I HAVE NEVER BEEN TO SRINAGAR, but I have always had a mental picture of the city. The Srinagar in my head is a mysterious place—dark and brooding in some parts, and bright and beautiful in others. On my maiden trip to the valley, I am determined to replace these images with real experiences.
Kashmir starts to unravel itself to me long before I arrive—rows of snowy Pir Panjals appear out of thin air as we fly into the valley. They are followed by carpets of yellow and green mustard and paddy fields and uncountable little meadows with towering cedar forests and tiny thatched houses. As I drive into the city after the most picturesque landing of my life, I notice how every cliché I have ever heard about Srinagar is correct—the entire stand as tall as the Zabarwan mountains; the pristine Hazratbal looks like it is floating on water, the Shalimar and Nishat gardens stand as a testimony to its glorious past, and the entire city is so mystical that it could very well belong to another realm.
