Page 42 of A Kiss in Kashmir

“I don’t know. But if I lost someone like you, I know I would want to be found.”

“Life does this to me. Never asks. Just changes everything without any warning,” Sharmila said as tears filled her eyes again. He leaned over, wiped her tears, and kissed her hands. They sat together watching the moon in the distance as the boat rocked gently.

“Would you like me to drop you back at the hotel?” George asked her.

“No. If it is okay with you, I would just like to be here with you.”

They spent the night sitting on the couch in the main room of the houseboat. She placed her head on his lap, and he ran his fingers through her hair until she fell asleep. He wiped his own tears and fell asleep sitting on the couch.

This was not how he had imagined them spending their first night alone together.

Everything had indeed changed.

Chapter 18

The next morning, Sharmila waited inside George’s houseboat for Wajid to show up. She had spent the early part of the morning on the phone calming Alina down and telling her Wajid was going to take her to find Vikram. Alina, as usual, had been insistent on coming. But she finally let it go when Sharmila explained the danger it could pose to them and possibly to Vikram.

“You haven’t touched your breakfast. Can you at least eat one piece of toast?” George asked. Sharmila sat down to eat. She could barely swallow and used gulps of water to get the buttered toast down.

“George, I want to say something… about you and me,” Sharmila said, and he quickly got up from the dining table and turned his back to her, pretending to make more toast.

“There is nothing to say. I understand. It is about you and Vikram.” His voice was cracking.

“I need to tell you something. It is what I have been thinking since you told me about finding him. Please.” Sharmila was about to say more when there was a knock on the door. It was Wajid, ready to take her to locate Vikram.

Wajid walked in, still limping on his ankle. His skin carried the natural fairness of his mountain heritage, contrasting with his dark black hair and a well-groomed goatee.

“Good morning, Sharmila. I have to say that this has never happened on any other tours I have conducted. Now I just have to take you on this journey one hobble at a time,” said Wajid, making a feeble attempt to lighten the tense atmosphere in the room.

Sharmila got up slowly and called out to George again. He turned around to face her. She stepped towards him and gave him a tight hug and abruptly turned and left with Wajid.

“The first location, surprisingly, is quite near,” Wajid told her. “I thought that these underground groups used to hide in the different valleys around Kashmir, but this one is here in Srinagar. My guess is that now that it is safer, a lot of them are coming back into the city.” Wajid had a small car and Sharmila kept turning around, looking at the last glimpses of George standing on the deck of the houseboat.

“Sharmila? Are you listening?”

“I worry that this is too sudden. That this is almost too much of a lucky break. I am almost afraid to be happy, Wajid. Does that make any sense?” The houseboat disappeared from sight and the little car made its way to the north end of Srinagar.

“Well, you got unlucky in a minute too, right? So why is some sudden good luck to be questioned? You know, George always tells me to open my perspective and that if I do that, life will surprise me. I offer you the same advice.” Wajid turned the car into small lanes and bylanes, looking for the first address that the officer had provided. He placed a hand on his jacket pocket to ensure that he still had the officer’s card. It was there.

Sharmila was fielding frantic calls from Alina and telling her to stay put and be strong, and that everything would be all right very soon.

It took about an hour of asking questions of random strangers on the street to find the place.

As the car wound its way up the serpentine path to the rustic house, the scent of apple trees wafted through the air, mingling with memories of forgotten loves and lives. The house, Wajid informed her, used to belong to a Kashmiri millionaire.

“This was his manor, centuries ago, when the valley was a crossroads of cultures and empires, a place where merchants from the Silk Road rested their weary feet.” The storyteller and tour guide part of Wajid took over for the moment. “This home has witnessed an amazing amount of history, from the sixteenth century time of the Mughal emperors to the era of British colonialism. Well, and then to the terror that tore us apart.”

Now it sheltered a community of souls who could not choose the path they wanted but hid here for the safety of their loved ones and their own lives.

“There it is,” Wajid said. Sharmila tried to see the building. Nestled deep in the woods off this secluded road was a large decrepit house that whispered tales of a bygone era. Sharmila could see how the group that lived there had made an effort to shield it from the clamor of the main roads.

“It even looks like a sanctuary for lost souls,” she said quietly as she felt her eyes brimming with tears and her hands shaking. She couldn’t tell if it was fear or anticipation or both.

The house, with its timeworn wooden façade, was covered in wildflowers and all kinds of vegetation. The greens hugged it as though they were holding secrets of the faceless, nameless many that it had housed. If there had been any paint on the outer walls, it had faded to a muted ochre. The roof seemed to sag under the weight of broken dreams.

The grounds of the house were populated by sheep and small children playing with wooden toys. Sharmila could see two men working in the vegetable garden to the side of the house. She peered and stared to see if one of them was Vikram.It has been a few decades—will I even recognize him?

“There is no security? This seems too easy,” she whispered to Wajid.

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