Day 1: Srinagar to Gurez Valley – Read More
Day 2: Habba Khatoon, Khandiyal Top & Gurez Festival
The following morning, as the first rays of the sun gently caressed the landscape, I stepped out of my tent around 8:30 am. Irfan was busy instructing his staff on things to do during the day. We exchanged warm pleasantries, and he inquired about the quality of my sleep. With genuine interest, he asked about my breakfast preferences and assured me it would be prepared as soon as Iqbal, the cook, woke up from his slumber. Time in this realm seemed unhurried, and everything unfolded at a leisurely pace. It took me a while to fully grasp this, and the realization dawned upon me once I returned to the bustling chaos of Mumbai. Finding a serene spot behind my tent, beneath the protective embrace of a tree, I settled in to relish the tranquillity of nature.
After some time, Iqbal emerged, and I suggested he take his time with breakfast, assuring him there was no rush. Inviting him to join me, I asked about the nocturnal canine chorus that had intrigued me the night before. With a smile, Iqbal explained that the dogs often barked at night when brown bears descended from the mountains to catch fish from the river or scavenge for leftover food. A chill ran down my spine, and suddenly, I understood why Irfan had insisted on zipping the tent fully closed.
As the morning unfolded, the tantalizing aroma of breakfast wafted through the air. Opting to enjoy it in the open rather than the dining area, I suggested this to Shahil, who gladly agreed, sparing him the need to shuttle back and forth. Iqbal, a master of his craft, efficiently handled the culinary preparations. Residing alone on the campsite, with his family situated in a village outside Gurez.. I was delighted to have made his acquaintance. Over the next three days, a camaraderie blossomed between us. Even today, he occasionally calls, saying, “Sir ji, apki yaad aa gayi thi” (Sir, I was thinking of you). Although brief, these calls make me yearn for his mischievous smile and heartfelt conversations. What I cherish most is his willingness to take a small risk, akin to stealing an extra run on the cricket pitch. Witnessing friends engage in sports over the years, I’ve formed a theory – the way a person plays on the sports field reflects their personality and approach to life.
Danish arrived as scheduled, inquiring about my travel plans for the next 10 days. Presumably checking the routes and offering observations, he remarked, “Sir ji, there is nothing in Lolab Valley. It’s just like Gurez.” While I refrained from commenting, having already confirmed and paid for my two-night stay at Chandigram (the base station for Lolab Valley). I was vaguely aware that this remark might resurface later in the trip. The thought of rescheduling the journey and poring over maps didn’t appeal to me. I’m cautious when it comes to drivers suggesting route changes, harbouring a suspicion that personal interests may influence their recommendations. Call it my way of distrusting the world – I take external advice with a pinch of salt. Trust in Danish was something yet to be established.
Nevertheless, if you ever find yourself in need of a driver or taxi for your travels in J&K or Ladakh, Danish should be your first choice. A positive and chirpy young man, he is a local Gurez boy nurturing dreams of running for election at some point in his life. During our drives, particularly around the Bandipora district, he recognized most of the people on the way and stopped to exchange greetings, proudly calling them his “vote banks.” He treasures his 4W Scorpio, caring for it like a pet. My admiration for Danish grew, and after the trip, I have no doubt that if any trouble were ever come my way, Danish would step in front, putting himself between me and the danger.
Danish expressed surprise at my allocation of four nights to Gurez. Apparently, most tourists opt for a two-night stay, likely due to weekend getaways and the majority being locals from Srinagar. We decided to take it easy that day, focusing on exploring Dawar town. Around 10:30 am, we departed from our resort. Our first destination was the majestic Habba Khatoon peak, a mere 15-minute drive from our resort. At the check-post, while Danish completed formalities, I noticed a banner advertising various sports activities, with a hot air balloon ride capturing my attention. Upon Danish’s return, I inquired about the possibility of trying it out. He revealed that the Gurez Festival was ongoing and probaby we could try it later in the day.
On our journey to Habba Khatoon, Danish wove a tapestry of tales, the threads of which were intertwined with the mystic mountain’s essence. I had anticipated there would be a compelling narrative tethered to this majestic peak, and Danish did not disappoint.
