The dominating mountains bordering the land of India stand tall in the unforgiving winters. They lay witness to the terror behind them; the killings; the infiltration; the injustice.  A battlefield where there can be no winner because there cannot be a religion that is “wrong” or “worse”. They lay marred by the blood of martyrs. Yet, they find it in them to give way for the melting glaciers to meander through them. Shedding their rocks and selflessly giving into the force of the coursing water. The water that winds down to the floor of the valley, merging into the blue stream. A colour that the sky has readily allowed it to absorb. It slithers through the land, nourishing and giving birth to tiny saplings that will soon grow to become pine trees studded with golden brown conifers. If you stand on the edge of the river, and look to either side, it’s almost like it’s never ending. At Least that’s what I felt when I stood there; hypnotised by the gentle humming of the trickling water: like rustling leaves. Hypnotised by the beauty surrounding me: Kashmir; untouched and fragile, yet completely broken, overlooked and taken advantage of.

As our car drove onto the Srinagar highway, it started. At first they were few, and far apart. Eventually they grew closer. And closer. Like tiny green clusters; bottle green, tan and grey .Each staring into the distance; into the dense layers of dark green pine trees, the number of acorns on each of which they would have already memorised. They gaze fiercely into nothingness, yet their face, half hidden by a cargo mask, remains straight, plainer than that of a poker player. I wonder. Do they ever feel scared? Jittery even? If they do, they hide it well behind all those guns and vests. Coming to think of it, maybe they hide it so we don’t feel it. But I know I felt it. Not all the time, no. Only when I saw them; when I was reminded of why they stood there in the first place. 

I saw the sky first. Azure- dotted with clouds spun like off-white cotton yarns. The ice capped mountains, far off in the distance, met my vision next. They stood proudly, with their heads up high, cradling the valley surrounding them. A thick blanket of greenery veneered the rugged ascend of the mountain, pulling my eyes down to the array of flowers and trees in front of me, donning the gardens of what used to be the king’s old palace. Magenta, rose, yellow, red. You name it and you can spot it. The myriad shades of the rainbow danced on the ground in the form of funnel shaped petals, jewel like flowers and spade leaves. Each swaying to the cue of the gentle wind, unaffected by the pinch in the air. Beaming and radiating ripples of joy to the heaving tourists  too busy encapsulating moments on their phones rather than living them in the present. “Memories”. I strolled around the park for a little while longer, mopping in the pleasant chill in the air, a dream to most of us living in Southern India. My eyes ambled across the grounds, too excited by the vibrant display of nature, when they suddenly stopped. My jaw clenched, my shoulders tensed, and I took in a sharp breath. They were there. Again.

I was never a fan of pineapple on pizza, it just doesn’t belong. Just like how they do’nt belong inside this “Heaven on Earth”: the army, the terror, the crime. A land so beautiful scarred by something so horrible; forever stained by its ugly connotation. People say that every grey cloud has a silver lining. I’d like to believe that every silver cloud has a grey lining too. If not a lining, then a speck. An impurity. An infiltration immobilising it to reach perfection, because after all that word is only a myth. Kashmir is a glowing silver cloud on the face of this world. Luminescent like the moon and forever shining like the stars. Yet like all other silver clouds, it has its grey lining too. It’s up to us to accept the flaws and love the cloud despite it. That’s what I’ve done.

-Ananyaa Sultania