First person account: How a tourist survived the Burhan Wani protests and what it tells us about Kashmir

Feasting my eyes on the sun setting over the tranquil Dal Lake on my last evening in Kashmir, I finally switched off my survival mode and began processing the extraordinary events of the past few days. 

It was a sunny morning five days ago when I drove out from Gulmarg towards Sinthan top. After snaking past noisy tourists on bulky ATVs, behaving like they were riding army tankers, my small car finally made it to the freeway surrounded by emerald pastures and grazing pashmina sheep.

En route, I stopped at Tanmarg to meet 16-year-old Shaheen, whom I had befriended earlier at Srinagar's Shalimar garden. While Shaheen and her cousins sang soulfully for me, the elders treated me to Kashmiri delicacies and tea prepared with crushed maize. As we excitedly exchanged interesting stories of our daily lives, these strangers started feeling like family, busting the diet of stereotypes I had been fed about Kashmiris being violent, anti-India, etc. Their strange sense of calm despite living in this highly disturbed region rubbed off on me. Little did I know then that I would need this extra reserve of calm very soon.

As we were driving on the highway connecting Srinagar to Pahalgam, I suddenly noticed CRPF personnel on high alert. Their numbers were far greater than the usual scattered few I had started getting used to. Someone called up my driver, Afzhal to inform him that there was a violent outbreak because the head of Hizbul Mujahideen, Burhan Wani and some of his accomplices had just been killed in an army encounter. 

I should have been petrified, but was overcome with the inexplicable sense of calm I had felt with Shaheen's family. To stay safe, I had to be alert and to be alert, I had to stay calm.

We started driving towards Pahalgam through the scenic, interior village lanes rather than the highway as it was relatively safer. It was heart breaking to see sniper toting, young CRPF men risking their lives for our sake.

As the government had blocked the internet as a security measure, we briefly stopped en route at Afzhal's sister-in-law, Shazia's home to freshen up, catch up on the latest news and take stock of the situation. As Shazia smilingly offered me a cup of kahwa, her five-year-old son insisted that I watch cartoons with him. I couldn't believe I was laughing as Doraemon struggled to fly a spacecraft, while just a few kilometres away, snipers pointed at the village, ready to fire. As a curfew was expected soon, Afzhal suggested we continue driving. Women from the neighbourhood gathered to see me off. Concerned about my safety, they asked me to cover my head in a shawl and disguise myself as a local.

On our way, we gave a lift to an elderly local, who guided us through shortcuts. Suddenly, the car stopped when a group of around ten boys (5 – 8 years old) surrounded our car. Afzhal and the elderly man started scolding them. They then plastered their faces on the car window to stare at me. I'll never forget the look in their light eyes – a strange mix of curiosity, terror, anger, sadness and innocence. Not knowing how to react, I remained expressionless. After we drove off, they told me the kids had stones in their pocket and that they were explaining to them why it's wrong to hit tourists. My mind went numb. I had never imagined stone pelters to also be little kids!

Soon after, we dropped off the local and returned to the highway because the inner roads for the next few kilometres were inaccessible. Suddenly, we heard a resounding crash. A large stone had been thrown at the windscreen; given its size and speed, it was a miracle that the windscreen didn't break. For the first time, I felt nervous and vulnerable. After dodging some more stones, we began speeding down the highway.

The village we reached next had an eerie vibe. A line of vacant buses and trucks were parked ahead, so Afzhal stepped out to check whether there was a roadblock. Groups of people were sitting outside their homes, but no one was talking. Sensing nervous anticipation in the air, I just pulled the shawl closer around my face, waited nervously for Afzhal to return. After ten nerve wracking minutes that felt like forever, he returned with another man he knew. He was heading to Pahalgam too and following my instincts, I agreed to let him come along as additional security. We also gave a lift to a stranded couple and their baby, and finally arrived at Pahalgam after what seemed like eternity. Gazing at the pine covered mountains from the hotel window, I felt profoundly grateful and deeply humbled to be safe.