The enchanting story unravelled around a captivating local village girl, Zoon (meaning “Moon” in Kashmiri). Later bestowed with the endearing moniker Habba Khatoon. She, under the spell of Sufism, composed and sang soulful romantic melodies.
The King of the Region, Yusuf Shah Chak, during his passage and was immediately ensnared by her melodious voice and beauty. Love blossomed swiftly, leading to their marriage. King Yusuf, backed by a formidable army well-versed in navigating the mountainous terrain, had successfully fended off numerous Mughal attacks. Legend has it that Mughal King Akbar, seeking a truce, invited Yusuf for negotiations but instead treacherously arrested him upon arrival in Delhi. Zoon, steadfast in her belief, awaited her love’s return, wandering aimlessly around the peak, singing her heart’s lament.
A celestial sage, dwelling in the embrace of the peak, was enchanted by Zoon’s haunting melody that carried the weight of her sorrow. Captivated by the depth of her emotions, Zoon, yearning for purpose, she graciously requested for shelter and to serve the venerable sage.
A sacred pact was forged, with the sage’s consent under the moonlit heavens – a pact that draped Zoon’s existence in an ethereal veil. No mortal gaze shall henceforth lay claim to her visage; all her movements outside his hut were to be carried out in the sanctity of discretion.
Zoon, having assented to this mystic covenant, would serve the sage with daily chores in his ashram during the day light and would weave through the shadows of the night, descending to the banks of the river Kishanganga. There, in the hushed solitude, she would draw water to fill her pot. In this secluded haven, where the whispering winds played audience to her melancholic melodies, she sought solace for the love that had slipped away like a gentle breeze.
One fateful night, an enigmatic stranger found refuge near the mystic peak. Zoon’s sweet, sorrow-laden serenade caught his attention. The celestial notes guided him, a magnetic force drawing him closer until he stood at the very spot where Zoon, like a spectre of lost love, replenished her vessel. As Zoon, veiled in the obscurity of night, prepared to leave, the stranger, captivated by her ethereal presence, dared to utter the words, “Who are you, Khatoon?” Before the question could fully unfold, the delicate pot slipped from her grasp, meeting the earth with a gentle thud. In an instant, Zoon dissipated into the cool night air, leaving behind a shimmering spring – an everlasting testament to the poignant tale of love etched into the heart of Habba Khatoon peak.
Since that enchanted night, a sacred pilgrimage beckons those drawn to the enchanting lore of Gurez. Visitors, like ardent lovers of the heart’s bittersweet ballads, make a pilgrimage to the very spot where the pot touched the earth. In the tender embrace of this sacred spring, they pay homage to the melancholic love story of Habba Khatoon, forever etched into the mystic mountain.
Curious about the peak’s nomenclature, I asked Danish. He shared various versions of Zoon’s past, one suggesting she was initially married to a local villager named Habba before King Yusuf walked into her life. Perplexed, I wanted to question the tradition of a woman being identified by her husband’s name, especially when the love and affection were not reciprocated. Life can be unkind, and I found myself contemplating the intricacies of these stories.
Unable to verify the complete truth, I chose to embrace Danish’s narration, preserving Zoon’s love for King Yusuf untarnished. To me, Habba Khatoon peak remained a magnetic force throughout my stay in Gurez, drawing one into its realm of nature, beauty, love, and purity.
Upon reaching the base of Habba Khatoon peak, we traversed a brief footpath of around 200 meters.
There, we encountered a mesmerizing sight—an abundant spring, flowing vigorously from the base of the mountain. We indulged in its pure, cold sweetness, urging others to carry their bottles to savour this natural elixir. The water, originating from the barren mountain, eventually merge with the river Kishanganga. Its continuous, rapid flow throughout the year, devoid of any other streams, seemed nothing short of miraculous.
In Kashmiri, the spring is commonly referred to as “Chasama,” and throughout my entire journey across Kashmir, I preferred water sourced from local Chasama over bottled water.
The local spring water possessed a superior taste and perhaps a richer mineral composition, offering a unique local flavour.
While cautioning against venturing too close to the spring’s mouth, I observed a group of lively middle-aged women from Bangalore. We exchanged notes on our Kashmir itineraries and bid farewell.
