By Shuvashree Chowdhury
After breakfast at the hotel in Pahalgam
we drove to the foothills of Baisaran —
green meadows dotted with pine forests,
the hilltop better known as Mini Switzerland.
We drove over hills, on scenic avenues
flanked by snow draped mountains in view,
reaching a rustic valley with a horse barn –
a pony I straddled for Rs. three thousand.
The above lines, today I had barely typed,
after a month of visiting this paradise —
when to my utterly gut-wrenching surprise,
a ghastly crime floated up on my screen,
Kashmir terror attack updates were live:
at least 26 civilians, mostly tourists killed
in Pahalgam, in the district of Anantnag —
deadliest attack since the Phulwama strike.
The Resistance Front, is a shadow group
of banned Pakistan-based terror outfit,
Lashkar-e-Taiba, claimed responsibility
for the ghastly attack on innocent tourists.
Number of deaths are being ascertained yet
of the dastardly act on humanity’s face –-
it’s early to identify terrorist associations,
as with the bereaved I stand in solidarity.
Over a month I’ve shared, on Kashmir –
of happy times, local exemplary hospitality
that I have experienced despite my faith,
till this attack slaps religion on my face.
The terrorists fired mostly male tourists,
targeting them at close range amid panic,
singling victims out based on religion —
saved by reciting Kalma, or circumcision.
Among the victims, a honeymoon couple
paid the price of love over their religion —
they shot him in the head, not heeding
to petitions, of spurned innocent Muslims.
22nd April, 2025.
*****
At the foothills of the meadows of Baisaran,
I negotiated with a vendor for a horse ride up
to its scenic mountaintop, Mini-Switzerland –
he allotted me a pony, with a boy of fifteen.
The boy fetched a pair of high rubber boots,
to save my shoes and clothes from slush —
wearing it I left my shoes in Mukhtar’s car
before he helped me ride the young mare.
The horse-owner insisted I take an assistant,
but I declined to carry up undesirable baggage —
as physical or emotional, it weighs you down,
travelling solo is best on your spiritual path.
As we strutted into the narrow winding path,
a group of six men atop horses, made a ruckus –
garrulous talk and guffaws their idea of fun,
I steered my pony Bullet, to an isolated path.
“Keep far away from the tourists” I insisted,
chatting with my newfound friend, Tariq —
he understood, obliging my wish for solitude,
as over our talks we had struck up a bond.
The hill track by now got narrower, muddier,
snow had begun to melt; it was mid-March —
Bullet, mature, evaded pudges in the drizzle,
I worried on Mukhtar’s waiting long in the car.
It was a scaring climb, on the edge of the hills,
but soft here for Bullet to swivel and swerve —
the four-year-old pony had wisdom and verve,
as people I’ve met in Kashmir, troubled long.
Tariq, reminded me often to bend my back –
forward if slope was up, backward if down
to assist Bullet, balance our weight to survive,
as many a times I felt I wouldn’t last this ride.
Often Bullet ducked randomly into the ravine,
abruptly as if not to disrupt human dialogue –
I’d clutch his reins, my heart in my mouth,
more from Tariq’s personal tales of struggles.
He belonged to a village, a few hours by foot,
then many times, he climbed this arduous route —
countless waged ascents, each two hours or so,
descents guaranteed tips for life risks he took.
Tariq, the only earning member of his family,
though only still a child, he is accountable —
advised me not to play with rabbits or pigeons
if I did not want to be charged a big ransom.
We stopped to rest and feed a frisky Bullet,
he munched dry grass, with melted snow —
as I savoured the beauty of hills and meadow,
on it the Sun beat down through pine rows.
Over two hours of a risky climb to the top,
I tested my agility, stamina, and mental grit –
undeterred by tourists shrieking in panic,
creating group mayhem, robbing my peace.
At an imposing arcade into Baisaran hilltop,
I bought myself a ticket, past big groups —
Tariq with Bullet, strode to the horse stall,
I entered a picturesque snow draped camp.
To my right, the vast arena of snow on mud,
beyond it, snow-capped mountains in rungs —
pines stood amidst them as missing sentinels,
chairs-tables as in a fair, fenced to my left.
Massive crowds rushed into the gated hilltop,
throttling my exit from the raved tourist spot
after a piping Kahwa, in scenic enchantment –
crowds cannot deter me partaking my serving.
The descent daunting, in view of cable cars,
as hordes of large families serially charged up —
loud battalions on ponies marching forward
made me attempt to descend uncharted tracks.
A family, on horses with aides, rushed at me --
women shouting at the top of their shrill voices
in fear of slipping off the track to the riverine,
a young woman, with a stirrup kicked my knee.
Tariq, rushed to save Bullet toppling with me,
as we were shoved to the edge precariously —
my left knee hurt as if cracked with a hammer,
yet I empathised with Tariq’s guilt eroded face.
“Sorry ma’am, sorry ma’am” the child chanted,
while I feared, for life, my knee was damaged —
I lost the fear of death on these pony hill-tracks,
in solo travels having coached my soul to last.
I strutted on, atop Bullet and fear of death,
little envisaging an impending terrorist-attack —
massaging my knee, I swirled to a shriek,
woman with horse had fallen, hitting my knee.
Tariq crestfallen at my pained disenchantment
over what should have been a blissful incident –
I might not tip him he imagined, as expected,
but valuing earnestness, I paid Rs. five hundred.
At the horse barn, I got off in excruciating pain,
sizing my muddied self despite the tall boots —
I found Mukhtar, wore my shoes in his car’s rear,
how could he recognize my pain incarnated soul?
On 25th April, on my 17th March 2025 visit.
*****
It’s two weeks since the shootout at Baisaran,
in which mindless terror, took India hostage –
I woke up to this news bulletin on my phone,
she avenges the widows, in Operation Sindoor.
The terrorists shot their men in front of them,
asking them to complain to the government –
“Go tell Modi” they chanted, widowing women
who begged to be killed with their husbands.
Indian armed forces strategically targeted,
headquarters of these banned terror outfits,
Lashkar-e-Taiba and Jaish-e-Mohammed –
missiles smashed their nine Pakistani dens.
There’s retaliation both sides of the fence,
harassing innocent civilians, army personnel –
Pakistan and India in near war conditions
with world leaders propagating de-escalation.
Those who stand behind you, protect them,
is the stance taken, respecting those alongside –
but if they stand against you, destroy them,
is the example set by the Indian government.
7th May, 2025.