By Jhilam Chattaraj
I heard the music of snow in Kashmir. The ceaseless flow of the river Lidder in Pahalgam — its crystal unfolding by day and mellifluous roar by night. I witnessed the water’s metamorphosis— frozen peaks softening into stream-songs:
White myths
chant divine hymns —
pine glimmer conspire
a carnival of radiance —
snow baths
In the warm April air, sporadically seized by icy wind sheets, I fulfilled a secret wish — to meet my namesake, River Jhelum. In Srinagar, the Jhelum flows quietly under the Zero Bridge. I remember reading about Jhelum in Agha Shahid Ali’s, The Country Without a Post Office (1997): “When I return, the colours won’t be so brilliant, the Jhelum’s waters so clean, so ultramarine. My love so overexposed”. In 2014, Ali’s house in Rajbagh, Srinagar was destroyed by the fierce flow of the Jhelum. A decade later, I decided to meet the river—we are both made of the same shivers — unstoppable, unpredictable; we create, we destroy:
Jhelum
subsumes ‘Jehlum’.
Stirred by Shahid’s lament,
rivers renew marine kinship —
fate’s call
My connection to Jhelum began with the poem, ‘Balaka’, by Rabindranath Tagore in 1915. The poet visited local writer and scholar Pandit Anand Koul Bamzai’s house in the Zaina Kadal area of Srinagar city.* He wrote a series of poems on the shimmering flow of Jhelum—the quietness and the fury. These poems inspired my mother to name me ‘Jhelum’. Perhaps, Tagore’s idyllic depiction of Kashmir stirred the hearts of Bengalis. One is not surprised by the range of Bengali voices filling the Ghats of Dal Lake. Kashmiri vendors spoke fluently in Bangla. They aptly dealt with the opinionated and bargain-loving Bengali. The most popular snack in Dal Lake seemed to be Jhal Muri:
Muri
claims Dal lake’s heart.
Bengal’s jhal churns the air—
far east dreams of summer escape—
Kashmir
From the vivacious hum of Dal Ghats one could walk further towards the unfrequented walkways, where the waters were still — not sliced by the relentless motion of shikaras. Our boatman, Mansoor played old Hindi songs as he struggled with the wind to keep the shikara steady on the ‘ultramarine’ infinite of the lake — blue — pure blue:
Dal lake’s
porcelain skin
wears the blue sky-pheran—
lotus lips adorn the water’s
neckline
The golden shimmer of the houseboats, the floating cottages and the sway of massive willow trees captivated my heart:
Houseboats
with saffron shine
lure stiff souls from flatlands—
the flamboyance of floating on
love-lakes
Beneath the water’s translucence, one could see weeds that held the weight of the houses — creating a wondrous waterland of wood and concrete —
Steel-veined
grass-loops lift homes
on Dal Lake — liquid lores
flourish on glossy reflections—
green drift
I savoured sweet Kashmiri Khewa, grilled fish, and a few other delicacies while my shikara went wading through water alleys among houseboats. I also learnt how lake life adapted to the protocols of digital deliveries:
Dal Lake’s
dulcet lanes
row App-stitched shikaras.
Streets mail food to houseboats — urban
hunger
It was a quaint pleasure to walk along the bustling Ghats of Dal Lake. I noticed the strange juxtaposition of joyous travellers and armed guards. Everyone seemed to have accepted the coexistence of blithe wonder and vigil, of beauty and dread:
Soldiers
scan hectic eyes.
Daily demeanour soaks
gun-light — hopeful of preserving
pleasure.
The sun began to set over the snow—I was enamoured by the blaze of orange radiance through the vibrant bustle of Lal Chowk. The next day, I planned a rendezvous with Kashmir’s flowers, mythical trunks of Chinar trees, and the Mughal gardens. For the time, I saw daffodils, cherry blossoms, magnolias, tulips, their deep wild sheen rising towards the bluest sky of spring: a pageant of white, pink, fuchsia, yellow, peach — a salubrious flow of nectarines:
Blossoms
assume pearl light.
Astral firmament explodes—
floral supernova kindles
soul-storms
Tulips
open rowed rhythms —
soft shades stun bunkered hills—
Gardens embrace a swarm of thrilled
foot-falls.
The gigantic chinar trees and their lustrous leaves filtered the early daylight. Together they created an unearthly embroidery — leaf motifs on the silken sky:
Star-bursts
of Chinar leaves
illume Kashmir’s skies;
eyes remain fixed at foliage-feasts—
spring light
“All you need to enjoy Kashmir is time and money,” said a boatman near Dal Lake. However, to absorb the geographical and cultural spheres of Kashmir, one needs to harbour awareness; this is not a mere hotel-to-hotel, valley-to-valley, bed-to-baggage travel in air-conditioned cars —but a slow immersion into the rhythms of nature, culture, and future harmonies. We crossed the mustard fields of Pampore, apple gardens before Awantipora and reached the heights of Laripora, Pahalgam. As we ascended the valley, I could hear the Lidder’s choric calls. I read about River Lidder for the first time in Shubhash Kak’s The Secrets of Ishbar (1996). I was captivated by the river’s fearless flow, the lapping mountain waters, and the river bed rich with dappled pebbles:
Sunshine
flows into trees—
glacial meadows gargle
Lidder’s pulse—cleansed spirits worship
water.
I could not help but return to my girlhood self and stacked up pebbles of varied sizes and colours. I whispered a prayer hoping they would remain still by the river:
Echoes
of a bluebird
raise a temple of stones—
cleaved souls dance to whirling, rippling
Lidder
I was also captivated by the sheer flush of clear light. Never have I seen such a range of iridescence— earthy yet divine, piercing yet preserving, common yet sacred. Vacant plots in the air were lit by blue, purple, and ash-grey glimmer; they filtered through dark spaces between pine silhouettes rising against the morning sun:
Lavish
light schemes
enrich Kashmir’s mystical paths—
blue floods enwrap the deepest skies—
snow-sheets
Lush Green meadows, snow-blankets drenched in sun and rain filled our sights. Enthralled tourists enjoyed steaming bowls of Maggi noodles, some bargained for shoes and jackets, and others explored the valley on horseback. The village of Laripora was spotted with hotels, guest houses, hamlets, ponies, and children. Plump, freckled faces sauntered their way to the local school. I saw women smiling at my leisurely gait, shepherding their livestock; washing, cleaning, and cooking; chores women usually do. At nightfall, the women would gather at the porch and prepare for the chill evening:
Pine lights
perforate
Kashmir’s curtains—women
prepare kangris for the night— all
walk warm
The next morning, I was invited to a conference of birds; mynas, sparrows, blackbirds, and crows; oddly, they competed for my attention:
Blackbirds
on willow trees
sing in sunlit rapture.
Sweet enamour — Crows barge in — rhythms
break down
I was also accompanied by furry friends. I saw one dog fishing in the river. It had the skills to balance on rocks, brave the high currents of the river and fill its belly. Others stopped by for food and love, but none of the dogs ever barked; whether in the city or the village:
Hushed dogs
claim Kashmir’s streets—
Do they fear the fire’s call?
Silence swallows canine rumble.
Still nights.
Stillness did not mark my journey’s end. I was rather excited to explore the possibilities of motion. In Kashmir, everything flows into the other — snow melts into rivers, rivers entwine lakes, lakes build houseboats, boats invite travellers, and travellers visit gardens, where tiny blossoms imitate the art of snowflakes; they bloom like ice droplets on the grass. In Kashmir, heavenly spheres unite — the valley’s composure returns to the river’s roar and the love for mystery leads to unmatched discoveries.
- The author is an academic and poet based in Hyderabad
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