Page 6 of A Kiss in Kashmir

“You?” Sharmila asked, not wanting to appear overeager.

“Sharmila, I’ve known this valley for decades. I know many of the local vendors. If it helps you make a decision, I do have a doctorate in Indian art history. I must say, though, that I can’t sing as well on the shikaras like Wajid does. The singing, he often says, is key to understanding the soul of a place. That’s his claim to fame on social media, as I’m sure you’ve seen. In all fairness, since I can’t sing well, I won’t charge you a fee.”

Alina laughed and her eyes lit up. “Ma, come on. This will be fun—a tour by Dr. George? How can that be boring?”

George said, “Yeah, I know more about Dal Lake than I do about Cape Cod at this point. I can get you the best kahwa in town, and yes, I do love kahwa more than Dunks.” George and Alina connected as George poked fun at Dunkin’ coffee, from a homegrown Boston chain and very popular all over the world.

Sharmila was pleased that Alina seemed quite at home with George. Perhaps just trusting the universe at this point was the way to go. Alina leaned close and whispered in her mother’s ear.

“He’s so nice and so sweet. How bad can it be, Ma? Say yes.”

Sharmila laughed. “All right, fine. Where do we start? Can we still go now? And, by the way, please give Wajid our best wishes. I will hold onto the no-fee offer and see how you do.”

“Oh, before we start, Wajid sent this for you. It is our famous noonchai, a salted pink Kashmiri tea. It is made with green tea and Himalayan salt. Alina, he said you mentioned you loved food, so he wanted to start you all off with this lovely tea.” George reached into the Jeep and pulled out a thermos. He passed out small terracotta cups and filled them.

“This is wonderful. I’ve never tasted anything like it,” Sharmila said, and Alina nodded her agreement. “All right, you have won me over with the tea. Can we start now, George?”

“Yes, ma’am, we can start now. There’s no better place to start than Dal Lake, of course. We have to start where it all begins. I have my shikara man waiting. When do you plan to fly in for the wedding? Though I must say, you have picked a cold time to get married. I mean, do you know what it’s like here at the beginning of spring?”

“Yes, I know, it’s after chillai kalan… I mean, if I remember correctly,” Sharmila said, walking towards the Jeep. “It’s still a time when the pheran and—”

“And the kangri are out. I’m impressed,” George nodded. “Do you know what that means, Alina? No? Chillai kalan literally translates toforty days of intense cold. It starts on December 20th but can last well into March. But don’t worry. If it is an early spring wedding you want, it is an early spring wedding you will have.”

“What’s a pheran? And that other thing you said? I want to look them up.” Alina pulled out her phone.

“Pheran is a tunic-like outfit that’s worn during the winters, and the kangri is a clay pot covered in wicker, that holds—wait for it—hot coals. It’s worn under the pheran,” George said.

“Wait, what? People literally wear hotpots under their clothes? How is that, like, legal? Isn’t that a fire hazard? Wouldn’t you burn yourself? Doyouwear it?” Alina’s questions continued. George laughed as he got them settled in the Jeep.

“Nah, I love this place but that’s something I’ve never done. Wajid swears by his, though. Don’t worry, we won’t force you to wear that under your wedding dress. Although I have to say that the hotpot, as you called it, would’ve come in handy during the winter games in Foxboro.”

“Wait, you’re a Pats fan, too? Ilovethe Pats. I even took Ma to a game once when she came up from DC to visit me at school. Though I think she ended up liking the quarterback more than the actual game,” Alina said, giggling.

George caught sight of Sharmila blushing. “I think many women had a little bit of a crush on him, although they may not have admitted it. All right, here we go. I’ll take you via the scenic route. I want to show you some of the sights of Srinagar before we get to Dal Lake.”

The charming valley seemed to be in a mood to welcome visitors as the blue sky glittered. The gentle breeze wafted with scents of kebabs being cooked on the side of the road.

George gracefully navigated the Jeep, taking the time to highlight several landmarks along the route. Before long, they arrived at Nishat Bagh, an exquisite garden gracing the eastern shore of Dal Lake.

“This garden is not only remarkable for the way it was built, but it is a must-see for an outdoor wedding. I hope this will be a good start,” he said as he helped Sharmila and Alina down and began to lead them to the garden. “I chose this one to be the first stop since the name means Garden of Joy. A lovely place to begin a life together, yes?”

The garden, George explained, was renowned for its twelve cascading terraces, colorful flowerbeds, and splendid views of Dal Lake and the Zabarwan mountain range. It was built, he added, by the Mughals in the early sixteen-hundreds.

Sharmila added, “The Mughal affinity for symmetry and precision shows up in the garden designs, Alina. See that? The central water channel flows through the terraces. The way it is built, it takes advantage of the best nature has to offer.”

Alina stopped and stared at her mom. “Wow, Ma. I had no clue you knew so much about Kashmir. It’s hard to believe you’ve never been here. I mean, I guess Dad must’ve told you stuff and all but—” Alina stopped as she saw the sadness on Sharmila’s face.

George grinned. “Wait, wait, Sharmila. Don’t add so much great information to my tour. For one, you make me look like I don’t know what I’m talking about, and secondly, this makes me want to make you the tour guide and payyouthe fees. Wajid will not be pleased if I do that.” George winked again at Alina.

They walked the lush gardens. The tour buses had not arrived yet and so they had what seemed like a private tour of the garden.

Sharmila said, “These places are etched in my mind from so long ago. I’m not even sure if half of what I remember is correct. But I am glad to know that I haven’t lost my memory… yet. Even though Alina thinks I’m ancient at fifty.”

George told her, “Well then, we can be ancient together. My birthday is in three days, and I’ll be turning fifty-three.”

George’s lighthearted manner appealed to Sharmila. It had been ages, maybe decades, since she’d even allowed herself to look at a man. There had been one tumultuous, short relationship after she moved to DC. She’d found herself trying hard with the new man in hopes of filling the large void Vikram had left in her heart. There was just no chemistry. It ended almost as soon as it had begun.I can’t be the Band-Aid for your heart, Sharmila. You need therapy, were the man’s last words to her. Her friends tried to set her up on dates; she had even gone on a few, as she worried that Alina needed a father figure. But that ended when one man announced that he wasn’t on the market for her “daddy shopping” adventures. After that, a part of Sharmila decided that perhaps love was not in the cards. And yet, here she was, fifty years old and feeling giddy when she looked at this kind and gentle man.

Sharmila was so lost in her thoughts that she didn’t even hear George calling her name.

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