Most of my decisions open doorways which lead down corridors of regret. Sometimes it’s the smaller simpler ones and sometimes it’s the really big ones. They’re left right and centre and I simply cannot avoid pissing off my future self. This is why it is important to celebrate the decisions I don’t regret. Like my decision this morning to traipse down the dusty paths of the outer boundaries of Srinagar to a very out of place coffee shop called Books and Bricks, where I murdered a breakfast of banana and jam pancakes.
I was severely in need of a stress-free morning. You see, last night, as I was walking back to my new homestay, I came upon a pack of stray dogs. I was so close to my hostel, it was literally just around the corner, but the dogs came out onto the road from either side of the shadows, they slunk out from behind bins… some of them were even slouched over the top of the bins. There were so many of them… at least 15. Many of them began to bark but others growled. It was like Cat Ba island all over again… except, perhaps even worse…
One of the dogs advanced further than the rest. It wasn’t barking or growling. It was snarling. It had a scar running through one of its eyes, which was… missing. It also had chunks of fur missing, with mottled and scarred skin showing underneath. It is no exaggeration when I say this thing was like something out of fucking Resident Evil.
I backed the hell up as fast as I dared. They eventually stopped barking, but I must have been a good 500 yards or more away from the things and they were still there, standing out in the middle of the road just staring at me. FUCK.
I phoned up Ali, the owner of my hostel. I told him about the dogs. He was completely unphased. Told me they were harmless. I should just walk right through them. Yeah right! I think I’d rather have rowed myself back to Ahmad’s houseboat and told him I wanted to sleep with his brother.
Fortunately, a guy came by on a bike and offered me a lift through the dog’s den. I was overjoyed. The dogs scattered but quickly regrouped again as we shot past them, and not long thereafter I was safely back in the confines of Ali’s hostel.
So yes, what a night.
But now it was morning, and I was treating myself to a breakfast pancake in the most unKashmiri café I could possibly imagine.
This pancake is an interesting thing. You see, I thought it was quite pricey at first. I could only assume that the description of my breakfast was over embellished, but it was in fact quite the opposite. Banana and berry pancake or some other description, I expected maybe three or four tiny little things with silly little dabs at sugar an attempt to make the thing pretty. But no. Two decently large and thick pancakes slapped one atop the other, with large chunks of banana cut up all over it and jam just slaked everywhere like a toddler had his way with his own breakfast. Oh yes, this was a dish I could appreciate. I also appreciated the many books that were on the shelf next me. When I come back to Kashmir, and I will, I will stay for a long time, I will come back to this café and make it my home seven days a week. That is when I’m not trekking and fishing and hunting for wild boar.
Anyway, after devouring my jammy pancake I packed up my things, told waiter how tasty the whole thing was and got an autorickshaw to the Jamia Masjid. One of the famous Mosques of Srinagar.
Srinagar is far and away the most Muslim city I have visited in India. India in India is known as Hindustan for a reason, but in Amritsar and Chandigarh I found the home of the Sikhs and now in Srinagar I am in a land owned by Islam. Each morning before dawn broke as I lay in bed upon Ahmad’s houseboat, I was woken by the otherworldly adhan, the call to prayer of the Muezzin that I associate so heavily with the middle-east. Everywhere you look there are men in white cloaks and toupis, women in burkas or hijabs. To my great astonishment, one hijab wearing woman actually stopped me in the middle of the street. ‘Excuse me?’ She said. ‘Are you Muslim?’
Into the Jamma Masjid I walked – the first ever mosque I walked into, not thinking for a moment about the fact that my arms and legs were completely exposed, forgetting – rather foolishly – that there is of course a strict dress etiquette for both men and women entering a place of worship. I was immediately waved over by one of the attendants, and seconds later I was being given a large striped dress to cover over my bare arms and legs. Only then was I allowed to continue.
I wandered through the mosque, pigeons dominating the rafters, admiring the wooden architecture and the heavily patterned carpets. People knelt upon mats, praying relentlessly, bowing up and down.
I ventured out into the courtyard where yet more people prayed at the fountain, splashing water over their faces as they did so. I wasn’t averse to a splash of cold water in the face, especially in such heat. Kashmir is very cool at night, but during the day it heats up like a furnace – especially if you’re in the thick of the city.
Then I ventured into yet another prayer room where there was a digital timer, counting down to the next Adhan. Another attendant gave me a toupi to cover my hair and that was when I met Wasjid. He took my picture and told me he’s been hoping to meet a foreigner here for a long time. He was extremely friendly and I felt glad to be able to speak to someone and not fear for my safety.
We looked at a board on the wall of the mosque. It was like a family tree connecting the various different prophets of Islam. Jesus was on there, as well as the notorious Aurangzeb – how could I forget him? And half a dozen Ackbars of course…
Together, Wasjid and I wandered out into the splendid courtyard and sat down with Wasjid’s friend whose name fails me.
