The Guide

I thought my vision was failing me. Immediately, ignoring the steep pain rising through my ankle, I cautioned myself for any cracks that could have given me away into the river below. Fortunately, there were none. Sliding swiftly for a couple of meters, I reached out to my latest prized possession, my Nikon D5300, I had brought along especially for this trip. For a moment, a fading happiness lurked inside me on assuring it was safe. Taking heavy gasps in the thick air, I turned my face away from the frosty breeze and slithered on all fours to the edge of the frozen river.

“Sirjee, upar barf aane wali hai! Gaadi toh na ja paayegi. (Sir, there’s snow coming on the hills. The vehicle can’t go up.)” The taxi driver had warned us. But my enthusiasm jumped across the view of the snow clad hills ahead.

To get a better grip, I removed my gloves. The snowstorm had grown denser. Sitting far at my home, the imagination of such a scene would have brought a scenic surprise and an adventurous excitement to me. On finally reaching the river bank, I sat down on a rock and gazed towards the nearby road bridge spanning the river. My hands had already transitioned into numbness, my breath was freezing my wind track and my eyes had their human limitations- unable to pierce through the fog. For a few seconds, I simply unfolded my palms to feel the soft crystalline snow-flakes, but actually felt nothing. Everything was calm except the howling blizzard, black and white- the forest trees on my back, the meandering frozen water-body I just landed minutes ago, the abandoned road bridge where I could reach by climbing the valley for half a kilometer.

I recalled my boat house owner, back in Srinagar, exploding grimly about our visit to Sonamarg, “Wahan toh iss samay kuch na hoga. Koi terrorist issue nahi hai, par wo jagah achchi nahi. Na jao saahab waha; Gulmarg chale jao, waha skiing kar lena aap. (You’ll find nothing there. There are no terrorist issues, but the place is not good. Sir, don’t go there; you can visit Gulmarg and enjoy skiing.)” Driven by our passion for touring unusual places, we chose Sonamarg, a small village in Kashmir near Pakistan border.

Breaking the tranquillity, a loud shout entered my ears, “Waapas aa bhai jaldi. Hum niklenge ab yaha se. Theek hai na? (Make it fast, bro! We have to leave this place. Are you okay?)” The voice came from the bridge. I could see two muffled figures anxiously waving at me and replied in a stuttering tone, “Aa raha. Yaha se raasta dhoondna padega upar tak. (I’ll be there. Let me find the way above.)”

I stood up; the pain above my ankle was getting unbearable. I wished I could light some fire to warm myself up. Adjusting my overcoat and taking support from my hands, I took a step above but rapidly slipped back again. Snow on valley mud is too slippery. Out of nowhere, a hoarse voice chilled me from behind, “Idhar se chalo saahab. (This way, Sir!)” I turned around to find a boy, of about twelve, wearing Phiran, a long woollen overcoat popular in Kashmir, and an old dirty muffler. He had gloves and boots, but kept his hair uncovered; these Kashmiris were anyways used to this. I saw his footsteps trailing back to the forest. ‘What was he doing in the forest behind…?’ I thought to myself and concluded I had no business asking this, when he might be of some help in my trouble. In a very silly attempt to photograph the northern view, I had dangerously tumbled down from the edge of the valley on this frozen river.

I nodded in agreement and he started immediately. Initially he took me away from the bridge, but I realized the valley was less steep from there. For a few meters, we had to again crawl on all fours, until we reached the top. I could easily spot my friends, Daljeet and Shikoh, anticipating my arrival. All of a sudden, that boy made an easy jump across a deep wide gorge. Below, there was a narrow stream joining the main river. And to my grave surprise, the boy took an immediate second jump. So, there was another gorge. I looked for some bypass nearby but none was visible. Mustering up courage, I threw my Nikon for the boy to catch and leaped over the first one, only to slide again, get hit by a rocky edge right on my face, and land into the second gorge, thanks to the unreliable boots I had. Or maybe, I did it in a hasty, incorrect manner. To my horror, the frozen stream below me had developed a crack on my fall. In a hush, I stared above to find the boy guiding me to a point somewhere. I was afraid; the gorge was around fifteen feets deep. I felt trapped between the wet rocky walls, the first thing I touched not covered by snow...

Something warm, and salty too, flowed through my lips. And soon, blood trickled down on the frozen snow below. The realization of a broken nose hit me like a tremor and I threw myself into a state of anarchy. The body yelled, “Waha se aao! Aage se! (Come from there! A bit ahead!)” But I was too filled up of random thoughts to listen to him. Daljeet and Shikoh had also come to the edge of the gorge. Their arrival relieved me a bit and, if I could have listened earlier to the boy, I saw an obliquely stuck tree trunk in the gorge a bit distance ahead. Forgetting the ankle pain, the oozing blood from my nose, I climbed the tree trunk from where Daljeet pulled me above. As soon as I came above, I realized the road was there and felt as if I would have almost sunk in the unending whiteness of the hills.

Shikoh hastily applied some pain reliever on my ankle and Dettol on few cuts I had received on my face and handed me a handkerchief for my nasal blood. Picking up our backpacks, we thanked the boy and asked him, “Kaha rehte ho? Kahi jaana hai toh humari gaadi pahadiyo ke neeche khadi hai. (Where do you stay? If you need to go somewhere, our vehicle is waiting below the hills.)” He saw us and then looked behind towards the forest in a strange manner; it was as if he expected nothing, as if he was blissfully relaxing in those spine-chilling and abandoned valleys and forests. He exclaimed in a low tone, “Rehne do saahab. Aap iss road se pahadiyo ke neeche pohoch jaoge. (Leave it, Sir. You can follow this road to reach the foothills.) “

I looked into his vacant eyes. It was the first time I noticed his stoic, vacant expressions. Snowstorms might have been scenic to people like me staying far on Indian plains, but life in those hills would be traumatically disturbed by the winters. The village of Sonamarg was based on temporary habitation, all of which moved to the foothills before snowfall became extreme. None of the houses had smoke in their chimneys or fire in their rooms. Only a dead silence and an omnipresent white howling storm! Without any notice, the boy trod back towards the forest. We gave him a couple of calls, but he did not turn back. As he disappeared into the fog, we walked back down the road, carrying a mysterious disappointment along with us. The blizzard thinned down and finally disappeared when we reached the foothills after walking for almost five hours.

Soon, we arrived back to Dal Lake in Srinagar on our taxi. I could see the teasing grin on our driver’s face when he saw my pathetic condition and the blood-red handkerchief. Daljeet called for a Shikara, a boat used in Kashmir for lake tourism. As we sneaked back into our boat house and warmed ourselves up near the fireplace, the owner offered us a special warm tea, called Kahwa.

The pall of night darkness had started falling over the Srinagar valley. I was idling on the sofa in the living room when my gaze fell on a photograph hanging on the wooden wall. It was the same boy with vacant eyes and stoic expressions. And I rushed to Altaf’s home behind the boathouse. His house was situated on the mainland accessible from the lake via a footbridge. And as soon as he opened the door, I asked him showing the photograph, “Ye ladka kon hai? (Who’s this boy, here?)”

Altaf smiled looking at me, turned his face towards the skies and fixed his gaze to a room on the first floor of his house. And I stood confused; I did not know how to react. Unusual places usually display unusual turn of events.