The Lost Paradise

I am born in a Kashmiri Brahmin family. My father, like most Kashmiri Pandits, was a government servant – he started his career as a stenographer in the High Court in Srinagar – and later was the Personal Assistant to the Prime Minister Shri Gopalaswamy Ayyangar. Subsequently, he served as the Supply Secretary, and then the Home Secretary of the state of Jammu & Kashmir. In Srinagar we had a rather large government house on Exchange Road, with a nice, fenced garden in front, another fenced space on the side where we children used to play and, - what appeared to me during my childhood as vast - a vegetable field that I couldn’t see the end of. We were not rich, but neither did we seem to be lacking in the basic necessities of life.

My parents had a very liberal attitude towards religion, and although we would visit the shrines at Khir Bhawani, Hari Parbat, and some other temples in the valley; yet these would be more like excursions, or picnics. The idea of going on a pilgrimage is rather unknown to the pandits. For them there are no austerities to be performed or rituals to be observed before making a visit to a holy place. In fact, more non-Kashmiris would visit the Amarnath cave and the Vaishno Devi shrine in Jammu than the pandits. I suspect we were fond of the good, easy life, and going on arduous pilgrimages did not fit into this lifestyle.

As children we would look forward to these picnics. The trip to Khir Bhawani would sometime be by a Doonga (a modest house boat, quite unlike the luxurious houseboats you find on the Dal Lake for tourists). The Doonga is constructed of wood. It is flat bottomed, usually about 50 feet long and about 6 feet wide. The framework of the sloping roof is timber, and the walls of the enclosed section are made of matting. The Doonga would slowly wend its way through the rivulets that encircle the city (all tributaries of the Jhelum river), and on reaching the entrance to the Dal Lake, would be guided through a gate into a locked space. The river and the lake are at different levels, and this maneuver is needed to bring the boat to the same level as the lake. Once the water level inside the locked space reached the level of the lake, the gate on the lake side would be opened and the boat allowed to move out. The Doonga would inevitably be owned by a Muslim family (called Hanjis) who would also be living, usually in the aft section of the boat, where a kitchen with a dried-clay fireplace would be housed. There, obviously, was no problem of Brahmins and Muslims coexisting in the confined space of a small houseboat.

A Doonga trip would usually be with one or two other families, either from among our relatives, or from my father’s friends. The party would include a family cook who would prepare the meals during the journey. On these trips the menu would be more elaborate, and the cook expected to conjure up delectable mutton dishes and fresh vegetables bought from the vendors floating on the lake. Just before reaching the temple town, however, all the mutton on board would have been consumed, and everybody would become vegetarian. A trip to Khir Bhawani and back would normally take three days. These were three days of no school, no home work, and very little parental supervision. We were only cautioned to keep away from danger, and to ensure that we did not fall into the waters.

Once landfall was made at Ganderbal, we would all disembark, making the rest of the journey on foot. The complex at Khir Bhawani has a small shrine in the middle of an enclosed spring, whose waters are reputed to change colour. The shrine is connected by a gangway only used by the priests to wash and clean the idol of Devi. Devotees are not allowed on this gangway. Around the shrine is a large courtyard, paved with flagstones, canopied by huge chinar trees providing ample shade. The courtyard can accommodate hundreds of devotees, who await their turn to make their offerings to the goddess, and make special prayers conducted by the officiating priests. The courtyard is encircled by the waters of a shallow rivulet that has been bounded on both sides. A part of this rivulet is enclosed for women, to take their ritual baths before they offer their prayers. The men bathe in the open waters. Beyond this circle is a market housing shops selling pooja materials, and a variety of general goods. There are a number of traditional Kashmiri Halwais who are busy making luchis and halwa. These two are in great demand. Luchis are rotis made of maida, deep fried in ghee, and halwa is a pudding made from cream of wheat, with a profusion of dry fruits like almonds, and raisins. Luchis and Halwa of Khir Bhawani are somehow special, and are normally not a part of our regular diet. Both are rather rich and heavy; but there must be something special in the water and air of Khir Bhawani, that no matter how much we gorged on these delectable items, we never fell sick.

