Page 22 of A Kiss in Kashmir

They all smiled. “Yes, that is the song,” Sharmila said. “It is so old. I can’t even remember which year now. Maybe early seventies? I was a toddler. But that song is evergreen.” Sharmila thanked the couple and she and George began to climb up the steep stairs.

“This is the oldest temple in Kashmir and highly regarded,” George told her. “My favorite part is the views at the top. I don’t know how much we will be able to see though. Maybe we’ll be okay if the fog has lifted.”

The two of them continued on. George didn’t complain, but Sharmila made a few comments about running out of breath. Passersby chanted prayers, singing about the glories and blessings of Lord Shiva, and encouraged each other to keep on going. Young kids ran up the stairs effortlessly. As the climb continued, the chants increased and the sheer joy the devotees felt was palpable.

George’s commentary on the temple didn’t stop all the way up. “There is a myth here that says that Jesus visited this temple. But you know, if you say that out loud, it will cause an uproar. I just want to find someone who can prove or disprove it, you know? A myth is just that—a myth. This one says that all God is one. So I don’t get the point of the protests sometimes.”

Once they reached the top, both of them sat down on one of the stone ledges to catch their breath. An older Kashmiri woman approached them and said, “You are a lovely couple. Orzo the burkoth.”

George began to laugh hysterically but Sharmila was puzzled, as she spoke Hindi but not Kashmiri. “What, what? What did she say? Why didn’t you tell her we aren’t a couple?”

“Sharmila, she said, ‘May you always be blessed with flexible knees.’ I am not going to give that blessing away. I need it.” He continued to laugh.

Sharmila laughed. “I will take that blessing any day too!”

They went into the main sanctum of the temple to offer their prayers. The radiant yellow room had a magnificent, several-foot-high Shiv lingam—a unique divine ellipsoid stone—in the center of the room with the figure of a large snake surrounding it. The energy inside was vibrant as chants reverberated loudly, incense filled the air, and devotees sang the praises of Lord Shiva. The devotees offered milk, fruits, and flowers during the prayers.

When they came out of the prayer room, Sharmila was smitten by the views of the valley. Despite the slight fog, the lake glimmered in the light. Shikaras and houseboats filled the lake as the mountains stood guard around it. There were breathtaking views of lush green valleys and the houses nestled in the city of Srinagar.

“I can’t imagine a place that’s more divine than this. I can see snow. Look over there—it looks like a lot of snow on the mountain top. I guess it’s that time of year soon,” Sharmila said.

George stood behind her, taking pictures of her against the majestic mountain backdrop. Then he moved closer to show her the photos. Sharmila felt the heat of his body behind her, ever so slightly. He said, “This would be a great scene to paint, right?”

Sharmila nodded and pulled out her phone. “I thought you might like to see some more of my paintings. I hope that isn’t too presumptuous.”

“Sure, of course, but first I’ve got a surprise.” George asked her to sit on a ledge overlooking the valley. He opened the backpack, took out a small tablecloth, and placed it in front of Sharmila. “Raahat sent that gift for Alina, but she sent something for you too.” He took out various vegetarian samosas, a flask of hot tea, onion chutney, walnut chutney, and a few potato-stuffed wheat paranthas.

“This is lovely. I am so touched. You knew we would be coming here? What about Qayaam Gah?”

“Well, to be honest, Raahat packed the picnic for the three of us. I told her we were going to Qayaam Gah, but she mentioned that I should take you all by Nigeen Lake first as a bit of a detour. She thought you might enjoy the tranquility of that lake as it is a bit more peaceful than all the other spots in Srinagar. We never made it there, but I still think we can savor the meal here.”

He took Sharmila’s phone and began to scroll through the photos of her paintings. There were many scenic paintings of places she had visited, and a few of Kashmir landmarks that he recognized. He was mesmerized by the theme of the majority of the paintings: a woman alone in almost all of them, with flowing dark hair, flowing clothes, bejeweled and looking in the distance as though looking for a path, a way forward or onward, or a release.

“Sharmila, your adept utilization of a recurring motif—the solitary woman—evokes a sense of introspection and solitude. It draws me into each painting. The flowing dark, the red attire, the traditional Indian jewels on her. Such grace and fluidity.”

Sharmila burst out laughing.

“What? Did I say something wrong?” George looked hurt.

“No, no. This is the first time I’ve seen the side of Dr. George the professor. Since I met you, you have never spoken so formally. Right now, I get this feeling that I’m going to be graded on my paintings.”

“Hah. Fair enough. In that case, let me be a little more professorial, especially since it’s making you laugh. The symbolism you’ve infused into these pieces is thought-provoking. The woman’s bejeweled appearance could be seen as a representation of inner riches, while her gaze into the distance introduces an air of mystery, prompting us to ponder her aspirations and yearnings,” he said seriously, trying to keep the smile off his face.

“That sounds like an A grade, professor,” she said, grinning.

“Ah, let me go on then. I love your interplay of light and shadow. Like here, it highlights her form. However, I wonder, is the woman always alone in every painting? Is it reflective of an emotional journey? Can the journey change? Take detours?”

Sharmila’s smile changed to a contemplative look. “Well, as you may have guessed, these are self-portraits. I guess those are the moments that I found solace on canvas. I love that you are reminding me about the potential stories within the canvas. I guess I never thought of her being anything but alone.”

“Well, my dear student of the moment, you get your A+ grade. Let’s toast with some tea,” he said, lightening the mood as only he could.

“I will drink to that.”

“I am curious though. Your signature on these. Why do you sign them Rumshaya? Is there a special significance?”

Sharmila explained who Rumi and Shams were, and how she came up with the name, adding that it was her quiet hope, a wish for her paintings to radiate peace and resonate with those who encountered them.

“I have to say, your paintings reflect an authenticity that’s hard to come by these days. It’s something I admire in your art and in you,” he said. “I see the energy in them. It’syou. I don’t know how I know, I just… seeyou.”

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