Page 23 of A Kiss in Kashmir

Sharmila felt her chest get warm and hoped she wasn’t blushing too obviously. No one had ever made such a personal connection between her and her work.How nice it was to feel seen. No, how nice it was tobeseen after all these years.

For a few minutes they sat quietly in the sacred environment overlooking the peaceful valley and ate the snacks and drank tea. A young girl came up to Sharmila and tugged at her shawl. Sharmila smiled at the child and offered her a samosa. The child’s mother came running up to apologize for the child intruding, but Sharmila was pleased and began to talk about the joys of having daughters.

George took the moment to look through more of Sharmila’s paintings.

“You are still studying them, George. Now you are making me nervous. Are you planning to grade them again?” she asked, as she finished eating the last samosa, and the mother and child left.

“Nope. There is something else that I want to do.” George told her he was going to set her up with an Instagram account. The world needed to see her images outside of the infrequent exhibitions where she showcased her work. Sharmila couldn’t believe she was saying yes, but he convinced her.

The first image he loaded on was the painting he loved the most: an elegant woman, dressed in her wedding finery, dancing with abandon, her arms waving in the air as though inviting love in for the first time. Or perhaps again.

Sharmila was thrilled. That was her favorite painting as well.

The two began their descent to the base of the temple, talking about the blessed energy of the place, her art, her new Instagram account, and of course, the upcoming wedding. They were so engrossed that they didn’t see the crowd that had gathered at the bottom of the steps.

“Looks like a flash mob,” someone in the crowd said.

George and Sharmila hurried to the side of the steps and found a place to watch.

Young men and women came from all sides and joined in and began to dance to a combination of “Mujh Se Shaadi Karoge” (Will You Marry Me) and “Jai Shiv Shankar” (Praise to the Lord Shankar). Everyone around started to clap and cheer on the dancers. As the music began to reach a crescendo, a young man stepped forward and proposed to the lead dancer. The dancer looked shocked. It was clear she thought they were there for someone else’s proposal. She began to cry and accepted the ring being offered. With a few hugs, and some cheers from the crowd, the dancing continued.

One of the dancers reached out and pulled George in. Another did the same to Sharmila. Both of them danced, laughing and giggling. George looked at her and tried to imagine what she would look like in real life as a bride—but immediately stopped himself.

After Daneen died, he had fallen into a deep despair. On one of his worst days, he had gone to a fortune teller on the streets of Srinagar. The woman told him that he would never find love again. It had all but destroyed him.

Yet here he was, totally in awe of this ethereal woman who had stirred emotions he never thought he would feel.

Chapter 9

“He’s here, let’s go,” Sharmila called out to Alina, who was just finishing her shower. “He’s never even a minute late. Actually, today he’s fifteen minutes early. I think he said that Wajid would join us for a bit. I hope his foot is healed now.”

“Ma, for once, can you stop worrying, please?” Alina yelled from the shower.

Sharmila had spent the early part of the morning painting another canvas. This time she attempted to capture the view from the Shankaracharya Temple. She found herself wanting to add an image of herself and George seated on the ledge, watching the sun. Then she thought better of it and painted just the view with the focus being on the valley. She added a fleeting image of herself sitting alone on the edge as though she were waiting for permission.For what? From whom?

“Alina, yesterday George graded me on my paintings. And he loved them. Even the ones that you think are sad…” Sharmila appeared more to be talking to the canvas than to Alina.

“Nice, Ma. This painting looks good. Kashmir clearly suits you. You know, I think this is turning out to be a fun trip after all.” Alina’s phone buzzed, stealing her attention. She wandered off to the other side of the room and buried her nose in the screen.

“Come on, Alina. We should go. Today won’t be a long day. We’re just going to shop for some traditional Kashmiri pashmina shawls.” Sharmila packed away her brushes for the day. She looked at the canvas and smiled as the memory of the flash mob came back. “I must show you this video, Alina. Yesterday there was a group of youngsters about your age dancing, and here, here, see this?” Sharmila held out her phone and Alina came over to watch the video.

“Umm, there’s more of George here than the flash mob, Ma. He’s all you focused on.”

“Oh, how silly of me. I actually danced with them as well, but there is no video of that, thank God.” Sharmila self-consciously took her phone back and wondered how much truth there was in Alina’s statement.

As they walked through the hotel lobby to meet George, Sharmila found herself feeling pure joy. She had to admit, it felt good. And more importantly, it felt easy and safe. Nothing about him was difficult. His easygoing manner was addictive.

“Good morning, ladies. Today, we’ll be doing my least favorite thing—shawl shopping. To me, it is like watching paint dry. So we’ll have to do one thing that I love to make up for it. I’m going to cook you both dinner,” George told them.

“That sounds terrific, right, Alina?” Sharmila said. But Alina was on her way over to the concierge desk to talk about a sign in the lobby for a Taylor Swift–related event for that evening.

“Hold on, I am coming back,” she called out.

“Alina, Alina—” Sharmila was clearly annoyed.

George said, “Oh, let her be. I’m sure she’s looking for something to do that doesn’t involve her mother or an old man like me.”

Alina joined the two of them in the Jeep. “I may not be able to come tonight. They’re going to text me if there’s an extra ticket available for this Taylor Swift concert.”

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