Dal Lake, Pahalgam and the Himalayas

I was still ancy being so far away from my Uttar Pradesh. But the weather was beautiful and breezy, a zen paradise high above the busy villages below. The greens shimmered through my window as dawn came over my room. The cows were up and I could hear their bells ringing from the north side of the house. I knew Mama, as I called Manzoor's mom, was downstairs baking fresh bread and preparing our tea. I came downstairs and had breakfast with Asif. Manzoor came down soon after and we left for tours of the entire city of Srinagar. I sat in the passenger seat, just simply in awe of everything. I tried to explain to Manzoor that seeing this part of India, the religion, the faith, the kindness, the beauty, all of it inspires such intense gratitude that it made me want to cry each time. India is what I imagine it is like to drive through South Africa and not through the touristy areas, but through the villages where life begins and ends for people of such simple joys and pains, far removed from the material attachments of the Western world.

This was a day filled with rapt spiritual awareness. I wanted to see more, deep into the remote part of the Himalayas, but my time was not long enough. I knew however, that no matter what it took, for my birthday I was to spend it climbing into the Himalayas, at least where I could kneel and give thanks as close to God as possible. Beauty, beauty everywhere, and still none of the words to describe it.

It was in the evening one night, while having dinner with the family, that I mentioned to Mohammed, Manzoor's father, that I wanted him to take me trekking into the mountains of the Himalayas.

"It's going to be my birthday gift to myself," I proudly stated.

His eyes lit with joy, but he warned me that it was a long trip that needed to be seriously coordinated if I were serious. I restated my enthusiasm and we began to plan my day's itinerary. Mohammed is a professional guide into the Himalayas, often a tour leader into the deepest and highest parts of the mountains where he leads hikers on trips. I didn't have the 3 weeks to go to the top of the Himalayas, however, I could go to Pahalgam, where it was considered to be "Paradise on Earth" which is what all the signs were referring to at the airports.



We stopped along the way and took photos of a rushing waterfall, and other unbelievable sights through the countryside.

There's so much more...

A bit of time has passed since my last post, but India is still in my heart, beating like the drums I heard that first night in Agra. Everything is as fresh in my mind as if it happened just yesterday which is a beautiful thing, but it also hurts like heartbreak. I have been reflecting each day, how my life woke up from a dream, into this incredible other-world called India. It touches you at such a powerfully deep level that it is like waking from an induced sleep that I now has me more awake than I have ever been.

I am glad that I have chronicled each day of my trip, and there will be two more, one that sums up my trip to Kashmir, and the other will be the last day in India, which I wrote while there. Future posts will come on how to plan your own itinerary to India, what to avoid, where to shop, what you must see and where to stay. I have so much to tell about my trip, that I feel it will never be fleshed out completely in this blog.

I hope you go back to some of the earlier entries on India and read the evolution of this trip and how it transpired, from start to finish.

Day 10- Srinagar

I am writing these blogs now, post-mortem, having arrived back from India a couple of weeks ago, but the memories are still so fresh in my mind and most I had written by hand when the internet was not available. People have been asking me if I really took all of the photos you see here of India. Of course I did! I didn't invest all that moola in the new Cybershot to google images and then cut and paste onto my blog. I took every photo, even the one-handed shots that are of myself. By the way, I strongly recommend the new 10mega pixel Sony Cybershot with the touchscreen. It is my first digital camera, but I haven't a single complaint. It is the ultimate bad-ass.

So as I sit here, I realize that I still have so much more to tell but I shall pick up where I left off- in Shrinagar, Kashmir, Day 10.

I wake up early to the the song filled pre-dawn of Muslim prayers. Holy chants are ringing throughout the mountains, as the Muslim men of Kashmir do their first of 5 daily prayers. It is the most extraordinary thing one can hear- the sacred song of Muslims, or Salaat or Salah, , which is the fixed ritual of Muslims. The dawn was filled with worship and I smiled dreamily as the spiritual hymns lulled me back to sleep.

Manzoor slept in till noon which gave me plenty of time to sit and chat with his father whom eventually came into the house right around the time I awoke. We sat and he told me of the French woman who lived in his home for a very long time to meditate and do yoga in the Himalayas. We spoke of the rich history of the Kashmiri people and how his life began in the mountains of Shrinagar.

