Valley of valour

This is paradise. And the proverbial serpent here is death. There is possibly no other funeral ground in the world that is as hauntingly beautiful as the one perched high above the rushing waters of the Jhelum near Uri in Kashmir - a neatly bordered patch of green with a ready bunch of carefully arranged logs that awaits the next casualty from the border. Which of these men rushing around in fatigues and jeeps will find his way here next? Hard to say in a place where beauty, destiny, history and violence merge as seamlessly as distant mists, snow, mountains and clouds.

But I am getting ahead of my journey. I left a sodden Srinagar early one morning this summer. Heavy skies squeezing out fat drops of rain, empty and rows upon rows of idle boatmen sitting on the parapets lining Dal Lake, awaiting non-existent tourists. The shutters were down on most shops at Dal Gate and would take their time lifting as the day progressed - Kashmir was ready and waiting but despite Sonia Gandhi's recent inauguration of the manicured tulip gardens, tourists were just about beginning to amble in this year. Outside, the booming construction projects belied the quiet of the city. Money was obviously flowing in - the new homes, some of them palatial, belonged to business families that had benefited from the promise of peace that appears to have recently gripped the valley. Apple blossoms were beginning to appear on trees as were pink cherry buds and white flowers. The fruit growers were exporting more than they ever had before - the trucks were out, cables were being laid, fast food joints were open till midnight and beyond. Why, Srinagar even had fashion shows now!

But the real test lay in the hinterland. Two years ago, when I visited last, the road to Pahalgam and Gulmarg was manned by security personnel at every few hundred metres. The situation was still the same this summer, but somehow the Army seemed more at ease - the battle may not be over but there is no doubt as to who is in control now. No more tense-looking soldiers standing stiffly like sitting ducks at their posts - these men were more relaxed, not watching their backs all the time. As we drove through Baramulla, the colonel accompanying us pointed to a spot in the bazaar where he had been standing when a local man appeared from within the usual milling crowd, drew a gun from within the folds of his robe, and shot the soldier standing next to him. "This happened at the height of the insurgency of course-this whole belt was under ‘their' control then. It's taken a lot of work to re-exert our control here," he said.

The mists rolled in over the river as we crossed the outer boundary of Baramulla, heading towards Rampur. I asked the colonel to take a picture of me. As I stepped out of the jeep to stand against the stunning backdrop, I realize that at my feet was one of the worst garbage dumps-plastic, cartons, animal carcasses, mangled metal-that I had seen in the area so far. Somehow, the spot seemed to mark the reality of Kashmir today.