Page 2 of A Kiss in Kashmir

Vikram had mumbled an agreement, but of course disagreed in his head. A typical artist, he always insisted that these political things were a passing phase and did not affect him. Besides, he had to tell his childhood friend, Afzal, about Sharmila. Of course, he also wanted to pick up tosha for his mother. Filled with cashews, almonds, and sugar, tosha was his mother’s favorite treat. And pairing a sweet dish with good news was how he had been raised.

Vikram clutched his well-worn gray woolen scarf closer to his body and held his bag tight. The bag held a surprise for his parents, one he couldn’t wait to share. It was true what his grandmother had always said:Jahun chhuh ashhun mazhar(the world is a theatre of love). Now, he could tell Ma and Baba about Sharmila, abouttheirmagical theatre of love that was his life. A life filled with colors, romance, promises of loving family, and a woman whose eyes were not something just to look at but to immerse your soul in. Everything about Sharmila was a gift from the Divine: the graceful way she twirled her paintbrush, the naughtiness with which she teased his desperate attempts at cooking her favorite dishes, the gentleness when her lips touched his, the softness of her hair as it fell on his face, the flowery smell of her perfume when he nuzzled her neck, the mole near her quivering lips that he kissed every opportunity he got. Soon now, she would be his. They had decided to wed in Kashmir in April, on Sharmila’s birthday. He could hardly wait to tell his parents. The thought of seeing her in wedding finery with his family blessing them, and his beloved city surrounding them, made Vikram giddy with anticipation.

He smiled as he looked at the red and yellow autumn leaves falling around him. He had told Sharmila all about autumn there and had even taught her to paint these leaves. He enjoyed painting a verbal picture of his favorite places in Kashmir and then watched her paint those landscapes. She was a quick learner and could paint majestic scenes with ease.

“What color exactly was the tree bark? How did the sky look from this angle? How many minarets were there in the mosque? How many steps were there in that temple?” Sharmila and her never-ending questions created magic on the canvas.

He remembered their first trip outside of Jaipur. Sharmila had been telling him about the little sacred town of Pushkar, a blessed town nestled in the heart of her home state of Rajasthan.

“I want to take you there and show you Pushkar Lake, Vikram. While it isn’t like the Dal Lake of your beautiful Kashmir, I know you will love it. There is something timeless about it. I love walking in Pushkar, with all the sound of the chanting, the smell of the incense and endless number of divine places. Oh,andthe hot air balloons.”

The balloon ride over Pushkar was nothing like he had ever experienced before. While Pushkar itself had been intoxicating, the balloon ride was extraordinary. The balloons danced to the rhythm of the air and every view was breathtaking.

He said as he held her close, “This balloon makes me feel like I am a part of the canvas of this landscape, this desert below, that lake, the labyrinthine, colorful streets, that warm sun.”

After the ride, he had put his secret plan into action. He’d worked with Sharmila’s sister to make sure nothing would go wrong.

He had taken her to a small open-air theatre that hosted traditional Rajasthani puppet shows. They found seats on the first wooden bench. All the benches were full as locals and tourists alike came to watch the sweet performances.

“Oh, I have loved these since I was a child!” Sharmila exclaimed.

At first, Sharmila didn’t seem to notice. Then it suddenly dawned on her—the puppets on stage, large, intricate marionettes dressed in vibrant Rajasthani clothes, were telling her and Vikram’s love story, from the time they met to the present moment. Just under a year, but a memorable and beautiful year. The dialogues were accompanied by musicians playing the double-headed drum dholak and the stringed instrument, the sarangi. Oil lamps strung around the stage and the entire theatre cast gentle light and dramatic shadows.

As the puppet show reached its climax, the male puppet hesitated, then offered something in his hand to the female puppet. He then told the audience, “For the rest of the show, please watch the couple on the first bench.”

Vikram turned to Sharmila and said, “I don’t have the riches of the world, but I love you dearly and promise to make you the happiest woman on earth. Will you marry me?” In his hand, much to her delight, instead of a ring he was holding his favorite and most prized paintbrush.

While the audience clapped and called for rings to be exchanged, teary-eyed Sharmila lovingly accepted the valued brush and hugged her husband-to-be.

***

The memory made him smile. And now, soon, he would bring her here to his hometown of Srinagar, in his beautiful state of Kashmir. It would be her first time. He couldn’t wait. He knew she would fall in love with the valley as soon as she saw it.

Vikram’s senses were in overdrive as thoughts of Sharmila filled every cell of his body. The bridge was just ahead. He could see a large crowd had gathered—there appeared to be a protest of some sort. It was fairly common, so he thought nothing of it. He simply shook his head. His homeland needed peace. All these political rallies, all these people shouting slogans. He often wondered why there was so much hatred. His precious valley needed peace. Perhaps, he prayed, it would come soon. All this violence had just created much more of the same.

The sounds of the protests grew, and Vikram tried to ignore them. He went deeper into his daydreams about Sharmila and how excited his parents would be to hear the good news of his impending nuptials. He knew they would have the same concerns about her royal background, but he felt in his heart that he would be able to convince them.

Suddenly the screams and slogan-chanting around him grew louder, and Vikram heard shots. He thought he heard a familiar voice—was it Afzal’s?—screaming tohimto stay away from the bridge. He turned to see several women running to cross the street. Then he saw the sign for Afzal’s shop. It was now a burnt-out wreck where it had once stood so proudly. And his friend lay dead in front of it.

Vikram ran towards Afzal. He bent over the sprawled figure and began to weep as chaos reigned around him. A man yelled slurs at him, but in all the noise Vikram couldn’t hear what he was saying. Then he looked up at men holding guns and his eyes widened with a flicker of recognition. A barrage of bullets hurtled toward him.

Vikram’s bag flew out of his hands as he fell, his head hitting the ground. People were running—frenzied screaming, death cries. Then an abrupt quiet. Passersby rapidly skirted Vikram’s quivering body. His eyes blinked and he cried out in pain. He reached out to the sky, begging for help. The contents of his bag had spilled onto the street. Peeking out was a painting of a young woman with lustrous hair, a radiant smile, a mole on the right side of her lip, and her hands on her belly, as though protecting the life that was growing inside her.

Chapter 1

October 2022

Srinagar, Kashmir

“Mr. Rami, this isn’t what you promised us.”

An exasperated Sharmila tried to maintain her grace as she struggled to inform the wedding planner that all his information so far had been, well, useless. He had been showing them photos of the ballrooms of large hotels, and some random farmhouses that were exorbitantly priced but had little or no cultural significance.

“Madam ji, koi baat nahi, no problem. I will show you more. But I am telling you, no one in Kashmir Valley will support a wedding in winter like you are saying you want. And even early spring will be hard. Outdoor photo shoots will be hard. Your guests, madam ji, they may not even be able to get here… the snowfall still sometimes comes in March. All the outdoor venues you want are good, but the hotels are better.” Rami Sarkar tried hard to be polite. This was his business, and he knew what he was doing. These westernized Indians were worse than actual westerners.These NRI’s think they know everything, Mr. Rami thought behind his smile. He knew the city of Srinagar better than all of them and he was annoyed that they didn’t respect his recommendations. “Madam ji, I am telling you, the hotel catering will also be great. It will be easy for you. No extra planning.”

Sharmila tried to be polite but firm too. “Mr. Rami, this is not acceptable. I want to see the various sights that I mentioned to you over the phone.”

They were standing at the edge of Dal Lake in Srinagar as a gentle breeze, carrying scents of tea brewing on the stalls nearby, tickled their noses.

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