Page 43 of A Kiss in Kashmir

“Oh, no. Don’t let that fool you. Look to the right. There are three men with rifles in the back and they are pointed straight at us. The officer told me that he had given them my car number and a picture of each of us. It is the only reason we are still alive.”

As soon as he stopped his car, the men with the rifles came into full view. Without a word, Wajid reached into his pocket and showed them Officer Sarkar’s card. They moved aside and let him and Sharmila step out of the car. They were both unceremoniously patted down and let into the house.

Within the house’s dimly lit interiors, the walls, adorned with faded tapestries and aging photographs, contrasted with the strong smell of freshly brewing saffron tea and cinnamon-laced meat curry. Wajid and Sharmila saw a group of women sitting in the center of the room, talking and knitting. The open windows brought in the crisp mountain air. It was as though the elements of the present were fighting with the history of the place, desperately trying to imbue some hope and some brightness into the darkest corners of the house and the history its residents bore.

“Come in. Sit. Please.” An older woman got up and motioned for them to be seated on the colorful rug at the center of the room. The group quieted down. Before Wajid or Sharmila could speak, she said, “You are looking for Vikram Pandit? What do you know about him? Why are you looking for him? You are his family?”

Wajid motioned to Sharmila, who began to speak hesitatingly about Vikram, his paintings, their short time together, their daughter, and his family in Aru Valley. And finally, about Alina’s upcoming wedding.

“I see.” The old woman seemed deep in thought. Then she called out to one of the men holding a rifle to come in. She whispered something in his ear. He nodded and answered in an equally quiet voice and left the room.

In the meantime, Sharmila could see messages on her phone from Alina, and she could almost bet everything that the buzzing in Wajid’s phone was from George.

When the old woman spoke again, her voice was firm. “Yes, there was a Vikram Pandit amongst us. But I am not sure he is the one you are looking for. He was not a painter, but a gardener.”

“Oh, I see,” Sharmila said and added, “I only have a picture of him from when he was a young man. Can I show you that? Maybe that will help?”

Sharmila opened her phone and showed them a photo of the picture that Vikram’s mother had shown Alina.

Several of the women in the group came up and took a look. The old woman stared at the picture and said, “Maybe, I can’t be sure. My memory isn’t what it used to be.”

One of the other women spoke up. “I know him,” she said. “He is the one. The gardener. But he isn’t here now. He was moved about ten years or so ago to another location. I have the address. If you want, you can go there and see.”

The woman hadn’t even finished speaking when Sharmila began to cry. The tears did not stop. The man whom she had spent half her life with through memories was alive, and here. He was breathing the same air. She couldn’t believe it.

Wajid reached over and placed his hand on her shoulder and answered a call on his phone with a simple. “Yes, we believe he is alive and in Kashmir.”

Sharmila and Wajid thanked the group and returned to his car.

“Where is the other address, Wajid? Can we go now? Or is it too far?”

Wajid sat quietly. “Sharmila, this place. I know of it. It is called Khauf-e-Asmaan, the terror from the sky. I have never been. It is about five hours from here. We can go, but we will need to be prepared. We need the Jeep, and I will need to tell Officer Sarkar about this. This can be very risky.”

“If he is alive and here, I need to find him. We need to go today. Now. Will we reach it by nightfall? Can we get a rental? Let’s do it right now.”

“Yes, it is as Tagore said: ‘You can’t cross the sea merely by standing and staring at the water.’ So we do need to go.” Wajid pulled out his phone and called Officer Sarkar.

Chapter 19

Within an hour of getting permission and the Jeep, Sharmila and Wajid began the journey to Khauf-e-Asmaan. The first part of the journey went through the heart of Srinagar and the bustling markets. Then as the sun began to set, darkness draped the treacherous, unpaved roads leading them outside Srinagar to their perilous destination. After about two hours of twists and turns and maze-like roads, they ended up on a narrow, hilly road snaking its way through dense forests. A full moon had risen, and looming pine trees and thick underbrush cast long, haunting shadows along the road.

Neither spoke until Wajid stopped the Jeep so that they could stretch and eat some food he had picked up.

“I worry about George and what this will do to him,” he said without being asked.

“What?” Sharmila turned to him, surprised.

“When my sister died, George broke down. He felt so responsible for her death,” Wajid said as he sat on the grass.

Sharmila just listened.

“I could not bear the thought of him breaking down alone in the US. So, I convinced him to come here. For years, even after coming here, he seemed like a ghost. He sat in that houseboat and drank and wept and slept. I can’t remember a single time that he actually laughed.”

Sharmila could feel there was something coming that involved her.

“Please, would you like more tea?” Wajid asked instead. She nodded and he added some more tea to her plastic cup.

Wajid told her to get back in the Jeep. They continued to brave the rugged terrain, but even the sturdy wheels of the Jeep grappled with the uneven, rocky path. The air grew colder as they ventured deeper into the wilderness.

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