Thanks to the curfew, my original plan – to visit the glaciers at Sinthan top and stay in homestays in picturesque villages of south Kashmir – went for a toss. The area was on red alert as the encounter had taken place at Traal in south Kashmir. It wasn't possible to return to Srinagar either. With stone pelters at large, inter-city commute during the day was very unsafe.

Tourists who had come in groups and had return flights from Srinagar the next day, were considering risking it and travelling in a convoy at night, as chances of stone pelting would be lower. But it was too risky for a solo, woman traveller like me.

Panic calls from family and friends began pouring in as TV channels were in a frenzy, showing repeat telecasts of the violent outbreaks in Kashmir. Hearing them panic, my calm composure began to crack. When well-wishers asked me why I was in Kashmir of all the places, knowing fully well of the constant instability, I had no logical answer. But somewhere deep inside, I felt I was destined to be here now and that I will be safe. Strangely, I was grateful to get a real insight into the lives of locals at an unsettling time like this. Isolated from my comfort zone, I discovered their unconditional compassion and support – no one asked about my religion or where I was from.

As Ramzaan was starting the next day, my hotel owner and his wife Zarina warmly invited me for dinner after they broke their fast. It was a lavish affair. Sitting down on the carpet with their large joint family, I relished delicious fresh trout, while TV channels broadcasted security issues in Kashmir and the beef ban in a non-stop loop. The initial awkward silence gave way to a very open exchange of ideas. The family seemed to be on the brink of losing all hope of a solution that could guarantee peace and a fresh start. I had observed the same sense of hopelessness in many young Kashmiri boys, who had quit high school and college to work as sweepers and cleaners in hotels and houseboats.

When the owner's four-year-old daughter started crying for attention, he recited a poem to pacify her. I didn't fully follow what he was saying, but on hearing the word 'shelling', I asked him to repeat. The first line of the Hindi poem was 'Shelling velling na, bhai na' and the last line was 'Hame bas azadi chahiye'. Without getting into the pros and cons of the azadi debate, what shocked me was how normal it is for kids here to grow up hearing poems that shun the use of weapons, while other kids are learning 'Twinkle Twinkle'. 

The next evening was spent plucking Kashmiri saag with Zarina and her sister, at their farm. Since two days, her sister and her family too were stranded due to stone pelting. Locals were as much at risk as tourists. I offered to drop them off on my way to Srinagar and was relieved to have company.

We left early next morning. Since it was Ramzaan, we were hoping for less trouble as people would be busy with early morning prayers, but again encountered a group of small boys armed with stones. Afzhal got out and chased them away. CRPF personnel stopped us several times en route, enquiring why we were travelling during a curfew. There was a red alert as Burhan Wani's supporters were expected to go to Traal to pay their last respects that day. Only when I explained that I’m a tourist and had a flight the next day, did they let us pass. The highway was lined with army tanks and large convoys.

Finally, I reached Srinagar and breathed a sigh of relief. That evening, watching darkness creep in over the Dal Lake and the moon glimmering fiercely in the sky, I called and bid goodbye to all my friends in Kashmir. Hitherto, all my goodbyes were to people returning to safety like me. But, this goodbye was different. While I was returning to the luxury of safety of my Mumbai apartment, they would continue to live in troubled territory. 

But, then what explained their strange sense of peace? It certainly wasn’t the kind of peace that comes from political stability, but the inexplicable calm that comes from having accepted the finality of loss of something or someone you are attached to. Perhaps once you become the eye of the storm, you rise above the storm. 

When I was in Pahalgam, an elderly Kashmiri Muslim man gifted me an old horseshoe, from a horse on which he had taken tourists for the Amarnath Yatra, saying it would bring me good luck. And it sure did. Thanks to that and the extraordinary love of locals who looked out for me, I returned home safe with all stereotypes busted and this story to tell.