The atmosphere is very relaxed. It is like being in a fair. Everyone is having a lot of fun. Children are playing a variety of games in the grounds beyond the rivulet, women exchanging gossip, brewing kahwa (tea) in their samovars; and the men busy in making arrangements for the special offerings and prayers at the shrine of the goddess.

Offerings made, prayers said, and it is time for the return journey. We pick up our things and start walking back to where the Doonga is berthed. Ganderbal is a town on the banks of the river Sind, and is famous for its fish. As soon as the party reaches Ganderbal, the cook is dispatched to buy fish and mutton for dinner and the meals for the next day. Being vegetarian is no longer necessary.

Being devotees of Siva, Kashmiri Pandits would celebrate Shivratri rather elaborately. Every Brahman household would become a bride’s home - on this occasion the home of Goddess Parvati - and the head of the house would be the father of the bride. He would be doing the kanyadan (giving away the bride) when the groom, Lord Siva would come with his marriage party to claim her. The family priest would preside over the lagan (wedding ceremony) performed with Vedic rituals. The ceremony would take five hours or more, depending upon the priest’s disposition. My parents would have to fast, according to the ritual; while we would feast, and play with cowries. Apart from this there would be other religious occasions when our parents would fast, like Janamashtami, Ram Navmi, some ekadashis, and shraddha days of their ancestors. However, there was no compulsion on us children to observe any of these fasts.

Like all Hindus, we too have a family deity. Her name is Rupa Bhavani. However, she is not some abstract, mythological figure. Rupa Bhawani was a living being, and her story is very much a part of Kashmir’s history and literature. Rupa was born in the family of a learned and wealthy Brahmin, Pandit Madho Dar. Madho Dar was an ardent devotee of Sharika Devi (incarnation of Goddess Durga), and every morning he would go to her shrine on Hari Parbat (Srinagar Fort). Legend says that the Mother, pleased with his selfless devotion appeared before him as a girl child, and granted him a boon. Madho said that since she had appeared before him as a child, he would like her to take birth in his house as his daughter. The boon was granted and the divine child was born to his wife. However, knowing her origin, the learned Pandit named her Alakheshwari, meaning one who is both indescribable and imperceptible. This thought is well known in Upanishads where the divine consciousness is considered beyond the finite and limited capacities of human mind.

Alakheshwari grew up mostly in the company of learned and spiritual scholars, as her father was a renowned spiritualist and many seekers would come to him for enlightenment. This environment developed her spiritual tendencies. Her father, knowing her divine origins, became her guru, and gave her spiritual initiation. However, as per prevailing customs, she was married to one Hiranand Sapru. The marriage was an unhappy one as her husband and his mother had no interest in her spiritual tendencies, ill treating her, and generally making her life miserable. Late at night, Alakheshwari would go to the shrine of Sharika Devi at Hari Parbat to do her sadhana and meditation. Her husband, thinking that she was going to meet some paramour, once followed her. She, aware that he was following her, asked him to join her in the shrine for meditation. But, in his ignorance, he apparently saw an unfordable stretch of water between them, and so disheartened, turned back.

Alakheshwari decided to leave her home, and spend the rest of her life in devotion and meditation. She did not return to her father’s house in Nawakadal, but instead went to a place near Srinagar called Jyeshtha Rudra. She stayed there for twelve-and-a-half years, doing intense tapasya. Her spiritual aura attracted the local people who began to flock to her. In order to escape this attention she moved to another place, Mani Gam, in north Kashmir. She stayed there for another twelve-and-a-half years, deeply absorbed in her spiritual quest. Her radiance could not remain hidden for long and soon the villagers came to know of the existence of a divine being among their midst. They started calling her Bhavani. A devotee once asked her what her name was. Bhavani replied, “My name is Rupa”. Rupa means one who is pure and white as silver, someone who has merged with the oneness of supreme consciousness.

Once more she yearned to be alone and decided to move from Mani Gam. This time she moved to a village called Vaskur, near Sumbhal. Here she settled down once more to a life of meditation and sadhana. However, people soon came to know about her and flocked to see her and get her blessings. Once she asked a blind boy to dig the earth with a stick she gave him. The boy began to dig, and soon he had struck water. Bhavani asked him to wash his eyes with this water. Legend says that his sight was immediately restored. The hole dug by the boy was later developed into a well, and can still be seen in the shrine at Vaskur.

