Gulmarg Diary, August 14-18, on John ki Jaan

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Gulmarg – August 14–18, 2007

Gulmarg—it’s a strange-looking word that creates a gurgling in your throat when you say it. Gulmarg is a village in northwestern Kashmir (the Indian-controlled part of Kashmir, that is), about 45 kilometers west of Srinagar, the capital of Kashmir.

Gulmarg rests in a shallow valley at an altitude of about 8,200 feet. At the northern of edge of Gulmarg, the mountainside drops about 2,000 thousand feet to the floor of the Kashmir Valley. To the south, a snow-dotted mountain range rises 3,700 feet above the village.

The surrounding terrain is absolutely beautiful. Lush meadows and towering pine trees blanket the mountainsides, while a grasslands speckled with wild flowers spread across the valley floor. On the mountaintops, above the 10,000-foot mark, the land becomes rocky with intermittent patches of grass. (See the pictures rather than trust my words.)

So why did we come to this mountain paradise? To celebrate our uncle’s 70th birthday!

Mountain overlooking the valley

Nearly a century ago, the local maharaja had given our uncle’s grandfather a plot of land in exchange for saving his life. Well, the maharaja was a bit of a hypochondriac who was suffering from some harmless gastro-intestinal problem or something, which was quickly and easily cured. Still, he thought his life was at risk.

But thanks to the maharaja’s generosity, we got to visit Gulmarg because our uncle wanted to celebrate his birthday there with his family and 40 of his friends. And Gitanjali and I can’t thank him enough for giving us the opportunity to share this remarkable experience with him.

The journey to Gulmarg is an adventure in itself. The nearest city is Srinagar, but because of the militant Islamic separatists (who want Kashmir to be an independent Muslim country), the security in Srinagar is incredibly tight.

Pine trees on the mountain

The Srinagar airport sits inside an army compound, literally. As the plane taxis to the terminal, you pass numerous concrete bunkers and several fighter jets ready to scramble. Not far from the runway, you can see the army barracks with their camouflage-painted roofs.

The plane stops on the tarmac, leaving you to walk to the terminal under the careful watch of well-armed soldiers. Inside the terminal, foreigners must register with the Kashmir police (which they must also do when departing from the airport).

Of course, Gitanjali and I confused them. After some debate among themselves, the police decided that I needed to register as a foreigner even though I held a PIO card because I held a US passport.

They weren’t so sure what to do with Gitanjali; she was Indian, but she was traveling on a US passport, and she held a PIO card. Regardless, they considered an Indian because her passport didn’t matter. She still wrote down her details even though they didn’t really ask her to.

Road through the valley

(They were even more amused by the fact that we were married. When we were leaving, the officer who registered us asked if we were from the same country. When he learned we were married, he said, “Different country, same house,” and he smiled broadly at the irony of this.)

After exiting the terminal (still under a watchful, armed military eye), you drive through many guarded gates until you leave the army base. Then, you weave among the streets until you reach the outskirts of Srinagar.

Because we landed on August 14, Pakistan’s independence day (India’s is August 15), the streets were eerily empty. We surmised that most of the population was staying indoors because of the threat of violence. (As far as we know, no incidents occurred.)

From Srinagar, you make a 45-kilometer drive across the Kashmir Valley to the mountains that loom above the horizon. On the day before India’s Independence, the security lining the road to Gulmarg was intense—we passed an armed soldier every half kilometer or less.

(This security is normal, but not nearly so heavy; it’s more like an armed soldier standing along the road every kilometer or two. The soldiers on duty seemed rather lackadaisical; one uncle who was with us described the soldiers’ experience as “hours and hours and hours of boredom interrupted by moments of complete terror.”)

Roadside security going to Gulmarg