Page 15 of A Kiss in Kashmir

“Yes, yes, it’s safe. I mean, I wouldn’t go out in the middle of thenightlooking for trouble. I haven’t had any issues since I’ve been here. They leave you alone as long as you don’t go messing with them. That said, I’m glad I wasn’t here years ago during the insurgency.”

George drove quietly for the next few minutes as Sharmila and Alina peered out of the Jeep and took in the picturesque views of the valley—dotted with the armed guards. While most troops had cleared out of the main town, there were still a few scattered soldiers keeping the city safe.

“Where are we heading today? I got distracted with all there is to do,” Sharmila said, brushing back her long hair fluttering in front of her face.

George turned the Jeep into a large parking lot. “Good timing on your question. This Islamic shrine, Khanqah-e-Molla, built by Sultan Sikandar, is one of the most revered in Kashmir. I want to show you something special. Come on.”

On the banks of the Jhelum River, the shrine had survived for centuries. Its walls held prayers from lovers, families, and the distraught who came in to ask for blessings. The large mosque had a patio that welcomed them. Thousands of pigeons seemed to cover every open area. Several local ladies were throwing seeds to them. Sharmila could hear chants coming from all sides.

The interiors were adorned with antique chandeliers, the walls and pillars painted with colorful flowers in muted greens, reds, and yellows. Stylish calligraphy adorned the walls, spelling the wordAllahin Urdu.

“Kashmiris take great pride in this shrine. It’s not only one of the oldest, but I feel like it’s one of the most welcoming. Even though it was built in memory of a Sufi saint who was instrumental in the spread of Islam in Kashmir, everyone is welcome here to come and pray and ask for divine help,” George said, showing them various exterior features of the shrine.

There were separate entrances for men and women. Sharmila and Alina covered their heads with their shawls out of respect and entered the shrine. It was peaceful inside. Sounds of worship could be heard as women prayed in unison. They spent some time taking in the sacred ambiance. Sharmila admired the paintings of the flowers on the walls and the beautiful, green-painted interior. Both of them sat down on the elegant carpet in silence, listening to the women around them.

When they stepped back out, they saw George talking with an old Kashmiri man who hugged him and appeared to give him a blessing.

He told them, “That man is my wife’s grand uncle. A lot of her family is still here. Did you like the shrine? It’s so peaceful, isn’t it?”

Sharmila said warmly, “Yes, and I am grateful you brought us here. I would love to come here one day and paint this in real life. What a beautiful and peaceful place. Every moment with you is increasing my love of Kashmir. I feel like a void is slowly being filled.”

“Ma, you’ve got to show George your paintings,” Alina said. “George, she has paintings of so many of the places you’ve taken us to, paintings that she made years ago. That’s why some of these places look vaguely familiar. I’ve seen them in Ma’s paintings.” She looked expectantly at her mother.

“All right, here… George, take a look.” Sharmila held out her phone.

George took the phone and sat down on the concrete patio, scrolling through photos of Sharmila’s oil paintings. Paintings of the valley, the Char Chinar island, the mountain ranges, hands pouring the kahwa tea into cups, the white and pink pamposh flowers, the glorious views of sunrises over Dal Lake. He took his time and studied each painting.

“I feel like I may have seen some of this artwork. Did you ever have your art in an exhibition in DC?” he asked.

“Yes, I had a few showings at the National Portrait Gallery and also some at the Kennedy Center when they did events focused on India.”

“At the Kennedy Center? In 2016? January? When they had all the chefs from India fly in for the Love of India event?”

“Yes, how did you know?”

“Daneen and I went to that one. I wanted to see all the famous jewels they had brought in from the Indian subcontinent in that exhibition, and I was one of the speakers. I’m certain we may have been there at the same time.”

“It sure is a small world,” Alina said.

“These are incredible,” he said, taking one last look before handing Sharmila’s phone back. “You’re not just any painter. You are a gifted artist.”

He went back into tour guide mode. “I brought you here to this shrine for a reason. Daneen learned the art of embroidery here. This place, while being a central point for worship, also encourages art and artists. She came here to learn her tilla work. In fact, when she sold her work, she donated most of the sales money here to enable other young women to learn.”

“How wonderful is that?” Sharmila said.

“Sharmila, I know this place will bless you, and your art too. Just as it had blessed Daneen and her work,” George said.

They both went silent. Almost apologetically, Alina finally said, “Well, I hate to say it, but I’m starving. Do we know where we are going to eat lunch?” She stood up and straightened her shirt.

“Why yes,” George answered. “Today we’re going to sample the wazwan. I’ll take you to my favorite restaurant downtown. You’ll get a taste of the food to see what Kashmiri dishes you might want to serve at the wedding.”

As they drove, the wind again played with Sharmila’s long, flowing hair. George couldn’t help but steal glances at her delicate features. Her elegance and grace were endearing. He watched how she delicately cleared the stray strands of hair from her face, and a warm feeling stirred within him. He wanted to reach out and brush the hair aside himself. Or was it that he wanted to hold her hand? The sudden pang of desire surprised him.

What in the hell is happening to me?In that moment, he found himself torn between the haunting memories of Daneen and the growing attraction, if he dared to call it that, he felt for Sharmila. He had vowed to shut the door to love, to keep his heart protected from any more pain, but her presence was beginning to breach the barriers he had erected so firmly.

As the Jeep continued along the winding roads, George stole another glance at Sharmila, who now seemed more at ease, as if she felt his gaze upon her but didn’t mind it. He silently wondered how fate had intertwined their paths and wondered,what if—

“George, I fear we’re keeping you from your family… your wife?” Sharmila couldn’t help but ask.

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