(Some names have been changed).
I awoke in my private room upon the houseboat on Dal Lake. In the cosy sitting room, Ahmad’s sisters fixed me some sweet saffron tea and gave me two rotunds of Kashmiri flatbread. The flatbreads were tough as hell and would have been very lame on their own, but they softened and sweetened when dipped in the tea. I felt content and a little blissful, but my bliss fast abated, bubbling into angst when I sat down with Ahmad and his father and they tried to coerce me into paying a small fortune for a few days trekking. I didn’t see the point in even trying to haggle with them. They were suffocating. And I was trapped on their boat. How could I know whether it would be worth it when I didn’t know what else was on offer in Kashmir?
When they couldn’t get me to agree to trekking on the spot, they tried to get me to pay £5000 rupees (£50.00) for a boat ride on the lake. They simply wanted me to agree to something. But I found them both very disagreeable.
I insisted over and over again that I needed time to think, so Ahmad and his father rowed me across to the town instead. There was a hole somewhere in the boat and water was leaking into it. Jaarood handed me a small bucket which I used to scoop and fling out the water while he rowed. I didn’t understand why we didn’t just take the extravagant Shikara from yesterday, rather than this piece of crap which would have sunk within minutes had I not been scooping away with the bucket. Perhaps this was my punishment for not agreeing to their ludicrous proposals.
I desperately needed to be by myself so I could relax and think clearly, but Ahmad followed me into town. We passed a liquor store where Ahmad told me I could get alcohol. He and his father had both assured me that I could bring alcohol with me on the hike, as if not being able to have a beer while hiking a mountain would be a deal-breaker or something. Ahmad also admitted to me that though he is Muslim he will sometimes have a drink himself – he just keeps it on the down-low, and certainly doesn’t tell his father.
In the first café we ventured to electric was out and we couldn’t get any coffee. We scanned the menu as we waited for the power to come back on. While it was already apparent that Kashmir had its own cuisine, I spotted the notorious ‘pink pasta’ on the menu, a dish I’ve seen served at so many restaurants throughout India and tried a couple times. Rather unsurprisingly, it consists of pasta caked a pink coloured sauce – burger sauce maybe? It’s not far off…
‘What the fuck is pink pahsta?’ Ahmad said, as I pointed it out. I was surprised he’d never heard of it seeing as I see it everywhere in India. Ahmad insisted he’d never heard of pink pasta before in his life. The word “pasta” seemed to bring out his accent, he’d pronounce it: ‘P – AH – ST – A,’ emphasizing the vowel downwards as he spoke which suited the heavy disdain in his voice. Almost as much disdain as he had for sushi. ‘What the FUCK is pink PAHSTA?’
Ahmad then began telling me about his time in Japan. He spent a whole year working there and has only recently returned to Kashmir. Letting Ahmad talk about his experience in Japan was the best part of our interactions together. It was both interesting and funny to get a Kashmiri’s perspective on a country radically different to his own. Ahmad told me about his initial reaction to Japanese food which he despised. ‘They eat these plain boiled noodles and rice’ he would say, ‘I was like what the fuck, man?’ He talked about working at a restaurant in Japan, how – unlike India and the USA where tipping is normal – tipping isn’t a thing in Japan; another big reason he disliked it. He also talked about dating a Japanese girl while he was there. One of the only things he spoke about positively.
Then he asked me. ‘So… do you have a boyfriend? Or a girlfriend?’ he added, almost as an afterthought.
I was instantly on red alert. Did I have GAY written on my forehead? Why the hell would Ahmad ask me that? Keeping in mind what Malik had said, I’d been trying to speak a little deeper than usual. I made up a quick story about having a girlfriend some time ago. Ahmad watched me as I spoke… somehow, I felt he didn’t believe me.
Then Ahmad asked me how I met Malik. ‘My brother is a very nice guy, isn’t he?’ Ahmad went on. I must have been paranoid… brutally paranoid… but so much of what Ahmad said to me felt like it had a challenge behind it.
The electric never came back on so we hopped to another café. I finally got some coffee and Ahmad and I shared a pizza for lunch. I insisted on paying the bill. I wanted some control over the situation and I hadn’t given up hope of escaping Ahmad. I eventually persuaded him to leave me to my own devices. He headed off and I was finally alone. Thank fuck…
I took a walk by the lake and found I could easily get a boat ride for 1000 rupees. That instantly ruled out a boat ride with Ahmad and his father, and it also solidified my conviction, I would not be paying those guys to take me hiking. Besides, it would only be worth it if Malik was here. He should have been arriving today but I had not heard from him since he left me on the bus in Delhi. He hadn’t answered my messages. I wanted to ask Ahmad if he was coming, but to be honest, I was too afraid. Malik had been too scared to travel up here with me in case his family were suspicious. I couldn’t understand his paranoia at the time. Now I did. What I didn’t understand, is why Malik had sent me up here at all. Did he really just want to pawn me off on his family?
