A chill wind descends
from the lofty meadows of Gulmarg.
It carries the scent of those same wildflowers
that captivated noble Sultan
Yusuf Khan six hundred years ago.
It sweeps across the mirror surface
of Dal Lake,
gently rocking the stately cedar houseboats
that recall the elegance of the Raj.
Busy shikaras, those bustling workboats
of this Venice of the Himalayas,
ply their trade along watery avenues
bordered by tall deciduous trees
whose leaves and blossoms
give accent to these shining lanes.
In Srinagar’s marketplace
the vendors’ calls
exaggerate the splendour of their wares.
The cacophony is joined
by the muezzin calling the faithful
to the ancient mosque Jama Masjid,
where Sultan Sikandar
sought favour with his god.
The market’s wooden buildings
have a worn and beaten look:
the price of continuing war
and ethnic violence engraved
on their facades.
Far above the valley,
on the fabled road to Ladakh,
the golden fields of mustard
wave a tribute
to the snow-clad guardians
of this troubled valley:
the mountains wait,
and dream of peace.
Glacial streams leap noisily
to strengthen roots
of mighty chinar trees,
whose ancient spires
daily fall to economic growth.
Across the valley
the Nanga Parbat mountains
swallow a golden sun,
and darkness
claims its due.