At Vaskur, she took her brother Laljoo’s son, Baljoo Dar, and a local devotee Sadanad Mattu, as disciples and gave them spiritual initiation. This is where her sayings got transmitted. These were in the form of verses, known as Vakhas (sayings). One hundred and forty five of these vakhs have come down to us in the oral tradition of India. After another twelve-and-a-half years at Vaskur, Rupa Bhavani returned to Srinagar and settled down in a house in Safakadal, which was close to her father’s house. Here too she was sought after by her numerous devotees and it is here that she merged with eternity in 1721, exactly one hundred years after her appearance on this earth. After her Mahanirvan, there was a quarrel among her devotees. The Muslims wanted to bury her body, claiming her to be their Rupa Arifa, while the Hindus wanted to cremate her mortal remains. Legend says that, like Kabir, the mourners found that the body had vanished and only a few strands of hair, known as alakh and some flowers were left under the shroud on the funeral plank. Ever since, her day of Mahanirvan is considered as most holy by the Pandits of the valley, especially by the Dars, the Saprus, and the Mattus. On her shraddha, popularly known as Sahib Saptami, everybody keeps a fast, eating only one meal, and preparing kheer (apparently her favourite dish). Sahib Saptami is observed twice a year, once on the actual anniversary of her Samadhi, and the other during the pitra pakhsha. It is one fast that our entire family has observed with great reverence. I am not a believer in tokenism, and ritualism, and I do not believe in fasting for religious reasons. But this is one fast I have religiously observed, for reasons I cannot rationally explain.

There are temples and shrines dedicated to Rupa Bhavani in different places in the valley, but the three most important are at Mani Gam, Vaskur, and Safakadal. I think my parents were particularly fond of Vaskur. That is why, as a child I remember visiting it many times. I have never been to Safakadal, although it is in the city of Srinagar and easily accessible, nor have I been to Mani Gam. The last time I visited Vaskur was in 1981. In 1989 Kashmir went up in flames as the fires of insurgency, fuelled by Pakistan’s desire to grab the state of Jammu & Kashmir, coupled with the rise of an exclusivist form of Islam in the valley, and compelled the Pandits to flee from the valley to safer havens in Jammu and the rest of the country. Numerous Hindu shrines and temples were razed to the ground. I am not sure if Vaskur and the other shrines dedicated to Rupa Bhavani escaped their fundamentalist zeal.

In August 1996 I had the opportunity to visit Kashmir for 24 hours. I was then banking with J&K Bank, and an application for enhancement of financial limits was pending with the Bank’s Head Office in Srinagar. On an impulse I decided to go to Srinagar and see my application through. I spoke to the Chairman, expressing my desire to see him in his office. He wanted to know what was so urgent that it warranted a personal visit from me all the way from the south Indian city of Chennai. I explained about my application. The amount required was rather meager, and he was of the opinion that the limit would normally be approved on merit and did not need any personal intervention. However, my nostalgia was getting the better of me and I insisted on making the visit. He agreed and asked me to inform him once I had made my travel arrangements. I asked if he could suggest an hotel where I could make a booking. The Chairman was generous to say that I would be his personal guest and was welcome to stay with him in his house on Gupkar Road. He asked me to call him after checking in at Delhi Airport to enable him to send a car to pick me up from Srinagar Airport. Before embarking on this journey I spoke to the Branch Manager of the Bank in Chennai, a native of Kashmir, and asked him if it would be possible for me to visit Sumbhal and Vaskur during my short stay in the valley. He said that I should not entertain any such ideas as that part of the valley was totally under the control of the militants and that I should not venture anywhere outside the secured parts of the city.

Anyway, on 6th August, on a gloriously sunny day, I landed at Srinagar Airport at about 11:30 in the morning. The Public Relations Officer of J&K Bank was waiting for me with the Chairman’s personal car. We drove to the office only to find that the Chairman had been called to the Secretariat for some urgent consultations. I was received by the Dy. General Manager, whose office would ordinarily have decided on my application. He was one of the brightest officers in the Bank, hailing from the Uri District of Kashmir, an area almost on the Line of Control, and had risen through sheer hard work and merit to such an important position. A Punjabi speaking Kashmiri Muslim, he was learning to read Hindi and was studying the Hindu scriptures to better understand the unique heritage of his land. He later rose to the post of Executive Director, and has recently retired.