Solo travel carries its own allure, providing opportunities to engage with locals, immerse oneself in observations, and offer moments for introspection. The essence of travel lies in exploring and connecting with both local communities and nature. Even during group travels with close friends and family, I strive to infuse the spirit of solo exploration whenever feasible. One significant advantage of solo travel is the freedom from maintaining expense statements and ability to be flexible in changing itinerary.
Post our visit to Habba Khatoon peak, Danish guided me through Dawar town. The primary old market of Dawar boasted wooden structures, with one-story, with some old houses featuring intriguing carvings on the outside panel of the walls.
The new constructions, contrasting with the traditional wooden architecture, were predominantly brick and mortar.
The main road housed shops on the ground level and residences above, accessible through entrances covered with cloth curtains.
Notably, the old wooden houses had a small rounded bulge on the ground floor, serving as toilets – a testament to the residents’ early commitment to cleanliness and sanitation.
I observed Grameen Bank, operated by J&K Bank, as the prevalent banking channel across my journey, and the physical conditions of these branches raised questions about their usage. I pondered whether the shift to online transactions or infrequent banking needs contributed to their seemingly neglected state.
During a casual inquiry with Danish about the banking habits of local residents, he mentioned that as per their religious practices, any interest earned on the bank deposits was returned to the bank—an arrangement I didn’t delve deeper into at the time.
Lunch brought us to a hotel opposite the Dak Bungalow, owned by one of Danish’s friends. Our customary ritual ensued – Danish ordered his non-vegetarian dish, and I opted for the vegetarian fare.
Danish, upon receiving his dish, would relocate to adjoining table, a peculiar behaviour that remained unexplained. The culinary disappointments endured by Danish’s futile quest for mutton became a recurring theme throughout the trip. Whenever hunger struck, Google Maasi, our virtual guide, directed us to the nearest restaurants, where my quick selections often led to delightful encounters with fresh dough pizzas—an unexpected culinary joy in Kashmir.
Although Gurez is a military base, you hardly see any military personnel on the streets; they are confined to their outposts. At best, you might catch a glimpse of military vehicles transporting goods and services. Given that it’s a border area, most military posts perch atop mountain peaks, inaccessible by vehicles. The transportation of goods to these remote locations relies on mules, and these mule services are entrusted to the care of seasoned individuals from the local community.
Danish dropped me off at the resort for an afternoon nap, promising to return around 4 pm for an evening tour of the town.
As I serrled under the tree and relishing quiet moment, a group of spirited people from Srinagar, comprising three sisters and their respective families, arrived at the campsite. Engaging in the preparations of their own lunch, they epitomized a well-coordinated routine, indicative of seasoned travellers. Curious to gather more information, I enlisted the help of a young kid from their group, uncovering details about their arrival and stay. The arrival of three sisters and their families brought an additional layer of vibrancy to the campsite. Between three families there were about 7-8 kids.
Scheduled as promised, Danish arrived at the resort in the evening, accompanied by his brother, Dawood. The youngest among the brothers, Dawood, with a diploma in IT, expressed a tentative interest in pursuing a corporate career. Our trio embarked on an exploration of the valley, making our way to the tent park located just before the town.
As we embarked on our journey towards the valley, we witnessed a group of individuals delicately folding a hot air balloon and loading it onto a truck, I prompted Dawood to explore the possibility of catching a last ride in the sky. However, my hopes were dashed, they had just concluded the final ride. I decided to not let momentary disappointment tarnish our spirits.
Upon arrival, the tent park, we found a few chairs arranged by the riverbank for us to revel in the warmth of the sun and relish the serenity around. The river flowed carelessly beside us, cows and horses grazed in the meadows, and sparrows sang their melodic couplets. The blue sky, green meadows, and the music in the air created a perfect canvas for relaxation.
The scene was nothing short of idyllic, urging a desire to spread a bedsheet and succumb to a peaceful nap.
For most of the time, Danish was busy on his cell-phone, working on securing papers for Dawood, aiming to facilitate a government job within Kashmir. Danish emerged as the unifying force, ensuring the cohesive existence of the brothers. So, within this trio of brothers, each embodied a distinct inclination: Danish, the “son of the soil,” rooted deeply in the earth; Irfan, guided by a religious and contemplative spirit; and Dawood, a soul navigating the realms of technology, a work in progress with a burgeoning inclination. When I inquired of Dawood whether he harboured an interest in venturing to Mumbai for a career, his response was tentative yet affirmative.
