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Srinagar could just as well have been named Serene-nagar. So long as one did not watch television or read in the newspapers about the firing in Lal Chowk. For us, gliding in soundless shikaras with fanciful names like "Kashmir ki Kali” and "Dreamboat,” through lakes full of pink lotuses, was the ultimate Srinagar experience. 

On our first evening, we meandered through a lotus filled lake in slow motion, waving to young, pink cheeked Kashmiri boys who were jumping into the lake from every overbridge to cool off. The little girls, already more shy, continued picking the lotus pods or waved back demurely. Conversation with our boatman was limited. Though we all purported to speak Hindi, neither side understood the other. 

After almost an hour we reached the bank of the Hazratbal Mosque, which stands at the end of a busy market street. The sun was setting and it was time for the faithful to break the Ramadan fast. The street had taken on the sound, smell and setting of a major food fest. Stalls selling special savories and sweets did a fast sell. Mutton shops with pink, plump carcasses of lamb, lined the street. Next to each such shop was a table displaying cleaned paya or trotters. Obviously the Muslims of Kashmir are great meat eaters. A delight to (almost) every true blue Zoroastrian! Second in popularity to the food stalls were an array of skull caps worn by Muslim men and boys, some crotcheted in white, others woven with gold and silver thread. My husband Edul bought a cap and wore it right away, to the great approval of the bystanders. Our acceptance level on the street rose visibly. Men came up to talk to us, asking where we had come from. Everyone wanted to get into the photographs we were taking. Our shikarawalla led the way for us with proprietary pride. We were accosted by an older woman and a young couple with a beautiful child who talked rapidly and excitedly with the boatman. He in turn introduced us to the group — his mother, brother, sister-in-law and baby nephew. We were greeted like long lost friends and more pictures were taken.

We wended our way to the  Hazratbal Shrine. Set in green lawns, the mosque contains a relic believed to be a hair of the Prophet Moha-mmed. The shim­mering dome of the mosque betrays little of its gory, recent history. It was inside this sacred shrine that terrorists holed up for many days in 1994 before they were flushed out by the Indian armed forces after much bloodshed on both sides. In the early evening dusk, it looks serene and somnolent. Women are not allowed into the sanctum sanctorum of the shrine. 

By the time we returned to Nagin Lake, the lights in our houseboats were being turned on and the colored fountains in front of the Nagin Club began to play. Richly equipped with carpets, chandeliers and intricately carved walnut wood furniture, the boat lives up to its grandiose name, Maharaja Palace. The nicest part of this floating home is the small deck on which we have our morning tea and evening sundowners.

Shikaras plying their wares glide up to the houseboat the moment one steps onto the deck for morning tea. We buy flower seeds, lily bulbs and saffron. With iron resolve we manage to say "No” to the colorful papier mache, the silver and stone jewelry. 

Sunset from the deck of the houseboat is even more beautiful as the golden orb sinks slowly behind the mountains on the far side of the lake. The swish of shikara oars and the plaintive sound of prayer wafting across the water from many mosques is all one can hear. As darkness deepens, Akbar’s fort on a far hill is floodlit in majestic color. Nearer Nagin Lake, the Shankaracharya temple is outlined in fairy lights.

Driving to Gulmarg less than two hours from Srinagar, we asked Majeed, our driver, if the Kashmiri people were happier under the Mufti Mohammed regime or with Omar Abdullah as chief minister. His reply has us blinking. "Kala kutta ya saféd kutta. Kutta toh kutta hi hai (black dog or white dog, a dog remains a dog).”  His explanation would translate to making a choice between the devil and the deep blue sea. All politicians are the same and consumed with the desire to line their own pockets. Who cares about us?

Walnut trees line the road to Gulmarg. Rice fields are interspersed with small settlements. "Rice is the staple food of the Kashmiris,” Majeed informs us. "A man may eat 10 rotis for lunch but he will say ‘Khana nahi khaya. (I have not eaten), pét nahi bhara (my stomach is not full)’ if he has not eaten rice!”

Gulmarg, which the British fondly called the Alps of India in the days of the Raj, was cool, clean and green. Pink cheeked locals surround us, urging us to have kahva  (Kashmiri tea), take the cable car or rent mules. We settle for two mules to trot us around Gulmarg for two hours. In less than half that time, Edul’s back and my bottom are sore. We sheepishly dismount and give our ghorawalla an extra tip to hide our embarrassment. 

For lunch the friendly sardarji at Khalsa New Punjab Restaurant makes us hot parathas, anda bhurji and dal (unleavened bread, spicy scrambled eggs and lentils). And he enlightens us on the politics and economics of doing business in a Muslim dominated state. "There are good years and bad years. When Pakistani incursions and the shadow of terrorism fall over the Valley, tourists dry up and so does our income.”

On our return to Srinagar, we stop at the Kashmir Government Handicrafts Emporium. While the merchandise is beautiful, the men and women behind the counters look bored and give us the distinct impression that we have impinged upon their afternoon siesta!