By the time Manzoor was up and about, I had already eaten breakfast with his family and was fully prepared to start the day. Manzoor took me high to the gardens overlooking Srinagar. It was a breaktaking sight. As wonderful as the Cybershot is, I knew it could not capture the splendor of this paradise. It is me and Manzoor and his friend whom we picked up along the way. I am trying to grab photos as fast as I can, but my trigger finger is a bit slow and I am always a few seconds too slow to capture the wildlife in the trees or the animals that dart behind rocks as we fly past. But to give you an idea of what it is like to be driving in the backseat of a car in India, here is a quick video as we ascend into the hills towards the first spot that Manzoor wants to show me. Pari Mahal. Its a lovely day today in Srinagar and the air is incredibly clean and refreshing. The climate is so crisp that you can almost slice a cube of the air like glacier ice and admire it's purity as if it were art.

Srinagar, Kashmir India

"I don't do parents very well", I said, fibbing nervously to Manzoor while shifting my weight from foot to foot.

Manzoor looks at me exasperated, not really understanding what he was hearing. He was suggesting that I stay with his family who owns a bed and breakfast in Shrinagar. But it was my birthday week and I was tired of the ordinary hotels I had been staying at in Delhi and parts of Rajasthan. I was ready to splurge on myself, take in a room at a five star hotel and enjoy lakeside peace and tranquility,

"You can stay at my parents bed and breakfast one day and then change to a hotel in the morning if you like". When Manzoor put it that way, it didn't feel right to protest. We drive up a long winding hill into the Himalayas, and I am still in awe of the city that is unlike any place I have yet to have seen in India. The roads are narrow and people are walking in pairs -- men in long Kashmiri ponchos, the women in Muslim dresses, hair and face covered.

We arrive at the Asif Bed and Breakfast, a quaint two storey home, set high in the foothills of Shrinagar. The weather is brisk, and the soft colors dreamily paint the canvas of the small town. Cows are mooing loudly, their bells clanging to their song as they walk up the roads alongside out car. White and yellow and blue butterflies were everywhere, as if a butterfly explosion had just happened, and they fluttered and danced around me, as if welcoming me to Kashmir. Endless green pastures stretched into the infinite mountains of the Himalayas and I couldn't help but to hold my breath, afraid to exhale and everything might disappear. We stop at the top of the long road and the car door opens as Manzoor grabbed my bags from the backseat. Hearing the car pull up, Asif, Manzoor's brother comes out, helping us with our luggage. He is good looking, but a bit too young for me - he is 18 years old. But incredibly sweet (Pictured right-below).

His father comes out first to greet us. Another strikingly handsome man, who looked as if he found the fountain of youth. His jawline is beautifully defined with smooth dark skin, and it was clear where Manzoor inherited his enchanting good looks. His father's English was perfect, "Welcome to Kashmir! I am Mohammed." He was warm and with a large smile, full of bright teeth. His hair was shiny and jet black, curly and cut short.

I was introduced to his mother as well, a sweet obliging woman who waited on us hand and foot. She prepared us Kashmiri sweet breads and saffron tea. We sat out in the garden and ate as we talked about his family and Shrinagar and all the things to do in Kashmir. I felt as if I were on a studio backlot, and a director was going to yell cut any minute. Manzoor's mom would take off her Muslim headwrap and introduce herself as Shirley and ask for a soy latte. But this was realer than real, kinder than kind and I was overwhelmed with the warmth of Manzoor's family. I felt safe, comfortable, and at peace.

I went upstairs and Manzoor showed me to my room and bathroom. It was very cozy and I suddenly felt ashamed for saying the thing about not doing well with parents. It's just that at the time I said that, I just wanted to be in a nice hotel and full of free will to come and go, not shuck and jive with parents. But I was wrong to think that way.

