The Native Tourist : 3
Ghat No. 13
Qasim Bhai seemed about seventy years old, but I might have misread his age. Ravages of conflict often reflect from visages of those who have lived through it. But there was no mistaking that sharp, slightly aquiline Kashmiri nose and spry gait. Qasim Bhai’s job can be described as a room keeper, but that’s not quite accurate. Tiny bits and pieces of a bygone era remain embedded in Kashmiri life. Houseboats on the Dal lake, introduced by the British, are one — but there are other less obvious ones. Khansama, something of a cross between chief of kitchen staff and a butler, is one such legacy. Khansamas are best described not by what they do, but how they do it — which is very attentively and with utmost affection towards their patron. Qasim Bhai is perhaps better described as a Khansama, albeit in today’s hotel hospitality setting.
Qasim Bhai poured tea from the flask and handed me the cup. ‘Wal se, yapaer te de byaakh cup’ (Please serve us another cup too), my dad said. ‘Vyun unn mahra’ (I’ll get it right away, Sir). My dad seemed very much at ease — choosing to sit cross-legged on the bed instead of the couch (sofa). It’s an old habit from days when it was common to have a Diwan in the Kashmiri living room.
I looked out the bay window at what can only be described as a multi layered canvas. A row of houseboats with anglicized names — ‘Duke Palace’, ‘Hill View Queen’, ‘Royal Glory’, ‘Joan of Arc’ and on and on — with a backdrop of tall trees on floating gardens — a cluster of tiny islands in the lake that are too small to be noticed individually but collectively host a community of lake dwellers. Behind them all and engulfed in a shower of sunshine stood Hari Parbat, a large hill with an imposing eighteenth century fort at the top. No one particularly cares about the fort but what makes Parbat more than just a hill is the troika of Sharika (Shakti) temple, revered by Kashmiri Pandit community, Makhdoom Sahib, an important sufi shrine and Chatti Patshahi, a Sikh gurdwara (Sikh temple). The hill is visible from far and wide of the city — as if Gods conspired to set an example of harmony for its residents. Humans of course are known to miss irony even when it’s staring them in the face.
My friend suggested we take a Shikara ride in the lake. Shikara is a row boat with canopy, spring seats and cushions — a Kashmiri gondola if you will. As we stepped out I again started looking for familiar and observing the new. The place was teeming with people — tourists and those catering to them. The old hotels were still there, some operational, other decrepit — but here was something new: a row of vegetarian restaurants. Not just vegetarian, Nathu’s vegetarian restaurant, punjabi veg. dhaba, gujarati thaali and a ‘pure jain’ restaurant thrown in for good measure. If you could curb your enthusiasm and not look towards the lake, you’d think you were walking down Paharganj outside New Delhi Railway station. I love Dhabas as much as the next guy, but sometime I do wish they never left their home by the highways.
We crossed the road over to the lake front. The way you get to the Shikaras is by stepping down the steps from the bank and into a waiting Shikara. There’s a word for these descending steps — Ghat. Bund (Embankment) and Ghat have always been part of the local vocabulary but I don’t seem to recall words like Ghat being used on public sign-boards. For last twenty years the rhetoric in these parts has been ‘Kashmir is not India’ and here I was descending down “Ghat No. 13” facing a row of sixteen types of north indian style vegetarian dhabas. This native tourist couldn’t help but feel a bit of cognitive dissonance.
We sunk deeper into its springy seats as the Shikara gently moved away from the Ghat. With every paddle, the faces on the shore started to shrink — slowly avuncular mountains started gazing down at us and the lake started whispering a balmy breeze. It was a beautiful vista but as I looked past my reflection in the water, I unmistakably heard “Look inside me, I’m dying”.