After spending 30-45 minutes in bliss, we proceeded to our next destination – Khandiyal Top, a small hillock where trekking trails unfolded over 3 – 4 days, delving deep into the forest beyond two or three mountains. Dawood, having recently embarked on such a trek, shared photographs that resembled a heavenly place. My yearning to undertake such treks added another entry to my ever-growing to-do list, with Antarctica topping the list. While the cost hovered around 8 to 10 lakhs, any enthusiastic individual interested in crowdfunding my Antarctic adventure, please reach out promptly. I pledge to bring you live updates, network permitting.
The panoramic view from Khandiyal Top of the entire valley with the river merging into the lake as the sun set – a spectacle cherished as a sunset point. Although a few clouds adorned the sky, the beauty of the scene captivated our senses.
On the far right, a newly inaugurated museum building proudly displayed the Indian flag, fluttering high against the backdrop of the scenic view. In this border town and military area, the Indian national flag adorned every significant place, evoking a deeply patriotic sentiment uncommon in city life.
The meadows were alive with activity as cows contentedly muzzled the grass, and amidst this bucolic scene, a local farmer ferried soil in his colourful tractor.
A young lady gracefully carried a bunch of dried woods from the forest to her home. The woods, neatly tied and held above her head, framed her as she descended the slopes with an air of elegance. She occasionally paused to wipe the sweat from her face, a small yet essential respite from the daunting task under the scorching sun.
I pursued her with my camera, wishing to capture not only her labour but also the intricacies of her life – the size of her family, the dinner plans for the evening, and more. Amidst these simple yet significant activities, I revelled in the carefree moments of life.
As we immersed ourselves in nature’s beauty, the local residents continued their daily lives.
Notably, the location had additional tents available for accommodation, and I couldn’t help but hope that the pristine landscape wouldn’t succumb to excessive tenting, preserving the valley’s charm.
Amidst the natural splendour, a group of local youngsters engaged in making reels, adding a touch of liveliness to the tranquil setting. One hungry lad even placed a pizza delivery order, which, astonishingly, was fulfilled with some delay—truly a testament to India’s maturing landscape.
As the sun dipped behind the mountains, we bid farewell to Khandiyal Top and headed to Log Hut Café for an evening snack. However, our plans took an unexpected turn when Zeeshan called Danish, directing us to the local stadium, where the Gurez Festival – Jashn-e-Gurez – was in full swing.
Jashn-e-Gurez – an annual celebration sponsored by the Indian Army.
Upon our arrival, the festival was already underway, and the entire town had gathered at the stadium. Introductions unfolded as Danish presented me to his yet another brother, Shakeel – a young lad in his mid-20s. More on him later; first, the Gurez Festival.
The music resonated loudly, making decent conversation challenging. As we transitioned towards the festival stage, a simple raised platform nestled in the heart of nature, the right side reserved for men and the left for women, we traversed a world infused with the spirit of the ongoing Gurez Festival. The ground space between the stage and the VIP podium held promise for captivating artist performances.
I was in Kashmir not merely to witness natural beauty but to experience Kashmir.
As we progressed towards the performance stage, sudden encounter with a middle-aged policeman added an unexpected twist to the evening.
With Danish’s exchange of pleasantries in Shina, the policeman seized my elbow, declaring, “Aap humaare mehmaan hain”. Despite the eloquence, being escorted by the police invoked a sense of trepidation. He escorted me to a special area called the VIP podium, and there was an empty chair waiting for me. It made me feel uneasy. The Chief Guest, a commanding Brigadier flanked by the District Collector, presided over the ceremony. The awkwardness was palpable as a fellow attendee, sitting upright beside me, hesitantly inquired, “Aap idhar ke nahi dikhte hai”. Once I clarified my status as a passing tourist, a sigh of relief swept over him. Despite the regal treatment, I discreetly shifted a couple of rows behind as the event unfolded.
