Путешественница признается, что в Кашмире стала типичным туристом, изучая местные легенды и ремесла

Kashmir is different from Mumbai in every way possible. The sky is blue rather than a polluted grey, the trees are spiky and coniferous (I remember this term from geography class in school), mynahs are more common than crows and pigeons, and the sweet, juicy apples are a far cry from the hardened, tasteless ones I’ve eaten all my life. But my biggest culture shock comes when I enter the Mughal gardens—Nishath, Chashme Shahi and Shalimar—all in one day. Here, the fountains, grassy lawns and flower beds are not cordoned off with ‘No Entry’ signs as they would be in my home city. Instead, they are completely open to the public, who happily spend hours lazing around under trees and splashing each other with cold water. Even the mynahs chirp noisily while bathing in fountains. No matter how hard I try, I cannot emulate this penchant for relaxation. Instead, I bustle around the city in a taxi, feverishly checking destinations off my list by the hour, a woman on a mission. This is unlike me. I have travelled solo several times in the last couple of years—to Bangkok, Dehradun, Mussoorie, Dharamshala and Goa—yet I am usually laid-back on vacations, content in walking around the neighbourhood and speaking to a few locals, uninterested in visiting any popular tourist spots. As soon as I landed in Srinagar, though, I knew things would be different. One glimpse at the sunny blue skies, colourful flowers everywhere, the picturesque Zabarwan range circling the capital city—and an anticipatory FOMO bubbled up inside me, an intense fear that I would have to return to Mumbai without getting to properly witness all this beauty. Never before had I felt such urgency to do everything humanly possible, cover as much ground as I could in just four days. If I knew someone here, I lamented, I would’ve liked them to take me around their favourite parts of Kashmir, away from the prying eyes of travellers. Being a tourist today comes with a certain sense of embarrassment. In the age of slow travel and staycations, when vloggers on Instagram let their followers in on offbeat paths and ‘hidden gems’ free from crowds, heading to popular locations, shopping at busy markets and eating at restaurants clearly not for locals is considered almost shameful. A sign of missing out on the ‘authentic experience.’ “Anyone else notice an increase of travellers asking how “not to be a tourist” on social media?” a Reddit user questioned three years ago. “The whole ‘I am so much more sophisticated than those OTHER annoying tourists’ attitude reeks of snobbism.” Of course there are many valid reasons to distance yourself from the lot: tourists are often loud, inconsiderate and disrespectful to local cultures. But there’s another reason why people hate being seen as part of this category: to be a tourist means to admit you’re lost, clueless, out of place. It means to be okay with not fitting in, sticking out like a sore thumb, seeming too enthusiastic, confused or at times ignorant of your surroundings. But in this age of nonchalance—when nothing is cooler than appearing casual and indifferent, like you’ve already figured out all the secrets to life—it is almost radical to be perpetually fascinated by everything around you. My friends and I have a running joke that I behave like a tourist everywhere, including in my own city. I point to insects, birds, interestingly shaped trees, exclaim loudly at new food stalls by the road and gasp at the sky changing colours. At the moment, my favourite neighbourhood in Mumbai is Sewri: an industrial area where, at night, the shadow of a flamingo statue falls perfectly onto the wall of an abandoned mill. So I am not embarrassed to concede that I ended up doing everything ‘touristy’ in Kashmir. I walked through the Mughal gardens, stopping to take pictures of flowers every two steps. I napped in a meadow of lupins in Gulmarg, visited Hazratbal Dargah and Jamia Masjid, and read every plaque that came my way. I drank kahwa, ate Kashmiri pulao, saag, phirni and nadru yakhni, a delicacy made from lotus stem. I even bought a softie that melted in my hands within minutes, leaving a sticky mess. At Asian Paints’ Aks-e-Kashmir, I had perhaps the most quintessential tourist experience of all: struggling to row a shikara in Dal Lake while the oarsman smoothly manoeuvred it without breaking a sweat. In collaboration with four contemporary artists, Aks-e-Kashmir painted 40 locally-owned and operated shikaras to illustrate different facets of Kashmir’s traditions and artistic heritage. While researching and conceptualising his design about the crafts of Kashmir, Srinagar-based Owais Ahmed got to know his home city better. The artist points out how, until recently, even a local like him had never given a second thought to the artisans who create the region’s celebrated papier-mâché handicrafts, wood carvings, pashminas and sozni embroidery. Only a few months ago did he watch them at work in downtown Srinagar. Zahra Javed, also a local, focused on calligraphy and culture, weaving in tributes to Shalimar Bagh, pink nuun chai, breads like lavasa and the floating markets of Dal Lake into her turquoise and pink design, which also incorporates poetry about the land such as Amir Khusro’s famous Persian couplet, later repeated by Jehangir: “If there is paradise on earth, it is here, it is here.” Sheehij Kaul, who is based in Delhi and has Kashmiri heritage, painted her shikara with the flora, fauna and ecology of Kashmir, from the tulip gardens to the lotus stems. Mumbai-based artist Shweta Sharma’s design explored the region’s folklore. Her research led her down many rabbit holes. “Did you know Kashmir has eight seasons?” she asks me excitedly, then tells me the tragic folktale of Himal and Nagrai, a princess and shapeshifting snake king who fall in love, only to meet a tragic fate. “A lot of stories take a sad turn,” she winces, before telling me about her hyperfixation: poetess Habba Khatoon, the Nightingale of Kashmir, who is said to have wandered around the highlands singing haunting verses after Akbar exiled her husband. Needless to say, Khatoon features on Sharma’s shikara: the artist even learned to write in Urdu so she could paint on the poetess’ name. Whether a local or an outsider like me, each artist speaks about Kashmir with the same gusto with which I return to my hotel room every night, preparing to read lengthy Wikipedia entries about each location I’ve visited. Their curiosity will come back to me when I relentlessly question my taxi driver about his family’s apple orchards, the snow leopards and bears found in the mountains and the thin, spiky leaves of coniferous trees. Kashmir teaches me that a place can be experienced in many ways. As long as you remain endlessly inquisitive, even being the archetypal tourist is a great start.