This charming young officer ensured that my pending application was put before the Chairman the same afternoon and said that I would be able to take the approval letter with me the next day. Thereafter we went for lunch to a typical Kashmiri restaurant situated close to the Secretariat. I expressed my desire to pass by my old haunts. Primary on the list was our erstwhile home in Wazir Bagh, which my father had bought in 1952 from a departing Punjabi. Then I wanted to see my old educational establishments, The CMS Tyndale Biscoe Memorial High School, near Rana Pratap Bagh, the D.A.V. High School in Magharmal Bagh, and Amar Singh College in Hazuri Bagh. I still wistfully recall the majestic avenue of poplar trees at the entrance to this magnificent institution. My hosts duly took me on a round of these monuments to my past. We stopped on Zero Bridge and I suddenly realized how narrow it was. As a boy, I had thought it to be very wide. Even the street leading into Wazir Bagh seemed to have shrunk and looked more like a lane. As you grow old your perspective changes and things that looked big when you were small suddenly appear little. The flood channel at the back of Amar Singh College also looked like a narrow drain. We had an ice cream at the Zero Bridge, and then it was time to return to the Bank. I remember the nervous soldiers behind their sandbagged posts, dark muzzles menacingly protruding from the fortified pill boxes. The bright sunshine and the clear blue sky somehow could not lift the gloom. Most of the residential streets were deserted and life seemed to be moving only in the shopping areas. There was a general absence of cheer and it looked like the smile had been wiped from the face of Kashmir.

We returned to the Bank and found the Chairman back in his office. He received me very warmly, enquired about my application, and issued the necessary orders for the sanction letter to be typed and kept ready before my departure the next morning. It was time to leave the office. We got into his car, and with one armed CRPF jawan in the front, made our way to his residence on Gupkar Road, just below the hill of Shankaracharya, reputed to have been named after the great Saivite saint, who in his short life, had visited Kashmir and had been bested in a religious debate by a local lady of great learning. I was not surprised to see the sandbagged entrance to the house with CRPF jawans guarding it from all sides. The Chairman’s house was protected like a small fortress. As it was still early in the evening - summer days in Srinagar are long – he offered to send me with his car and security guard to visit the nearby Parimahal (the palace of fairies), and the great Mughal garden on the Dal, built around that perennial spring, the Cheshma Shahi. I was accompanied by the Deputy General Manager and the PRO. There was hardly any traffic on the road along the Dal Lake, known in Srinagar as the Boulevard, and we passed the familiar landmarks of Gagribal, Nehru Park, the Palace Hotel, all full of memories for me, until we reached the turning that drives up to Cheshma Shahi, and further to Parimahal. The Cheshma Shahi with it’s beautifully laid out Mughal garden, is one of the most graceful gardens of Srinagar. One has to climb up a flight of steps to reach the main entrance to the garden, and once inside, one’s senses are assailed by beauty all around. The manicured lawns, the beautiful flower beds, and the gently gurgling and flowing stream from the Imperial Spring, the waters of which have really no compare on this earth, all cast their magic spell on you. You can stuff yourself with the richest meal possible, but one drink from this spring and it would all be gone; fully digested! In a trice you would be ready for another meal.

With no tourists in the valley, the gardens were totally deserted, but for a few security men. The lawns were looking immaculate and pristine, the flower beds in full bloom. There was no one to walk on the green grass, or to wonder at the beauty of the magnificent blooms gently tossing their heads in the summer breeze. The Dal Lake, in the distance, was looking like a placid sheet of glass, though one could see the overgrown weeds under the clear waters. The island of Char Chinar, the hump-backed bridge, locally known as Oont (Camel) Kadal, and the Srinagar Fort in the distance, could all be clearly seen against the blue skies. Kashmir looked bedecked like a bride waiting for the groom. Only she didn’t know that the wedding had been called off!

