Page 8 of A Kiss in Kashmir

“Charming,” Sharmila said as she noted how his eyes crinkled when he smiled. “You studied the languages here? I’m just guessing. With your degrees and all?”

“Well, yes, I’m fluent in Hindi and can get away with Urdu. And Kashmiri. Mostly. I’ve been known to use the wrong gender pronouns when I talk, and Wajid will tell you that I used to speak like I was a six-year-old when I first started. I learned Hindi when I fell in love with Indian art as an undergrad and decided to be as thorough as I could in my studies. Then I learned Urdu—well, some—when I came here on a Fulbright. I was a professor my whole life until now, after I retired early. I help Wajid when I can and do some freelance work.

“But enough about me—you must look over there. That’s the family of swans you saw yesterday. See, there’s a black swan there. Just one. It makes an appearance once in a while, just like a politician around voting time.”

The swans came close to greet the new visitors. “It’s almost like they’re welcoming us,” Sharmila marveled.

Alina had her phone out. “Look, Emilio, this is the lake. Yeah, yeah, I know it might still be partly frozen in early March, so Ma is now talking about April here and you know, that date… it isn’t negotiable. Yeah—I’m not really sure about this place, but you know Ma. Anyway, look at this—there are so many floating houseboats and—oh, my, look at that shikara, the lady is selling flowers.” Alina’s running commentary made George and Sharmila exchange a look. “So glad to hear that your nonna is better.”

Alina turned the phone around and a very tired Emilio waved to everyone as Alina made quick intros. “I’m off to make her breakfast now,” Emilio told her. “Listen, enjoy the trip with your mom. Nothing like going home to your roots, trust me.Ti amo.”

As the boat made its way towards the center of the lake, the sun began to warm the air further. They were grateful that the thin roof provided some shade.

George pointed. “Look at the reflection there in the water. Do you see the reflection of the white dome in these gorgeous blue waters? That is the Hazratbal Mosque, over there, on the north shore of the lake. It’s one of the most magnificent structures here in Srinagar, and I think the world over. I will take you there for a visit. The name translates tothe respected placeand it trulyisone of the most respected places here.”

The ladies gazed in awe at the reflection. The shrine stood elegantly across the lake. The shikara boatman began to hum some new Bollywood tunes as he continued to paddle the boat and George went on.

“Take a look, ladies. That, over there, that is the Shankaracharya Temple on the hill there. In the distance. I’ll take you there soon too. And that, in the far distance, that mountain—that’s called Hari Parbat.”

Sharmila gasped, coming to a realization. Vikram had told her about this view over and over again. Even though she had never been here, Sharmila had painted it from his words. The blue waters, the white temple set in the green hills, it was poetic in view and in the painting. It was hard for her to believe this was it in real life.

The shikara drifted on at a leisurely place.

“We are here now at Char Chinari,” George announced as he gestured to a small island that housed Chinar trees with their glowing red leaves casting their shadows into the surrounding water. “It means the four sides. Look at the Chinar trees. They are lovely.”

“I understand some of these trees are hundreds of years old,” Sharmila said, mesmerized.

“Indeed. There is an awesome couplet that talks about the influence of the Chinar here. It is by Allama Iqbal.

Jis khaak ke zameer me hai aatish-e-chinar,

Mumkin nahi ki sard ho woh khaak-e-arjumand

“Alina, it means that it is impossible for the dust that carries the fire of the Chinar tree to cool down. The tree is said to be magical.”

“The leaves do look like they’re on fire,” Alina agreed, and of course began to take pictures.

“There is history in every corner here. This island was built by a Mughal emperor. These trees, they can be found in all the parts of Kashmir. There is something very soothing about them—their majesty, their beauty. In April, their leaves will be green, and you can see a different beauty then.” George stopped talking for one second and Sharmila took over.

“Yes, I painted a winter version of these. I called it ‘Resilience and Hope.’ These trees come back year after year, reminding us what strength means. It was one of the first things I learned to paint from Alina’s father,” Sharmila told him.

“You’ll have to show me your paintings,” George said. “I’d like to see them.”

The boatman stepped into the conversation and explained that many movies had been shot near the Char Chinari. Then he began to sing a famous old song from one of the films. To Alina’s surprise, her mother and George joined in.

“Accha toh hum chaalte hain…” The boatman, Sharmila, and George began to passionately belt out the old Bollywood tune with varying degrees of tunefulness.

“You both seem totally into the whole Kashmir vibe,” Alina remarked. “I wish my Hindi was as good as George’s. But I know the line you’re singing means ‘Okay, I am leaving now.’ Am I right?”

Sharmila nodded. “Yes, it was one of my favorites. Such an old tune.”

The sun, which had been so bright a little while ago, disappeared behind the clouds. A chilly wind blew in their direction, bringing with it a few leaves that had fallen off the Chinar trees. Everyone shivered.

“Well, there is one more reason you’re here in the middle of this lake as you plan for the wedding,” George said to Alina. “One of the most honored traditions of Kashmir is the very fragrant kahwa, the tea that we were drinking when you met us.”

“Yes, Vikram loved it,” Sharmila said softly as the memory of her love flooded her mind. Vikram, she remembered, had often told her that his favorite kahwa was served at Ahmed Zindari’s store. In fact, it was the subject of one of her paintings after she met him. She had painted his long, paint-stained fingers holding a white porcelain cup filled with tea. There was no kahwa in Jaipur, her hometown where she had met him, so she had painted the colors from his descriptions.

Vikram had told her, “Your art breathes, Sharmila. Your strokes are so fluid—strong and yet they have this feeling of being exposed, vulnerable.” He often spoke of her paintings as though they were living creatures.

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