An Unexpected Kindness

I had just returned to my room when the hotel porter shared the dismal news with me.  Two political leaders had been assassinated in the adjacent town of Kishtewar. Subsequently, a valley wide curfew was imposed.  Vehicular activity had ceased completely. Kashmir and its sister valley Bhaderwah were often plagued by abrupt curfews and strikes.

The daily excursions I had been undertaking in Bhaderwah had nearly emptied out my wallet. I decided to talk to the hotel owner about my predicament. He remained adamant about the rent, irrespective of the curfew. Moreover, since the shops and restaurants were closed, I was solely dependent on the expensive hotel food.

That night I received a phone call from Sajaad Ji, my local guide. “The curfew would last for a week at least,” he said. His words struck me like a blow. I shared my financial crisis with him. He took a brief pause, and invited me to stay with him until a viable way out was discovered. Having no other choice, I put my trust in him. I cleared my dues, packed my bags, and tried to sleep.

We met outside the hotel at five in the morning. He couldn’t risk driving, so we walked to his place. It was an hour long walk. The silence was palpable and neither one of us tried to break it. Bhaderwah was sound asleep as I marvelled at its serenity. Even in the dark, the snow-laden landscape looked surreal, delicate as a dream. We reached his house, a modest wooden dwelling, just around the break of dawn. Spinach leaves, crowned with a layer of snow, sat crestfallen in the front yard. His wife, an old lady with a brilliantly fair complexion, welcomed us with a cup of local tea called kehwa. It was garnished with pieces of walnuts, and was truly an elixir for the ruthless Bhaderwahi winters.

Sajaad Ji told me about a friend of his who would be driving to the town of Doda tomorrow. I would be able to board the bus to my hometown from there. He ran his fingers through his beard as he talked. He looked concerned, as if my plight was his own.  

I hesitated at the thought of staying overnight. He waved all my scruples away. “This modest house belongs to Allah. You have as much claim to it as my wife and I do.” There was no more protesting. I felt grateful and thanked them both.

I was checking my camera equipment when Sajaad Ji walked in with freshly plucked spinach leaves still covered in snow. “Snow makes it taste sweeter. You’ll see,” he said. A smile adorned his face.

At dusk, the sun hung low, forcing the sky in a capricious mood. Upon the call of Azaan, the old couple kneeled on the ground and commenced with a meditating trance - palms raised to form a bowl, and lips weaving together inaudible prayers. The sight of their praying brought me closer to God. I wanted to take a photograph, but decided against it. That which is divine, is often too humane to be understood; and hence, easily overlooked. My camera stayed down, my eyes remained transfixed.

The spinach was sweet indeed. We went to bed soon afterwards. At three in the morning, Sajaad Ji roused me from my slumber and asked me to get ready. As I walked towards the door, I felt a solemn melancholy taking over me. I could not understand why. After all, I was leaving a stranger’s home for mine. Then why this sudden melancholy?

His wife stood waiting by the door. Her kind eyes fell upon me. Her face, hardened with years of toiling, managed a weak smile. She kissed my forehead gently, and blessed it with prayers.

“Allah Hafiz,” she said. May God protect you.

“Allah Hafiz,” I replied.

I sat in the backseat of the car, heading towards Doda, when my phone rang. It was Sajaad Ji. He said, “We were having breakfast and thought of you. Next time you visit, be sure to have breakfast with us.”

My heart grew heavier in my chest. I thought to myself, “What good did I do to deserve such kindness?”