The PRO asked me if I would like to pay a visit to a temple that was located on the side of the hill on which the garden was situated. It was on the road that leads up to Pari Mahal. Naturally, I said I would be very pleased to see it. We descended the stairs and there in front of me was an arched gate leading into the temple. There was a sign by the gate which declared that this particular temple was dedicated – of all the crores of deities in the Hindu pantheon – to Alakheshwari Devi, and that it was under the management of the trust that ran the Safakadal shrine. I could not have been more surprised. I had never known about this shrine, although I must have come to Cheshma Shahi hundreds of times before. Here I was, deprived by militancy to visit the Devi’s shrine in Vaskur, and resigned to leaving the valley on the next day without fulfilling this wish. But miraculously she had drawn me to another shrine of which I was not even aware! I went into the premises accompanied by my two escorts. The shrine itself was a small, modest structure, hardly 6 ft x 6 ft, located in the middle of a walled garden. There was a picture of Rupa Bhavani, surrounded by prints of popular deities like Rama, Krishna, Siva, Hanuman, and a few others. These, apparently, had been placed there by the jawans of the defense forces, who were probably the only ones coming there for finding some peace and solace. There was a shloka from the Bhagvad Gita written on the entrance to the small shrine, and the Deputy General Manager read it out for me. I already knew that he was studying the Hindi script and the Hindu scriptures for personal edification. I am not very adept at praying, and hardly know any prayers from the Vedas and the Upanishads. I stood before the shrine for a couple of minutes, thanking Bhavani for bringing me to her and thereby fulfilling my desire to visit her in Vaskur.

There was a gentle stream flowing though the garden. I am not sure if the waters are from the same source as the Cheshma Shahi. A small cottage rested in one corner, probably the abode of the priest assigned to this place. However, on this day, there was another surprise for me. The cottage was occupied by a young white man, in his forties, who came out to greet us. He was wearing a white kurta and pyjamas, and looked very much at home in the surroundings. He invited us into the cottage. On enquiry I found that he was from England. He had come to India as a young hippy, in search of enlightenment and nirvana. Traveling through the length and breadth of India and Nepal in search of truth, he had finally come upon this deserted place. Finding that there was no one to take care of this little shrine, he decided to settle down, and had been living there for a few years. Apparently, he was not disturbed by the security and administrative authorities, and was allowed to live in the little cottage and take care of the shrine. He asked me my name and immediately said that I had come to my family deity’s temple. He was fully conversant with the legend of Rupa Bhavani and had been to Mani Gam. After some conversation he offered to make some Kahwa (tea) for us, and promptly proceeded to boil some water over a stove. We sat there, listening to his fascinating tale of self-discovery, wondering at the mysteries of existence. While we were sipping the tea, there were two more visitors. One was a Pandit school master who came with his young son on a scooter. He was a teacher at the Biscoe School, which was the first school I had attended as a five year old. He had not migrated from the valley during the exodus, and had decided to stay back. He was a regular visitor to the shrine and enjoyed the company of the young Englishman. I am sure he must have contributed a great deal to Michael’s knowledge of local lore and legend. The second gentleman was a sitting judge of the state High Court, a Muslim, who liked to take an evening walk up to Pari Mahal, and on the way back stop at the shrine to meet the young Englishman and to exchange views with him. He was disappointed to learn that I would be staying in the valley for that night only. He would have been pleased to invite me to his home for a meal.

It was time to leave. After another obeisance at the shrine I went to say good bye to the kind host. He had one more surprise for me. From a trunk he pulled out a packet containing some dry green leaves. He told me it was Woppal Haak, a green leaf grown in the valley, and usually cooked after being dried in the sun, with moong dal. . The leaf is a little bitter to taste and not commonly prepared in Kashmiri kitchens. The vegetable, however, was a favourite of Rupa Bhavani, and her English devotee obviously knew about it. He even knew how it was traditionally cooked and made me write the recipe. I took the packet, convinced that Bhavani had arranged, in her own way, to bring me to her, and to send me back with what I can only refer to as “holy prashad”. The visit was over. The magic spell had ended. The sun was dipping into the lake and it was time to return to the reality of the fortress on Gupkar Road.

