The prettiest things right in front of our eyes often go unnoticed, sometimes literally too. At the tulip festival of Kashmir the milling crowd rarely took a second look at the nearly 20 lakh blooms spread over 30 hectares of lush acreage sweeping into the foothills of the Great Himalayan range. Instead, they busied themselves taking photographs of each other in insta-like poses and I was occupied watching them, marvelling at the brazenly doting couples in a normally conservative place. Newly-weds and lovers went to the farthest corners of the
The Jhelum flowed with nary a ripple; houseboats moored close to the banks remained unmoving. Except when passing beneath the Zero Bridge the water shimmered viridian in the mid noon sun. The rains had come and gone, thankfully without any deluge and destruction, and by April summer was peaking – the river wasn’t running very deep and one could see the green of the algae and other aquatic plants. I leaned over the ornamental balustrades of the recently restored, all-wood historical bridge, gotten used to by now to the reluctant
Like most attempts at chronicling indescribable beauty, Amir Khusro’s much-quoted ‘hamin asto’ is from afar, in passing, removed from close quarters and ground reality. From the perched Taj hotel – itself a peeling, fading relic of what it was just a few years ago, understaffed but brimming with heartening sights symbolic of a changing Kashmir like openly affectionate dating couples and doughty women in western wear – the Dal Lake snuggled mistily into the gelid grey of the Zabarwan sub-mountains. The water wasn’t exactly a shimmery emerald like the Pangong
