Page 32 of A Kiss in Kashmir

He nodded. “Here, this is it.”

In front of them was a small, weathered cottage, nestled in the bosom of Aru Valley’s serenity. The stone and log walls of the cottage were bathed in hues of an earthy brown. The sides of the cottage were covered in moss and greens that seemed to begin at the top of the cottage and merge seamlessly into the ground with the valley’s lush foliage.

Sharmila’s eye caught the patchwork of shingles on the roof that had clearly seen many years of snow, frost, and thaw. There were even a few wildflowers that appeared to emerge from the thatch as though defying the oncoming winter. She noticed the small but luscious garden that encircled the cottage. Dainty, soft white flowers mingled with hardy herbs everywhere in the garden. A tiny brook ran by the side of the cottage. A few feet away from the brook, a man was chopping firewood.

“Hello, is this the home of Vikram Pandit?” George asked in Kashmiri.

The man looked up. He dropped his ax and the wood in surprise. He was about to say something when a much older woman came out of the house and joined him.

Sharmila said, “I think weareat the right place. That man, he looks so much like Vikram. I wonder if that is—” She stopped as the man approached her and George.

“I am Suraj Pandit, and this is my mother. Who are you? Why are you asking about Vikram?”

The elderly lady walked up to Sharmila. She raised her hand to touch Sharmila’s face, then looked at her son, Suraj. She turned back to Sharmila and looked at her face again as if trying to remember something.

“My name is Sharmila. We are looking for Vikram,” Sharmila said, as the woman kept looking at her. Then the woman nodded at Suraj. She asked them to wait and went back into the house.

“Vikram was my older brother,” Suraj said. “He has been gone for a while. I don’t recognize your name, but you do look so familiar.”

His mother came back out. In her hands was a painting.

“Oh my God. That is me in that painting. Oh my God. This is it, youareVikram’s family.” Sharmila’s words came out fast and frantic.

The painting featured a young, pregnant Sharmila, dressed in a deep blue outfit, her hands over her belly, smiling at the artist. The painting had Vikram’s unique signature.

Vikram’s mother pointed to the painting, asking if that was indeed her. Sharmila took the old lady’s hand and began to speak softly. “Yes, that is me. Vikram and I were… but…”

Sharmila couldn’t contain the surge of the emotions she had buried for so many years. They now unfurled in her heart, and tears welled up in her eyes, blurring the beauty of the valley, the painting, and everything else before her.

Vikram’s mother, standing beside a blossoming wildflower bush, clutched the painting, which was the last thing that she had of Vikram’s in her possession. It was the only thing that the policemen had given her. Tears welled up in her eyes, and a quiver touched her lips as she tried to hold back her own emotions.

Suraj, who had been quietly watching, was not immune to the overwhelming tide of feelings that enveloped them all. Sadness crept into his eyes, and he wiped an errant tear. His memories of Vikram had faded, and he barely remembered anything except that Vikram painted, and according to his mother, could survive on a diet of butter and more butter.

George stood silently aside. He couldn’t help but admire the painting. The stunning masterpiece bore the marks of time—its vibrant colors had faded, and delicate brushwork was obscured by the touch of years. Despite its weathered appearance, he could see the bittersweet emotions the painting stirred were raw and powerful.

They all stood together in the garden, under the open sky, and wept. It was only for a few minutes, but it seemed longer. The fragrance of the wildflowers mingled with the scent of nostalgia as tears became the language of the moment. It was a moment of emotion—a tribute, it seemed, to Vikram’s enduring presence in their memories.

It was Sharmila who spoke first. “Was it you who called our painting studio in Jaipur, Suraj? I recall it was a man who called, but I didn’t know who it was.”

“No, it was my uncle who called the studio. He spoke to a man there to tell them that Vikram had gone missing, and was presumed dead like all the others on the bridge that day. His best friend, Afzal, died. We lost so many from our neighborhood.”

Vikram’s mother took Sharmila’s hands and kissed them. She pointed to the painting again, specifically to Sharmila’s pregnant belly.

Sharmila gently pulled a hand away to take out her phone. “Here. This is a picture of your granddaughter, Alina. She is getting married here in Srinagar next spring. I would like you to meet her. Would you like that? I’m sorry, I am struggling with words. We had given up hope of finding you.” She stumbled through her words, overwhelmed with emotions. “George, he made it possible. He found the records.”

Cheers and hugs answered her. Sharmila turned to George and mouthedThank you.He simply smiled as Vikram’s mother took Sharmila inside the house. He sat outside on a small chair as Suraj served him some kahwa.

George called Wajid. “We’re here and she seems very happy. Emotional, of course. I just… this is hard for me. I don’t know why.”

He didn’t say that he was worried about losing her to this family. It seemed to be his superpower—losing people he loved.

Chapter 12

The inside of the cottage was warm and framed in aged wood. The windows peered at the valley around. The glow of the small metal fireplace danced on the worn wooden floors. The cottage’s interior was a haven of comfort and simplicity. A low wooden table, polished by years of use, commanded the center of the room. Handwoven rugs adorned the floor, their intricate patterns echoing the tapestry of the valley itself. Sharmila noticed the kitchen was filled with an assortment of pans and pots and lined with clear jars filled with homemade pickles. Small shelves held jars filled with fragrant spices.

Sharmila felt instantly at home. The energy bore witness to the loving lives of those who called this place home. She sat down on the rug. Her phone buzzed—Alina had sent some pictures. Sharmila was surprised that her phone still had service in this remote area. But for the moment, she just ignored the incoming texts.

Vikram’s mother prepared more kahwa and offered it to Sharmila. She sat down on the rug next to Sharmila and held her hand and kissed it again. Slowly, Sharmila began to tell her what had happened. She went through the memories slowly, carefully, not wanting to upset the older woman. She told her that they wanted to marry, that Vikram was coming home for her permission and that, of course, she had been pregnant.

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