Yousmarg And A Feast

One of the most useful things I brought with me is the Indonesian sarong Dawna gave me. It is a cotton tube that has served as my skirt, shawl, pajamas, bed sheet, and sitting mat. Now in the cold nights of Kashmir, when the electricity goes out and the heater dies, it is a blanket next to my skin that keeps me warm.

In Srinagar, the temperature is in the high teens and low twenties during the day. But towards evening, it drops to below 10C. The numbers sound almost perfect for me, but in the mornings and evenings, I am cold. It must be because of the sudden shift from Delhi's dry mid-30C temperature to the damper 10C in the mountains.

Ali and Mohamed outfitted me with a faran (Kashmir's native dress - a sleeved poncho that keeps you warm and covered) for when I am in the houseboat, and a padded coat and running shoes for going out in the mountains.

On my second day, Mohamed and I went to Yousmarg, one of the mountain with an easier hike. It is still two hours away by car. On the way, we were stopped by soldiers for an ID check. I think we must have been speeding, or maybe the crazy way the driver weaved in and out of traffic drew us to the soldiers' attention. Even here in Kashmir, they drive with their horn first and eyes later.

It's illegal to take photographs of soldiers and military buildings in Kashmir. Instead, here's a picture of a herd of sheep sharing the road with our car.

There were villages nestled in the mountain as we went up. The mountainside was farmed. The sculpted fields were rice. The fields of small purple flowers hugging the ground were saffron!



Near the top, a hiking trail leads into a ravine, now dry because the season for high water has passed and the snow has not come yet. As the car made its turn into a parking lot, pony men and pony children swarmed us. Mohamed asked if I wanted to ride a pony into the ravine. These little horses? Can I still be hiking if I ride in? I said no because I can't stand the thought of one of these little horses carrying my full weight. And besides, my flooding...

We walked and saw wooden cottages. They are for shepherds who come up to the mountain with their animals and stay the whole summer. The cottages were vacant. The shepherds have already gone back down to their villages when the nights started to get cold last month.



There are pine trees here. Lots of them. The trees and rocks remind me of Alonguin Park but with shepherds herding their goats.





We got to the bottom of a river bed and rested. I think Mohamed prayed. I sat by the trickling water and breathed in the fresh air. It was beautiful. Mohamed said in summer, white water comes down the river and tourists come down in special boats. White water rafting in the Himalayas? I am sure I am meant to do that soon.



The climb back up the trail was difficult. I was easily out of breath. It's the thinner air up here in the mountain. We settled down to lunch in a gazebo. I was expecting sandwiches. Mohamed brought containers of delicious food in a thermal basket. He put out plates and spoons and served me minced lamb in a tomato coriander sauce and stewed vegetables of lotus root, spinach, carrots and potatoes with rice. I must invest in a Kashmiri cookbook.

On the way down the mountain, we stopped at a mosque in the mountain village. Mohamed wanted 10 minutes to pray inside the mosque. He said, "Wait here for me. If anyone offers you tea, don't accept it. You must not accept tea from strangers." A warning! Doesn't he know I court danger?

I sat on a bench near where he indicated and waited for someone to offer me tea. But alas, no one did. So when Mohamed came out of the mosque, we drove back to the houseboat.

We arrived home after dark. In the morning, I saw four lambs strung up, being skinned.



Ali had told me they were preparing for a wedding feast that night. Now in front of the house, there were at least 20 men cooking over an open fire in the dark. There were many silver pots and platters on the ground waiting to be filled. Ali invited me to join his guests of over 90 for dinner. His nephew and daughter were married in separate weddings on the same day last weekend. The Muslim custom is, after the 3-day feast, the bride stays at her new home for seven days, then returns to her family for a few days. When she comes back to her husband's home, they start their new life together.

So this night, it was a send-off dinner for Ali's nephew's bride. She would return to her father's house after dinner. Ali said before I was shown into dinner, "Do not discuss politics with anyone and don't tell anyone you are going to Afghanistan after Kashmir." Another warning! Ooh, I wanted to talk to people. Not really. I was pretty tired and I was so touched by the generous invitation I didn't want to cause trouble or embarrassment.

I was shown the women's dining room. The women were all seated on the floor around the room against the wall. They had blankets around their legs. They were affluent and well-fed, bedecked in fine clothes and jewelery. I felt rather a pauper in my brown wool shepherd's faran. When I expressed my concern, Ali suggested his wife take me upstairs and wear some of her clothes. Soil the good woman's clothes when I hadn't showered in three days? No. I would rather decline dinner than do that to her. So never mind. I will never see these women again so it matters not what they think of me.

I removed my shoes, entered the dining room, and was seated beside Ali's elderly aunt and mother. Ali's wife brought me a blanket to keep warm. As more women came in, they kissed each other on the cheek. Most of them came up to Ali's mother, bowed before her, kissed her hand, then kissed her cheek.

Then dinner was served. A scarf was put in the centre of each group of four women. A round platter brimming with rice and several types of meat was placed in the middle. The aunt kindly spread out the scarf towards me so I could share the "table".

Despite being in India for a month and eating with my hands, I could never get used to it. I always use a spoon or fork whenever I could. Mohamed came up to tell me I would get my own plate. I was glad of that. As I watched the women eat with their hands, one masticated meat with her right hand to offer to the others. I don't think I can eat food that I've played with, never mind food that someone else has played with.

The woman struggled a bit trying not to touch the food with her left hand as I struggled to cut meat with a spoon. I tried not to touch food with my left hand but there were times I had to hold the chicken bone with my left while I spooned at the meat with my right, and trying not to spill all over the place because we were eating on the floor.

I recognized tandoori chicken, chicken cooked in a coconut cream sauce, lamb cooked in different ways, different kinds of sausages and meatballs. It was all meat. Chinese banquets have nothing on Muslim wedding feasts. I asked Bismar, a 13-year-girl at the table what some of the meat was. She kept saying, Meat. But what kind? All lamb? Meat, she repeated.

Each group was given a basket with water and pop. Inside the basket were also some foil bags. The women stowed away some of the meat for home in these bags. After consuming about 8 oz of meat and more rice than I wanted, I had to stop eating. But more meat kept coming. Once in while, Mohamed came up to see if I was okay. He brought me my own bottle of water. The thing I notice about Mohamed is, he anticipates my needs and notices what I like.

After dinner, we were each given rice pudding in a foil container. I have yet to get used to Indian sweets. They are nauseatingly sweet so I have stopped eating dessert in India. Then I thanked Ali's mother and wife for having me join them for dinner and waddled back to my room.

At bedtime, Mohamed came to turn up the heater in my room and put a hot water bottle in my bed. He reminded me I have to be up at 5 a.m. to go to the boat market. He asked if I needed anything else then bid me goodnight. I could get used to having Mohamed in my life.