The Mughal King dipped his fingers in the red sea before putting them in his mouth. For between his fingers was clutched a strand of chapati. The flavour that flooded him was beyond delectability. Deeply spicy, enriched with the flavours of tomato and mutton, the Red Sea was actually an enormous bowl of Mirchi Korma, and the Mughal King was in fact, me.
I was dining at the Mughal Darbar, and the Mirchi Korma was filling a well of loneliness which had sprung up from a pit of regret. It’s funny how at times I turn back to food like it’s the only thing I have. I can go without any food at all when I have the companionship of a man beside me, intimate with me. But when loneliness strikes and I find that I myself am lesser company for myself than I usually am, well, food expands in my minds eye to be the greatest form of delight.
Due to my loneliness in Kashmir tonight I was dining like a Mughal King in a Shahanadar (amazing) restaurant. But I was a free man. I had escaped the dystopia of Dal Lake. I was no longer a prisoner of hospitality upon a houseboat. I was no longer constantly second-guessing whether an offhand comment was designed to provoke or trick me into revealing something about myself, though these events still played heavily upon my mind.
This morning, I was still there, sitting in that cosy little sitting room, the windows to the lake open with pigeons landing on the sill. The German guy sat opposite me and Ahmad’s mother sat next to him. This was the first time I’d seen their mother. She looked at me and asked me if I wanted to buy one of the dresses she’d made. Then she told me how she did not like her son. ‘I do not like Ahmad.’ She said. ‘These are my everything,’ she went on, nodding at her two daughters in the kitchen. ‘They do everything for me… Ahmad does nothing.’ She kept staring at me. Her stare was almost vicious. I looked out the window, then down at my cup of tea, then back out the window again, wondering when I would be able to get the hell out of there. The woman continued to go on about her daughters. I felt like asking her what she thought about her other son, Malik. I did not dare.
Jaarood eventually rowed me to the shore. Ahmad was out on deck as I departed – didn’t so much as look at me when I said good morning to him and asked him how he was. I got no goodbye from him as his father rowed me away from their house on the lake, me frantically scooping water out of the bottom of the boat, which seemed to be leaking twice as fast as yesterday. I had no bitter feeling towards Ahmad. In many ways he was a really nice guy – funny as well. But I had to get away from his constant questioning. I felt like I couldn’t breathe in his company.
Anyway, now I was free to explore the capital of Kashmir by myself. I was elated. I journeyed off into unknown, rustic parts of Srinagar in search of cafes and eateries.
Eventually settling in a place called The Mood Café where they sold shisha (though fortunately nobody was smoking at this time in the morning) I got a masala omelette with some bread and a cup of Kashmiri pink tea. I enjoyed drinking the salty tea with my masala omelette, though once I had to drink it on its own it got a lot harder and I found I had to put the tea to one side and order a coffee instead. A very burnt coffee.
The café didn’t have any cakes, but they told me if I wanted something ‘meethi’ (sweet) they could give me a traditional Kashmiri dessert. I accepted the offer and was given a dish of noodles boiled in sweet milk with almonds, raisins and cardamom. The noodle equivalent of rice pudding perhaps? I dunno… I believe it is known as vermicelli pudding, or seviyan. And while I refer to it as a Kashmiri dessert, Pakistan may also lay claim to it. I enjoyed the Vermicelli Pudding, but it’s never going to beat cheesecake in a fight.
Through the heat of rustic Kashmir I walked to my new home-stay. I was let in passed the terrified puppies by a guy named Ali. Ali is the friendliest hostel or hotel person I have met on my travels. And I am completely confident in this assertion. He showed me everything, gave me the wifi password, ran the water in the bathroom to make sure it was hot for me, explained how many beds in the dorm had been booked, asked me about myself, where I’d been in India and where I was going next. I couldn’t believe his guest house didn’t have any good reviews on Hostelworld.
5 more people checked into the dorm shortly after me and I had a cool chat with a 28-year-old guy from Uttarakhand who works as a cricket journalist. He was very young, younger than myself and already married. His wife was with him and he showed me photos of their wedding day. Their outfits were extraordinary.
After relaxing for a few hours, I headed out for more exploration in the evening… and also for a good meal. And luck had it that I found the Mughal Darbar which provided me a saucy feast, which, as I said, I yearned for through the scorched hole of my heart.
It was insane how much angst had been caused to me by one man in such a short space of time, but I was pretty sure I had caused him just as much… if not more.
When I informed Malik that I’d left his family’s guest house he became cross – or at least I sensed as much. ‘I don’t understand.’ He replied to me. ‘Why did you leave my family if you are still staying in the town?’
How could I possibly explain everything to him? I knew that if I told him about my interactions with his brother he was going to freak out and accuse me of acting gay or some bullshit. But I knew I had done nothing wrong. Nevertheless, he was offended that I’d ditched his family and if Ahmad suspected his brother of being gay, well, Malik should know…
So, I told Malik about how Ahmad had been behaving around me. Told him I left because I didn’t feel comfortable. I was not surprised when the ticks turned blue and Malik never replied. He could be as angry as he liked. He was the one who sent me up here and then ditched me. I’d given him too much credit.
Something struck me at some point during this day which I did not remember thereafter. Which was, when I stayed on the boat-house, I asked Ahmad’s sisters about their family. And they clarified to me that there is Ahmad, Malik, and the two of them… four siblings altogether. But this is surely not correct? All the way back (on day 135) when I smoked weed with Malik and his friends at the park in Old Delhi, Malik told me he had another brother who he did not speak to. A brother who lived and worked as a fashion designer in Mumbai. Why did Malik’s sisters not say anything about him? Was he outcast from the family? I guessed I was never going to find out.
So, in the Mughal Darbar as I dined like a Mughal King I sent Malik a follow up message, telling him that we should talk on the phone. I wanted to make sure he was okay. I may have been dining like a Mughal King but I felt more like a desperate beggar. A desperate angsty beggar.
‘What is there to talk about?’ Malik eventually replied. I let it go.
After supper, I emerged from the Mughal Darbar and hailed an auto rickshaw to Dal Lake. Night had fallen. My driver started babbling about how he was going to have to charge me extra due to the critical level of traffic, so I told him to drive along the pavement and he did.
Soon I was walking along Dal Lake, admiring the beauty of the boat house lights upon the water and the spraying fountains lit up green. Kashmir is beautiful, but in my loneliness and regret the beauty held a lackluster quality – like a stale naan or a flat beer. I came to Kashmir because I thought Malik would be joining me a single day later, but now I’d pissed off both him and his family, and was strolling alone through a town in the middle of nowhere; my only company a bunch of frantic carpet sellers who didn’t understand the meaning of the word NO.
I’ve enjoyed having a taste of Kashmir’s radically different cuisine, but the overall taste I’ve had of this place is angsty loneliness. Everyone I met raved about the beauty of Kashmir. Called it “heaven on earth”, and had scoffed at my plan to spend over a week in Delhi. But right now, I would take being in Delhi’s dirtiest hotel over Kashmir’s beauty if it meant having Malik in my arms.
The taste of Kashmir, was, in the end, bitter.