After bidding good night to my companions of the evening, I joined the Chairman at his house. He was living alone as his wife chose to stay in safer environments in Jammu. He had a manservant who cooked his meals and generally looked after the upkeep of the house. We were later joined by the Chief Secretary of the state, who had come for a chat with the Chairman of the Bank, and stayed to join us for dinner. I was comfortably lodged in an upstairs guest room, and soon fell into a satisfied, dreamless sleep.

Morning brought another promise of a gloriously sunny day. Looking from my window I saw the Chairman playing badminton with a few members of his security detail, inside the fortified garden of his house. There was no question of him going out for a morning walk, and this was his way of keeping himself fit. We had breakfast, and he surprised me by making parathas himself. There were some calls from politically connected people demanding favours for their relatives, but I found him quite firm in dealing with these demands. At nine we left for his office, where I picked up the promised letter, and bid a hasty good bye to my friends who had spent the whole afternoon and evening with me. The Chairman’s car dropped me at the Srinagar Airport, where the security drill began from almost a kilometer before the entrance to the building. I was personally frisked. My bags were opened and checked; the car was inspected inside and outside; travel document examined closely, and only then was the car allowed to proceed. There was another security drill after checking in.

Twenty-four hours after I had touched down on the land of my ancestors, I was again airborne, this time not sure when I would again have that privilege. Much had been lost since my last visit, for two days, in August 1985, when I had gone to the valley with a German business client. We had then stayed at the Centaur Lakeview Hotel, which, in my opinion, was one of the finest hotels in the world. We traveled to Gulmarg and visited the Mughal gardens around the Dal Lake. The weather was the same as now; blue skies with stray white clouds, and the sun at its brightest. The gardens were in full bloom, honey bees busily collecting nectar and spreading the pollen around. Agha Shahid Ali had not yet written the words: “In the lake the arms of temples and mosques are locked in each other’s reflections”, but that was the general feeling. How everything had changed in the intervening years! Perhaps there is no better way to describe the anguish of the times than in the words of the late poet:

“…..From Zero Bridge
a shadow chased by searchlights is running
away to find its body. On the edge
of the Cantonment, where Gupkar Road ends,
it shrinks almost into nothing, ….”

“……Kashmir is burning:
By that dazzling light
We see men removing statues from temples.
We beg them, “Who will protect us if you leave?”

“…They make a desolation and call it peace.
Who is the guardian tonight of the Gates of Paradise?”

and in his finest and most heartfelt cry, called “The Country without a Post Office” wherein he laments:

“His fingerprints cancel blank stamps
in that archive for letters with doomed
addresses, each house buried or empty.

Empty? Because so many fled, ran away,
and became refugees there, in the plains,
where they must now will a final dewfall
to turn the mountains to glass.”….

“Everything is finished, nothing remains.”….

Clutching my little parcel of woppal haak, I left the valley. I asked the senior members of my family if they had known of the existence of the shrine near Cheshma Shahi. No one had heard of it. My older sister went to Kashmir the following year. She made it a point to visit the shrine and, to her surprise, she found Michael in the little cottage. Although I continue to ritually observe the Sahib Saptami fast, Alakheshwari has not contrived to recall me to her abode. Perhaps her fondness for the bitter leaf is a reminder that under the pristine and unparalleled beauty of Kashmir there is much that is unpleasant. Kashmir continues to burn, and the petty politicians are too busy in their little games of intrigue to either feel the heat or see the rising hatred for them. I do not know if the young Englishman continues to live in the little cottage and if the Pandit school master and his son have outlived their belief in their safety. The only consolation is in the experience of Swami Vivekananda who, distressed at the sight of destroyed temples and images of Hindu deities, asked the Goddess in Khir Bhawani how she had permitted the invader to wreak such havoc. The Goddess appeared to him in a dream and asked: “What does it matter if the invader destroys my temples and images? Tell me, do you protect me, or do I protect you?” The great apostle of non-dualistic Advaita was instantly cheered by this admonition, and happily went his way. I try to find solace in his words, but I am not as detached as the great saint, and cannot help but ask, “if there is a Paradise on Earth, where is it, where is it, where is it?”