Artists or Freshwater Sharks? by Justine Hardy
Featured Hotel in India
Vivanta by Taj - Kovalam, Kerala
See all hotels in India >
This is how the lakes of The Kashmir Valley in North India are in winter, a generation of conflict buried for a while, the wounds blanketed. But winter is not a time of tourists here. Perhaps that is why I come back over and over. But then there have not been many foreign visitors at any time during the past 17 years of tension in The Valley. Even in the boom years of the 80s, when the tourist magnets of Dal and Nagin Lakes bulged with houseboats, and the boats burst at the seams with business, the winter was too cold for most people. That is unless we slide right back to the time of pink-cheeked sahibs and mems of the Raj stamping around the lakes in good thick tweed, greeting each other with hearty animal sounds, loosely translated as comments on the briskness of the weather.
But then I am English and so December seems a perfectly sensible time to be on Nagin Lake. And so it is, standing on the back deck of a houseboat in a fur hat and layers of shawls, the smell of carved cedar wood all around. The stillness of the lake stretches away, reflecting the high Himalayas that ring this perennially desired and fought over valley, the 1.30pm muezzin’s call bounces across the icy surface.
Then they come, as an armada, surging across the lake. And as they cut through the water that pristine moment is pricked as the thing the separates the visitor from the visited comes crashing down between the two. It begins with the first call of the salesman as we, the tourists, try to breathe in our own version of the place that we have arrived into.
Nagin Lake in winter is utterly beautiful, and the salesmen of that lake are utterly dedicated to their practice. They do not allow you to settle into your surroundings, to sit awhile on the back veranda of an elegantly-carved houseboat, wrapped in blankets, watching the kingfishers dart, the snowline creeping down the mountains as afternoon clouds bring more snow in the high places. No, they are in like Flynn, racing each other to get to a houseboat showing any form of guest life, jostling one another on the steps up to the boat’s veranda where you huddle.
‘How are you my friend. Good to see you. You want papier-mache?’
‘No thank-you,’ I try.
‘But just looking, not for buying, just for looking.’ And the man hunkers down onto the deck, settling under his pheran, the thick wool tunic that is the ubiquitous garment of Kashmiri winter. Meanwhile six other boats are jockeying for position below: the jewellery man, leather seller, the wood turner, shawl-wallah, saffron seller, and Mr Marvellous, the flower man, in his pretty-painted girl of a boat, thick-packed with loud chrysanthemums, deep red velveteen Kashmiri cockscomb, marigolds, roses and narcissi, all in full bloom in spite of the beginning of the big freeze.
Whilst disregarding the visitors’ sensibilities there is definitely a code of practice among the salesmen, allowing the first one to the houseboat steps to make his pitch while everyone else lines up, waiting for their turn. That place in the line-up is dependent on the ability of the salesman to spot a tourist at a thousand yards, and the boat speed that can be achieved by the slip of a lad who acts as both bladesman and general sales assistant.
‘Just for looking,’ continues the papier-mache man, marking his territory on the deck.
He whisks out a small box painted with a Hindu god in romantic posture beside a comely cow girl, the lovely Radha, memento of a time before the conflict when Kashmir was a place where Hindus and Muslims lived amongst each other, along with Sikhs, Christians and most others.
‘Lovely yes? Let me show you, wonderful craftsmanship no? It touches your heart yes?’
There is no time to draw breath, to make an excuse, even to pull a fainting fit, because the eager rower/sales junior has skipped up the steps with a large wicker basket. Even as I raise a hand to try and stem the selling patter an array has been laid out, carefully arranged on a swiftly spread sheet: serried ranks of boxes, candlesticks, pen holders, trinket dishes, boxes shaped like small cuddly animals. There is even a Santa collection, depicting naïve-style versions of St Nick, now a heavily-moustachioed, pot-bellied Punjabi-type in a badly made red suit, astride a camel.
‘These you like no? Your Mr Santa looking very smart, very good piece, it says “hello” to you no?’ He says, his face alert to any reaction.
‘Yes,’ I say without really thinking, only realising later that he had, for a brief moment, made me really want one of his pieces to ‘touch my heart’.
And that’s it, it’s all over, he’s got me. What follows is simply a somewhat painful dance as he circles in, around and around, producing an endless flow of boxes, culminating with the final flourish of the very green tea caddy—only shown to special customers. I have never kept tea in a caddy, I don’t like green much, and St Nick makes me feel faintly nausea, but now I am the proud owner of a large green tea caddy emblazoned with big-bellied Ho Ho man, as well as a load of other little knick knacks that will be of no use, ever.
And he was just the first one in the queue at the houseboat veranda steps.
Of course there are those of us who derive unceasing pleasure from shopping, and for whom the idea of being held bargain hostage on the back of a houseboat in winter afternoon sunshine is utter bliss, but there are not many of us who enjoy being pressured into buying things that we do not want, for whatever reason. In the case of Kashmir that ‘whatever reason’ is very clear. Here are a people who have been ground down by a generation of conflict and the struggle for survival that replaced a once buoyant tourist economy. On top of this they were crushed again by the huge earthquake of October 2005 that shuddered across Pakistan and North India.
It ends up being a question that moves well beyond the high-Himalayan boundaries of The Kashmir Valley to any place where it is hand-to-mouth for most of the locals, while we the visitors are free to jet in and out. We feel guilty, we feel obliged to buy, and so it becomes a charmless exercise.
It need not be. I have yet to find a Kashmiri salesman, and my God we are talking the real pros here, who has not backed off almost gracefully when faced with a big-mouthed smile and a very clear ‘No thank-you, I do not want any papier-mâché’. Of course he will be back again the next day, along with the jewellery man, leather seller, wood turner, shawl-wallah, the saffron seller, and Mr Marvellous, the flower man. And, if you do like to shop then the day is yours, the lake stretches away, and the salesmen will keep coming at you, prettily flitting across the water as the dragonflies do.
Extra info
As of April 2007 The Foreign Office still does not advise travel to Jammu and Kashmir, except to Ladakh, though several guidebooks, including Lonely Planet, now no longer warn against travelling to the region, though they do point out the possible risks. The actual risk to foreigners being on the lakes in Kashmir is now absolutely minimal, though this is a personal view and perhaps not one that would be shared by others. The easiest way to get to Kashmir is from Delhi on one of the very efficient new domestic airlines, either Jet Airways www.jetairways.com or Kingfisher Airlines www.flykingfisher.com. Of course there are innumerable houseboats to choose from but, after many years of checking, the group that stands out for its combination of old world service and sublime situation on Nagin Lake is The Gurkha Houseboats, owned by Gulam Wangnoo, a bastion of the lakes whose family has been running houseboats since 1938. www.welcomheritagehotels.com and check under Jammu and Kashmir or email: Rafique Wangnoo on Kashmir@gurhkahouseboats.com As to the salesmen, well, you certainly do not need to go out in search of them. Mr Marvellous, the flower man of Nagin Lake, will bring fresh flowers to your boat everyday, if you choose, and that is worth it just for the sight of him, his boat low in the water with flowers, approaching each day.