I realized something about myself on this trip. I don't know everything and I am not always right, and it was a beautiful wake up call. Because I listened to the advice of others, I was exposed to such magnificent experiences in India. Had I not taken the road less traveled by going with Manzoor to Kashmir, I would not be experiencing this spiritual mecca. Had Manzoor let me stay in a 5 star hotel, I would never have formed the great relationship I did with his family. India humbled me from the minute I got off the plane with Rajiv in New Delhi when I had to use the restroom by squatting into a pit at the airport. I was continuously humbled and this moment was one of them as I looked at the surrounding beauty of Manzoor's home and the mountains that protect it. Sometimes I think that I know so much and that my way is the right way, but it is such a fantastic feeling to be wrong and have things turn out for the better, because then life becomes a wonderful surprise.

Day 9 - On my way to Kashmir, India

Kashir India.... hmmm... I know I know this place. Why can't I remember the history?! As we checked in at the airport, I realized where we were going exactly when I looked down at our boarding passes "Destination Srinagar- Kashmir India". Kashmir, I repeated in my head, knowing it was a historically significant location, and with a sad history. I was annoyed with myself for not having a better grasp on history and world conflict, because my historical instincts told me that where we were going, was not your typical destination.



I didn't remember the details of Kashmir and wouldn't find out until later. I won't go into the details of Kashmir until a future blog, because I don't want to spoil what became the most special part of the trip for me. If you are a better historian than I, then you will remember the history of Kashmir, if you don't know, leave it be for a moment, and read about the wonderful wonderfulness of Kashmir before researching its political history.

I woke up early that morning, realizing that I had fallen asleep at Manzoor's. I didn't know where I was at first, a symptom of jumping from city to city and not remembering which destination I was in today. The day before seemed surreal and it took me a moment as my eyes came in to focus to realize I was in Manzoor's apartment. It was tremendously hot in his room and it was only 8am. It was easily 95 degrees at 8am and I figured out his shower so I hopped in to cool off and get ready for my trip. After a nice air-dry and rearranging my luggage, I left the bedroom to see where Manzoor might be. He was in the living room asleep along with his cousin, who was also on the floor asleep. The village was quiet, and I wondered how anyone could sleep after the sun rises in Delhi. It was extremely hot and to sleep past dawn was to sleep in your own sweat.

I rocked Manzoor awake around 9, reminding him that we had to leave soon in order to make it to the airport in time.

After hot chai, a glass of steamed milk and eggs with toast, we loaded our bags into the back of a taxi and headed for the airport.

Passing easily through security, we plopped down with our bags at the airport waiting area for ticket holding passengers. Before getting comfortable, Manzoor went to get me something cold to drink. When he came back, he handed me a strawberry milkshake and the local newspaper. He watched my face as he handed me the Special Interest section side up: The headline read, "Indians Rank as Having the Fastest Sex in the World" and the article spoke on how Indian men spend the least amount of time in bed with women, German men being the longest...it went on with comparisons of men in other countries and their stamina for sex. It was ironic that he found this article since while we were talking the other night, we had a similar yet more subtle conversation about male/female relations in India. I found the article's research altogether silly and fascinating, and continued reading the rest of the entertainment rag.

In the book section, it has India's top selling non fiction books. I squealed with delight to see that the top selling book in India was "The Secret". I was overjoyed with glee. "I can't wait to get back and tell my 'Secret friends'," I thought. This is awesome!

We had to be shuttled out to the tarmac in order to

board our plane. The flight was only an hour and a half to Kashmir.

It was a good opportunity to get to know Manzoor a little bit better. We laughed and chatted during the whole flight, making fun of the poor service on SpiceJet, the small jet we were taking to Srinagar. An hour into the flight, he pointed over my shoulder and out the airplane window. "Look", he says, "The Himalayas. We are here." My lips parted in awe. I snapped several pictures through the window of the airplane.

When we got to Kashmir, I rode in the backseat of the cab to my hotel as Manzoor spoke to the driver who had been there waiting for us when we arrived. Manzoor seemed to know everyone and everyone knew Manzoor. His Hindi had changed -- now his Hindi was now Kashmiri, the local dialect. This was where Manzoor was born and raised, in the Muslim state of Kashmir. I sat in the back seat of the SUV, taking in all of the sights of Kashmir. At first I was afraid, seeing the Indian army, so many of them, armed and everywhere. What have I gotten myself in to, I thought?

I struggled again to remember the history of Kashmir...why were there so many soldiers here? Damn my memory!

