The Native Tourist : 1
The Aerodrome
The plane was packed with tourists eagerly awaiting to be transported from the punishing heartland heat to the salubrious climes of the valley. The short flight from Jammu to Srinagar is about thirty minutes but to the jaundiced native eye the difference in green is conspicuous as soon as one crosses over Banihal and the terraced paddy fields emerge. Native senses can feel Kashmir before they actually see it.
As the plane touched ground and sprinted down the asphalt, darker army-olive dots whizzed past on the soothing green landscape. Sentinel towers book-ended the strip, the camouflaged hangers and the terminal. From the plane window the ‘Aerodrome’, as we used to call it back in the day, did not look very different from the one where I had taken off from more than twenty years ago, but the sepia image in the mind was quickly replaced by the reality of the new and impressive terminal.
The new terminal is impressive — spacious with high ceilings, airy and clean. My friend, whom I have known since childhood and who now lives in Delhi, had decided to meet me and my family in Srinagar. His flight was to land in about an hour. I decided to hang around, waiting for him while my family proceeded to the hotel. In many ways the strangeness of this visit had started three months ago. I had been advised to reserve hotel accommodation early as it was expected to be another busy season. I travel all the time, I book hotels all the time. But it’s the strangest feeling in the world when one has to book a hotel when visiting what in one’s subconscious is still home.
Looking around I spotted some seats outside the VIP lounge. VIP lounge, I could hear a voice in my head as I strained to peek inside expecting a politician or two lounging inside. Isn’t that what is meant by VIP? Almost as if on cue, two security officers in olive green walked out. Hmmm ok. Eyeing a row of blue chairs facing the luggage conveyor belt, I decided upon the middle one. I sat down and started to take in the view.
A mother and her young daughter were sitting not very far from where I was, seemingly waiting for someone to arrive. The mother’s head was covered in a scarf and I wondered if this was part of Kashmiri mores now. I tried to remember how things used to be back in the day but could not recall anything with certainty. Just then Inspector Asgar walked past — the crisp uniform, polished shoes and upright gait exuded authority while few constables hurriedly followed to keep pace. I remember the name because it was embroidered in gold on an epaulet-like black stitched name-tag. Nothing like those small safety-pinned nameplates of the past.
Inspector Asgar did not cover her hair. It was neatly arranged in a rather muscular braid held together in a back knot. No head scarf, the voice said. I looked at the mother again. I think she looked a bit different this time.
A nattily dressed Sikh gentleman sat in the chair next to me as a new set of arrivals was announced over the public address system.
‘It’s hard to decipher what is being said over this PA system”, I said, trying to strike up a conversation.
Yes, can never understand what they are saying. Do you know if Kingfisher has arrived?.One would expect a better announcement system in a new airport.
I’m visiting after a long time, twenty two years. I said.
Are you a Pandit? The face does seem a bit familiar. Trisal’s from Gogji Bagh?
No, My family lived in Sanat Nagar, just north of Barzallah. Razdan.
Ah, OK. It was very sad what happened.
How are things now?
Getting better. Certainly better.
How about you? Did you also have to leave ?
No, we never left. Always in Raj Bagh. My Kids are in US now though.
Were the Sikhs never targeted or did the descendants of this martial race simply decide to brave it out, I wondered. A few Kashmiri Sikhs I knew were entrepreneurs. One Mr. Sahni owned a beautiful large bungalow close to our house. The PA system blared Kingfisher and the Sikh gentleman got up, shook my hand and left.
I shifted my gaze to a bunch of tourist receptionists/handlers waiting with named placards.
“Alhamdulilah. The person has not arrived. Yes, the flight arrived and we were here on time, waiting. No one came up. What do you want us to do? Wait for some time? The other passenger has arrived. Do you want us to send him in the car? His post? Joint Secretary. OK, we’ll send the car down then.- Hyo walla, ye trawnoo shahar (Hey come here, drop this person off to the city).
The quintessential tourist handler with his entourage of few young men was going about his hospitality business in this ‘paradise on earth’. The Joint Secretary was ushered towards the exit, ‘Aaye Sir’ (This way, Sir). Two young men were asked to stay back and wait for the other passengers that the group was supposed to pick up. The young men nodded and earnestly held up the placard, occasionally smiling at the incoming passengers but mostly at each other.
Another flight landed and a rush of new passengers started to gather near the luggage pick up area. Young men in jeans and T-shirts stenciled with odd slogans, young besotted couples, teenaged siblings immersed in their iPods etc., and older folks too — both men and women. Most were from hindi heartland but a few from south as well. They all wore a confident demeanour — a certain tourist strut that conveys ‘pamper me if you want my business’. This was in contrast to my own anxiety — not about anything in particular but one created by that monkey on your back. I was also struck by the fact that I hadn’t yet noticed even a single Kashmiri Pandit face in this sudden influx. I don’t why but it felt a bit strange. Hundreds of happy heartland tourists were there to enjoy the cooler climes but not a single Pandit. It felt a bit strange.
I looked again towards the two young men (tourist handlers) who had been deputed to look out for the expected guest. By now they were a bit restless and seemed distracted by the petite IndigoAir employee who was ushering passengers of the just arrived flight towards a different luggage conveyor belt. Clearly, she was not a Kashmiri.
‘Hya bochh ha laej, kihin khaw ne su pyeth. Ayem aisiya soochmut wyen gasiye hartaal’. (Buddy, I’m hungry. Haven’t had a morsel since morning. I think he must have thought it might get unruly and cancelled his plans). The young man was referring to the burning of a sufi shrine the previous day in what was being reported as accidental fire due to an electrical short circuit. Hurriyat conference, an amalgam of many separatist organizations, had given a call for a shutdown.
In 1989 I had taken off from this very airport the day after Shabir Shah had been arrested and violence spread in Kashmir. In 2012, encouraged by the reports of normalcy and air of optimism, I found myself once again in Srinagar International Airport, with downtown reportedly shuttered in protest.
Suddenly someone slapped by back.
Oye, Kahan Khoya hai!
My friend had landed.