An hour or so later, Ahmad texted me to say he was back in town. I met up with him and told him that I couldn’t afford any of the things he and his father were offering me. I was bracing myself for further pressure, but instead Ahmad feigned complete disinterest and asked me if I wanted to hang out with one of his mates. He called his friend and next thing I know I’m getting a boat ride for free. We set off on Dal Lake upon a rowing boat with a hookah and a roll of Kashmiri weed.
It was strong stuff and hit me hard after only a couple puffs. I felt dizzy, my limbs tight. I suddenly felt extremely vulnerable and wondered why I’d been invited on this boat trip.
We went further and further into the lake. Ahmad and his friend exchanged a lot of words in Kashmiri. They laughed coldly. I suddenly felt quite certain that whatever they were saying, they were talking about me.
‘Do you know what I feel like right now?’ Ahmad said suddenly looking at me. ‘Sex on a boat… What about you Shane?’
I laughed uncomfortably. What the hell was going on?
Once again, I felt like I was being challenged. My hands trembled as I took the joint, half from being high and half from being scared shitless. I didn’t answer him.
Suddenly, I thought that Ahmad and his friend were planning to throw me into the water. They kept talking in their native tongue, and their laughter felt unkind, even threatening. It would be so easy for them to grab me and shove me in. I looked around, thinking about where I could swim to and wondering how far I’d be able to swim in my current state. I felt like I could barely move.
But just like that we turned back, rowing past houseboats, rowing boats and shikaras. I can’t describe how relieved I was to step foot upon the shore once more.
We sat in a car… I can’t remember if it belonged to Ahmad or his friend. We were still smoking when Ahmad’s friend got a call and had to leave immediately. Ahmad slapped the seat beside him and told me to get in the front. I sat beside him in the front of the car as we finished the joint.
That was when Ahmad began asking some pretty pointed questions. How do you chat up women in the U.K? He wanted me to give him my specific routine. I stumbled over my words trying to think up some bullshit. I can barely remember what I said. Minutes later, he said: ‘What about gays and bisexuals in your country? Are they open?’
I feigned a good deal of disinterest but told him they were. Ahmad stared into space. ‘I think it would be very hard to be gay in India,’ he said.
I didn’t say anything.
It was getting dark when we headed back to the houseboat. Ahmad’s father met us by the lake as the water darkened. That’s when he and Ahmad pointed me towards a liquor store. They told me I could get beer there and was welcome to bring it back and drink it on the deck. Forgetting myself, I turned to Ahmad and asked him if he wanted one.
‘No, I don’t drink.’ He snapped.
Oops.
Malik eventually texted me back. To my dismay he had not left Delhi. Something about not having enough money. Was he lying to me all along? I asked him when he would come. He didn’t know.
I had not seen a single other foreigner in Srinagar, however there was one German guy also staying on Ahmad’s houseboat who I met when I returned with two large cans of beer. He was sitting out on the deck by himself and I sat down with him as Ahmad and his father went inside. Glad to talk to another traveller for a change, I handed him one of the beers and we exchanged travel stories. This guy told me all about travelling in Pakistan and Iran. He’d been in Iran during all the violent protests. Said the people were lovely there, but he’d begun to feel embarrassed accepting all their hospitality. He talked about staying with a family who would head out in the morning to go and protest, knowingly putting their lives at risk. It just didn’t feel right staying with them, he told me.
One of Ahmad’s sisters came out and gave us each a plate of rice with thick black dal. It was mightily tasty. Once we’d scraped our plates clean the German guy said he could get us some more. He took both our plates in; but weirdly, it turned out that Ahmad’s sister had thrown all the leftovers in the lake. Food for the fish apparently… Sorry, but there was no way any fish was going to appreciate that dal the way I did.
With all the leftover Dal thrown in Dal lake, I retired to bed, resolving that tomorrow I would leave Malik’s family for good. I’d trusted his word when he said he would follow me up the very next day. He was my whole reason for coming here and yet he was nowhere to be seen. Somehow, I didn’t feel stupid for trusting him. He’d seemed so genuine – I had known him to be genuine – but somehow something had gone wrong. Perhaps if Malik was here, I could have considered the trekking with his family. But Malik wasn’t here, and his brother, (at least from my paranoid perspective) was conducting some sort of witch hunt. I had to get out.