But as we drove further into the city of Srinagar, I realized that this was indeed a peaceful place. Signs read "Welcome to Paradise on Earth" and other spiritual billboards that reminded Kashmir of why the Muhgul King Nuruddin Jahangir beautifully quoted "If heaven be on earth then it is here, it is here, it is here in Kashmir." A place rich with humility, spirituality, tradition, and love for the country. This, I thought, is the foreign land we envision when we think of India. This, I knew, pressed up to the glass of the backseat window, is why I have come to India....

Click here to view the slideshow of Kashmir from the first couple of days there.

Read upcoming blogs and photo blogs for more on why Kashmir changed my entire visit to India.

The Art of Eating in India

Eating in India was culinary ecstacy. I knew the food was going to be good, but I never guessed that every meal would be a celebration of savory goodness.

Eating in India is a revered part of the day, and people don't eat to stuff themselves, they eat to nourish, replenish and enjoy the ritual of eating. Prior to arriving, I knew that eating would be far from Western practice. Eating with your hands is not considered primitive, it is customary and part of the culture. One eats with their right hand, as the left is assigned to more "unsavory" responsibilities that involve being an alternative to toilet paper. So it is ok to pass the salt with the left hand, but it should never go near the mouth. You also eat on the floor, cross legged, rarely at the table.

I'm a righty, so eating with my right hand wasn't too difficult. There is an art in doing it- basmati rice, a frequent accompaniment to all Indian dishes is formed into small balls, mixed in with whatever the other dish is on your plate whether it is curry chicken, mutton, dal, lentils, etc. One takes the rice and mixes it all together with the right hand, scooping the food into the arc of the four fingers, using knuckles and thumb to push it into the scoop of the fingers and then placing the food into the mouth by using your thumb to give it the velocity to make it onto the tongue.

For a Westerner in India, this was an exotic experience for me, a naked exploration into the pleasure of eating. For most of us, eating with our hands is an erotic experience, aside from eating buffalo wings that is, like feeding one another with strawberries or grapes ...it's a sexy way to eat. But in India, its the only way, and the fork and knife are only there for the comfort of not-so-open Westerners who ,with frustration, remain within their own customs, and use the lonely utensils that usually are left untouched by the locals.

I was delighted and humbled by my first home cooked meal in India at Manzoor's house, where we stopped off for dinner before departing the next day to Kashmir. His servant greeted us at the door with steaming sweet cups of chai tea. The house smelled of grilled onions in fragrant cardamon oil and I knew meat was on the menu from the scent of seasoning in the air.

We were served yogurt, rice, grilled sweet onions and mutton curry, all on a long platter. I looked at Manzoor, not sure what to do with the array of items before me, so I sat quietly and watched him before diving in. What looked famished to me, was simply the hearty pleasure of eating for Manzoor. Following the ceremony of his culture, he took the mutton and onions with his right hand, his left hand resting steadily at his side. He mixed it all together, blending the deep red curry with the basmati white taking no dainty measures it making sure it was well mixed. He then scooped up the plain yogurt and also mixed that in. Well combined and ready to eat, he quickly scooped it up into a loose ball and placed it into his mouth. Like the mimic of a 4 year old, I did the same. I would have never considered mixing the yogurt into everything as he did, but the combination was heavenly. It was absolutely divine. I ate ravenously, not out of hunger but out of absolute pleasure.

Manzoor's cousin was there, who had eaten earlier. He was watching me carefully the whole time.

"You know how to eat with your hands?" He asked skeptically, not blinking.

"Yes" I answered, somewhat defensive. He watched me for a minute, as I continued to eat as the Indians do. He says, "Almost"... referring to my technique. Now I was quite defensive, but not upset. "Do YOU know how to eat with chopsticks?" I ask, placing more rice into my mouth.

"No..." he replies.

"Alright then."

But after he called out my technique, I did watch to see what I was doing wrong. I wasn't using my knuckes to pile the food into small hills on the plate nor was I using my thumb as a reverse shovel to get the food into my mouth. I was doing more of a tip my head back thing to get the food in my mouth. I quickly corrected myself, being the perfectionist I can sometimes be. He smiled, realizing my self-correction. I finished everything on my plate and washed it down with chai.

"That was delicious" I said to the cook. He took away our plates and Manzoor and I laid on our backs, bellies high and satisfied.