‘Allah wanted us to meet,’ Wasjid explained. He was an incredibly nice bloke and so excited to be in my company. Wasjid and his mate live in a village a number of miles from Srinagar. But they work as electrical engineers and came to Srinagar to work on some telecom wires. Unfortunately, they had just received word that one of their colleagues had been electrocuted.
After a warm farewell to Wasjid and his friend, I was feeling pretty hungry and bought a bag of freshly fried Kashmiri chips from a nearby stall. They were thick, crinkly and very greasy. They made the perfect warm-up munch. Something to snack on as I walked through the city.
What I really felt like though, was a beer or two, or three, or maybe ten. After the horrendous 20 hour journey to Kashmir followed by the stressful day I spent in the company of Ahmad, I was just craving a few drinks. The problem? With it being a Muslim city, there are no bars in Srinagar. And while I could always venture down to the liquor store… you can’t drink alcohol in public. So, where the hell was I going to drink it?
I tried to put my craving for beer to bed and do more sightseeing, but sometimes coaxing yourself to do something you’re simply not in the mood for is as pointless as trying to tell a Kashmiri carpet seller you don’t have room for a carpet in your backpack. I hired a taxi to take me to a magnificent 5 star hotel just a 15-minute drive out of the city. I slumped down in the hotel bar and got myself a bottle of Kingfisher. Damn… it tasted good.
After just a couple beers I felt ready to continue with my day. Dal Lake was just a ten minute walk away. I was on the opposite side of the bank and hired a guy to take me across on his Shikara. I haggled and got him down to 2000 ruppees (£20.00) He rowed me off into the sunset and I lay down on the bed of the boat, stretching out my legs.
Other boat riders came by, their boats full of jewels or other metal souvenirs. When they couldn’t sell me a souvenir they tried to sell me weed, and when they couldn’t sell me weed they tried and succeeded in selling me a cup of Kashmiri tea.
We continued along the water, the boat constantly rocking from side to side as I peered out at the mountains of Kashmir. (My sailor eventually had to tell me to sit in the middle of the boat.) Into the middle of the lake he rowed me, where we sailed through the floating Market. Rows upon rows of wooden huts floating upon the water sold an abundance of different goods and merchandise. There were jewellery stores and many, many more clothes stores. Clothes that I wouldn’t exactly wear but was intrigued by. My sailor eventually persuaded me to stop at a tea and dried fruit shop. I went in and poked around, eventually buying a large pack of Kashmiri tea.
I felt a bit anxious the more we approached the opposite side of the lake. There was a good chance I could casually pass by Ahmad and his father, they’d be out on the lake tonight no doubt, charging people (far less than they had me) for boat rides upon the lake, but luckily, we never came across them.
We sailed out of the floating market and as we approached the bank I saw a series of magnificent fountains, shooting up out of the water and lit by a flurry of multi-coloured lights. The lights flashed upon the water.
Despite the high fantastical views, I felt twice as forlorn this evening as I did yesterday. I was sitting in the Hype Café, though my hype for Srinagar had well and truly died. Loneliness and sadness swam about inside me; companions of each other, I their incubator. I’m starting to feel like I’m always a decision too late. Plans crumble clumsily or fail to stay afloat. But I reminded myself that I cannot keep looking back with angst and regret. Each decision I have made has led me to where I am now. And maybe in the future, I would look back on my situation more fondly than I felt in the moment.
In the Hype Café I almost ordered a Muglai Korma. I was interested in comparing it with the korma I had yesterday. But something else on the menu caught my eye, it lasood me in and I eventually told the waiter that that is what I wanted.
This Lasooni Paneer Tikka was to die for. Actually, it was to live for. I’m telling you. The paneer in this case was the perfect substitute for chicken. It is tastier than any tofu or quorn could hope to be and went marvelously well with the lemon and spices it was marinated in. This chunky marinated paneer also came with a pot of spicy mint sauce and a saucer of richly spiced stringy onions. I smeared the onions over the paneer, and rubbed the paneer into the mint sauce before wrapping a thick wedge of butter naan around the finished product, creating a kebab; a kebab superior to any I’ve had before – not in terms of meat, for of course there was none, but in terms of flavour – in how delicious it tasted and how new to my tongue it so obviously was. I just wish I could have had some beer with it, or hell… some white wine would have gone extravagantly with this thing. If I hadn’t come here to Kashmir, if I’d stayed in Delhi or if I’d left India sooner, I could have been dining with a little more luxury, in a safer place with a good deal more comfort. Was it worth it to come to Kashmir? I asked myself… Don’t Look Back, came the reply.
