the furthest from home I have ever been. ‘Phone not registered on mobile network’ was the curt message on the screen when I tried to call. Luckily, I was with friends carrying post-paid phones and necessary calls were made to tell family that I had arrived safely. So, having got my head around the fact that Kashmir was alas not my home, what did I feel about the rest of the trip? Srinagar was frankly a bit disappointing – while the Dal Lake is spectacular, and the Jhelum river plays a charming game of hide and seek around its many bends – the rest of the city is no different from the unplanned urban sprawl of Northern India’s many hill stations. The numerous Mughal style gardens were underwhelming: decades of political unrest have crippled tourism, blocked investment in other industries and left behind a trail of neglect and poverty. Once proud symbols of a resplendent Mughal era, today they stand bedraggled and bare: dry patches of grass, unpruned rose bushes, unkempt hedges.

We decided, quite rightly, to spend more time outside the city. Since it was in the middle of the Amarnath Yatra fortnight, the roads to Sonamarg and Pahalgam along the route taken by pilgrims were likely to be crowded, so we decided to visit the lesser known Yousmarg and Doodh Patri – and what a great choice they turned out to be. That is the real beauty of Kashmir. It is so much more than its more famous resorts. There is such an abundance of beauty that one can turn in almost any direction and find it. Both routes, in different directions from Srinagar, took us through fruit laden orchards of apple, plum and pear trees and shepherds peacefully grazing their cattle until the road suddenly started climbing and the treeline became evergreen. The majestic Chinars, the svelte poplars and the gently undulating Deodars provided nature’s ticker tape outside the car window.

The two-hour journey was gone in a flash. Yousmarg turned out to be a vast alpine meadow with tourists doing the 5 km journey on mules to the Doodh Ganga river: called that for its milky white water. While we didn’t go all the way to the river, we had a beautiful walk through gently sloping and very green meadows. There were dire signs of poverty though, even in this peaceful landscape. We were badgered by mule owners right through our walk – begging us to ride rather than walk. Two years of Covid and before that, the threat of terrorism had all but killed the tourist trade and this record-breaking year for tourists has been welcomed with open arms. The CRPF jawan who hitched a ride with us in the car as we climbed the hill to the Shankaracharya temple refers to this the next day. “If only these people realise that terrorism does not put food on the table, tourism does,” he said in Hindi, gesticulating in the direction of the local Kashmiri taxi driver, even though the taxi driver was right there and could understand Hindi.

Oblivious of context and company, he continued, “If you had not been there, madam, he would not have agreed to give me a ride.” The relationship between the Indian peacekeeping troops and the local population is an uneasy one but as we climb the hill and traffic blocks our passage, the driver and the jawan started trading stories of other traffic snarls and how they could be solved. By the end of the journey up the hill, they had agreed a plan on how to stop private auto rickshaws from blocking the narrow road and when the CRPF man got off at Checkpoint 2 – we saw him heading towards a conclave of rickshaws, waving to the drivers to gather around. The devotees at the Shankaracharya temple snake around the outer courtyard in a long but orderly queue. The arduous climb of 300 odd steps to the temple courtyard makes them even more determined to reach the inner sanctum.

A lot of them are from southern India, part of large groups in Kashmir to do the Amarnath yatra. One of them wants to take a selfie with me; ‘a real Kashmiri Pandit’, she says excitedly as she whips out her phone and informs me that she has seen Kashmir Files. I am embarrassed but I find myself posing for her holiday snapshot album. The photo, when she sends it to me, makes me look bizarre. Face too pale, frozen smile, eyes wide open like a rabbit caught in the headlights of a car. I look like a specimen of a threatened species – which I guess, is what she will describe me as. Inside the inner sanctum of the temple there is a Shiv linga and a priest (expected) and two commandos (unexpected).

While I am used to seeing CRPF men in their camouflage uniform all along the roads, I do not expect them to be inside the inner sanctum of the temple. I certainly do not expect them to be applying tilak to the people who come into the temple. I obediently tilt my head and wait for the jawan to do the anointing. I walk out with a white sandalwood smear on the left side of my forehead. I I hope his marksmanship is better than his tilak application skills is my wry thought as I start the descent from the abode of the Gods.