The festival, a modest setup with high-pitched music, flashing lights, and an enthusiastic compere from Srinagar, showcased diverse performances. The script, peppered with interesting shayaris, added charm to the proceedings. From Zaakir’s Sufi-laced songs to a local Gurezi girls’ traditional dance, the stage came alive with talent. A Bollywood-based flute artist, added the quintessential Bollywood touch. Although the organizers thoughtfully placed a carpet to prevent dust from rising into the air, the girls dancing group seemed unprepared for it. The carpet curls disrupted their fluid dance movements. Unfortunately, my fears materialized towards the end when one of the girls tripped. Nevertheless, she skill-fully regained her composure, eliciting cheers from the supportive audience. The festival exuded a vibrant spirit. The playful sight of two young babies captivating each other in the front row diverted my gaze.
After spending an hour, we left Gurez Festival, as per original plan, Danish and I decided to head to Log Hut Café for dinner, the clock had already struck 8:30.
One notable military-run establishment was the Log Hut Café in Dawar, adding a unique flavour to the culinary landscape. The café, managed by jawan’s on a roster basis, stood out for its reasonable rates and delectable food. Conversations with the serving jawan’s revealed tales worth listening to, providing a glimpse into their lives.
I highly recommend to visit the Log Hut Café in Gurez. The individuals serving at the café’ are very kind and humble. The hospitality extended by the serving jawan’s was a bit overwhelming for the consciousness to fully grasp.
Limited menu options led to a quick sandwich and cold coffee, and afterward, we retired to the resort. Danish confirmed our plans for the next day’s journey into Tulail Valley, the last Indian village of Chakwali on this side of the border with POK.
Upon reaching the resort, the three sisters’ family, seemed more captivated by the artistry of crafting exotic dishes than venturing into the scenic landscapes. Throughout their two-day stay, it appeared their only excursion was to Habba Khatoon, just a delightful 15 minutes away. Probably because for Kashmiris, heaven unfolds in every corner. The youngest sister, a culinary virtuoso, effortlessly orchestrated and prepared the feast, while the others lounged around, reveling in the delightful aroma. Though they warmly invited me to partake in the dinner, I playfully quipped about being vegetarian; laughter echoed in response. Meanwhile, the children played joyously, and I shared cookies and chocolate fudge with them – a small gesture to spread joy in the remote corners of the country. Encouraging them to share with the entire group, their happiness radiated.
Carrying an abundance of chocolates and cookies from Mumbai, I find joy in breaking the ice and spreading happiness among the locals. These treats, not widely available beyond city limits, reflect the simplicity of sharing joy in remote towns yet to be touched by Amazon’s reach. Expressing fatigue, I bid them goodnight and retired to my tent. Irfan was there to witness my descent into sleep. Following the bedtime rituals of charging my mobile and warming up the electric blanket, Irfan jokingly asked about the tent zipper. I suggested leaving it open with a chair blocking the entrance. As the lights dimmed, the laughter of playing children still serenaded the night. Soon, I drifted into a peaceful slumber.
Adjusting to sleep in Gurez is a bit tricky due to the unusual 8 pm to 5 am electricity schedule. When you go to bed, you wear shorts and a light cover because the electric mattress is turned on. At 5 am, when the electricity goes off in the entire town, the mattress starts getting cold, and the shorts and light cover become inadequate. Towards the end of my 4 days stay in Gurez Valley, I realized the best way to sleep comfortably was to sleep in without using the electric blanket. This way, your body stays in a consistent state and adapts to the external weather conditions.
The resort settled into a nocturnal rhythm. The mid-night ritual unfolded, marked by barking dogs and the glow of Habba Khatoon and the adjacent mountain peak. Despite the cloud-covered night, the picturesque landscape held an allure that tempted me to venture towards the riverbank. However, the fear of brown bears restrained my nocturnal exploration. The silent night in Gurez unfolded its own poetic charm, leaving me to imagine the serenity of the river flowing in the moonlight.
Day 3: Tulail Valley – Read More
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Sukumar Jain, a Mumbai-based finance professional with global experience, is also a passionate traveler, wildlife enthusiast, and an aficionado of Indian culture. Alongside his career, which includes diverse roles in international banking and finance, he's working on a wildlife coffee table book and enjoys sculpture and pottery. His interests span reading non-fiction to engaging in social and global networking.
