Kashmir is a Cold and Beautiful World

Kashmir. I have never before visited territory predominant in the Muslim faith. It doesn't seem like part of the country of India, which is alternatively known as 'Hindustan.' Very few Hindus in sight here. My knowledge of this culture and religion has been derived from such books as 'Infidel' by Ayaan Hirsi Ali, 'Now They Call me Infidel,' by (I forget her name) and columns by Thomas Friedman on making democracy work in the middle east. So basically, I am more familiar with radical Islam and the tension between the East and West as a result of colliding fundamentalisms, the lack of women's rights, etc . . . but regardless . . . this is a land whose richness of power is accessible to anyone who can perceive it, from the mountains to the serene lakes . . . and though many of the faces I see as I drive through town are mysterious and unyielding, I can tell they are as fascinated with mine as I am with theirs . . .
I am staying on a houseboat on Dal Lake, which is abundant not only in shikaras (boats that serve as taxis, transportation for food from house to market, etc.) and the souvenir peddlers that often go along with them, but wildlife as well. When I wake up in the morning to gaze out at the peaks of the Pir Pijar mountains with a cup of tea in hand, eagles swoop predatorily down onto the water to catch a fish with their CLAWS, kingfishers perch on wooden rails and proudly puff out their chests, and various colors of gregarious ducks float past, shaking their feathery butts. Each day I feel I see a new kind of bird, many of them with long thick beaks I suspect to pluck fishies outta the water.
Prayer occurs five times a day. It will start over a loudspeaker at the 'neighborhood' mosque, a kind of elderly howl, which is met by cries from men all across the lake, their voices moving across the water to meet the prayers of men on the other side. Think of the way a dog howls (I am in no way saying these people are like dogs, just bear with me ) in response to a siren, and how canines from miles around will join in, a chorus that is at once a proclamation of suffering, and the glory of enduring it, transmuting it through holy self expression . . .
The family that runs the business here has been kind enough to let us (I made a new friend here -- Caitlin, from Pennsylvania, who is my key companion in this strange land) eat and hang out with the family in their adjacent home) Every night, Caitlin, Al Rashid (the head of the household), his wife (I don't know her name, she doesn't speak english) Haroon (our tour guide, son of Al-Rashid), Akhil (Al-Rashid's nephew), Shabira (the servant) and I eat on the floor, making sure not to touch the food with our left hands (as they are used for 'washing'). Kashmiri spinach, roasted chicken or mutton, spiced veggies with potatoes are most often served, with white rice. Always, Al-Rashid insists that I eat more. Even if I had two plates piled high he reaches across the floor mat and insistently puts the shared metal bowl of food next to me. I give him a look of 'please don't make me' and all he does is point to the bowl with wide eyes and say again: 'Eat!' Not in a mean way, I might add, but out of genuine concern that my belly be stretched to the limits -- as if it were grinning in contentment. Grinding in resentment is what it feels like though.
On Tuesday, we travelled to Golmarg, a snowy valley where the shepards have stationed themselves before they move deeper into the mountains, once the weather gets warmer. Caitlin and I, along with Haroon and a local guide, Imtayuz, trekked through the snow, through a narrow beaten path, along which was an untouched layer of fluffy snow that hour feet periodically fell through, down to our shins, sometimes to my thigh. 'Slowly, slowly . . .' Haroon would repeat relentlessly. Whether we are boarding or de-boarding a shikara, or hiking through the snow, he repeats this annoying ass mantra way too often. So when he fell through the snow down to his knee, and upon rising fell again down to his other knee, we said: 'SLOWLY, SLOWLY!' and all laughed. Cheesy, I know, but it is easy to laugh over simple things here. Since most people here speak only limited amounts of English, we are all happy when we are simply understood.
After coming back from adventures such as this, Caitlin and I like to kick back and relax. Every night I have watched the sun set here, it has been the same: the sun itself is hidden behind a veil of clouds lined with pink and gold, with the rays reaching out from behind like the feathered wings of an eagle, aspiring towards a greater heaven. The sunsets remind me of the Kashmiri people themselves . . . those who stand before God five times a day, confront a being whose face I may never know, a God I only see shine through their mysterious, exultant looking eyes, post prayer.