From Srinagar we headed for Leh via Drass and on to Kargil. The ascent was steep. It had perforce to be slow because of the terrain as well as to let travelers acclimatize to the high altitude and rarified air. 

The drive opened our eyes to the awesome beauty of the Himalayas. The youngest and also the highest mountains on the planet, the Himalayan range stretches in an enormous crescent over Kashmir. The grandeur and changing face of the Himalayas is hard to put into words. Stark and barren rock one moment; green with oak and pine around the next bend; dun colored rocks made smooth by the action of glacier and river further on; rising to heights that make one realize the utter insignificance of a five-foot human. The narrow road with hair-pin bends clings to the mountain on one side. A river running parallel to the road is sometimes a trickle, sometimes a gurgle, occasionally a roar. Frothing white and jumping over the rocks, it is called the Sindhu, the Drass or the Indus, depending on where it comes from and in which direction it flows. It is early September but last year’s snow lingers on the mountain tops. By the end of the month, a mantle of fresh snow will cover the slopes.

The roads that we travel are an engineering marvel. Miles of satin grey ribbon, perfectly maintained, winding around the mountains, often with a sheer drop on one side, barely inches from the wheels of our vehicle. Hats off to the BRO (Border Roads Organization) for building and maintaining these roads which are the lifeline for our Army and Border Security Force.

Tololing, Tiger Hill, Batalik Height — places that were mere names till yesterday — come alive as hallowed points of blood and gore and glorious victory. It was exactly 10 years ago that Pakistan intruded across the Line of Control (LOC) in the Kargil sector. There is a beautifully laid out, heart moving War Memorial at Drass, where the names of the martyrs are etched in stone, their deeds of bravery documented and memorabilia exhibited.

As we travel eastwards, leaving the district of Srinagar for Ladakh, Muslim mosques and bearded men give way to Buddhist monasteries, gompas and tonsured monks clad in ocher. 

"Juley,” accompanied by a big smile, is the greeting in this part of the world.

Leh is a charming little town, well geared to cater to the influx of tourists, mostly foreigners. At one time it was a stop on the Silk Route to China. All roads in Leh lead to the Main Bazar which is a shopper’s paradise. You can bargain for and buy Tibetan tankhas, Buddhist prayer wheels, jewelry in silver, turquoise and other semi-precious stones, famed pashmina shawls and trendy customized T-shirts. The quizzical announcement of some of the ware amuse us. "Same Same But Different” said one. "Genuine Fake Watches” boldly proclaimed another. 

Main Bazar boasts of equally interesting and varied eating places. From Kashmiri wazwan, to Italian pesto and pasta to German bakeries serving the best apricot crumble, you have it all!

We were lucky to be in Leh at the time of the 15-day Ladakh Festival. It is an event that showcases the culture and traditions of the Ladakhi people. Seeing a polo match as part of the Ladakh Festival is a new experience for some of us. 

The mountain sides around Leh abound in gompas or monasteries where Buddhist monks live, study and practice their religion. Winding stone stairways with prayer wheels along the path, lead to the monasteries. Through low doorways one enters a room with a beautiful statue of the Buddha. Despite the many tourists present there, the peace, the silence and the sanctity of the place is palpable. The Thiksey Monastery has a beautiful, 15 m tall statue of the Buddha covered in gold leaf, built in 1970 to commemorate the visit of the Dalai Lama. The Shanti Gompa with its impressive white dome is beautifully illuminated at night. It was built by the Japanese to promote world peace. The Shey Palace, hugging the hillside, was once the summer palace of the kings of Ladakh.

Negotiating heart stopping curves on roads slippery with snow we finally reach Khardung La Pass. At 18,380 ft it is the highest motorable pass in the world! We spend an hour at Khardung La Pass taking pictures, playing in the snow and marveling at the people who had bicycled their way up steep inclines through snow! We never made it to the Nubra Valley as the army stopped all vehicular traffic beyond Khardung La. 

Another not to be missed excursion was to Pangong Tso (lake) on the India-China border. We piled into two Safaris for the five hour-long-drive to the lake over rough mountain roads and across pebbled streams. As osteoporosis affected Parsi bones rattled over this topography, there were murmurs of dissent. "Géré gagri rahété to majhénu thaté (We would have been better off had we stayed at home).” The lake when it arrived was a vast expanse of incredibly blue water — turquoise or aqua — difficult to describe. Pangong Tso is eight kms wide and 134 kms long. 

Thirty percent of the lake is in Indian territory, 70 percent is Chinese. 

A notable aspect of Leh and its surroundings is the absence of plastic and litter. There are signs everywhere, urging one to use the many dustbins and to say "NO” to plastic. Shops firmly refuse to give plastic bags to shoppers. The resolve of the government is matched by the compliance of the local population in keeping the mountain district clean.

We have seen the Grand Canyon, the Alps and the Elburz range but nothing compares with the Himalayas. In our hearts we offered a silent salute to the sentinels of our country as we flew over them on our homeward journey.