Mumbai ka fashion, Gulmarg ka mausam aur biwi ki mood, paanch minute mein change ho sakta hai, Javid joked as he drove us — me, my wife and our friend — back from Gulmarg to Srinagar on a sunny morning last weekend.
Despite the patchy mobile network, news alerts flashed that Israel and the United States had jointly launched a full-scale attack on Iran.
From the backseat, I peered at Javid. His eyes were fixed on the road the whole time. Once or twice he glanced at the phone perched on the dashboard but his face betrayed no emotion.
In Srinagar, some days ago, we had seen cutouts of Ayatollah Ali Khamenei, the now slain Supreme Leader of Iran and the top religious leader of the Shia sect, adorning many neighbourhoods.
It was Javid who drew our attention to the cutouts and remarked on the strong presence of Shia followers in Kashmir. But he also added that the Sunnis outnumbered them.
Hours after we left Srinagar, Lal Chowk — marked by the iconic Ghanta Ghar, the Tricolour flying above it and the Pir Panjal forming a majestic backdrop — transformed into a sea of protesters mourning the Ayatollah’s killing and chanting slogans against the US.
Once in Calcutta, I scrolled through social media to see how the mahaul on roads and in town squares we had visited only days ago had dramatically changed. I also got a couple of voice messages from Javid. “Allah ka shukr,” he said, that we had left the Valley before the situation turned volatile. “Pura curfew hai Sir, Srinagar se Gulmarg ka rasta bhi bandh hai,” he said in the message, adding, “mahaul bigra hua hai”.
It was not just Srinagar; protests were staged in Lucknow, Hyderabad and New Delhi as well. Trolls poked fun by comparing and contrasting sporadic images of jubilation at Khamenei’s death in Iran to scenes of mourning in India.
The exchange with Javid brought back memories of Shabbir, a hotel staff we met in Pahalgam. The property had a handful of guests, from the looks of it less than 20 per cent occupancy, a poor show by hospitality industry standards.
Shabbir was happy to see us. “Kuchh nahin hone se toh behtar hai,” he said. He was speaking about how the tourist flow had come down to a trickle after April 22 of 2025, when terrorists gunned down 26 tourists at Baisaran valley, six kilometres from Pahalgam town.
The incident took a toll on tourist footfall in Kashmir and Pahalgam in particular. Many hotels had to let go of staff.
Tourism is the lifeblood of this town, set in a valley ringed by snow-clad mountains on three sides and cut through by the Lidder river. Shabbir, who has been doing this for 40 years, has seen it all, navigating peaks and troughs of insurgency that have dogged the Valley.
Shabbir’s sentiment rang throughout our weeklong trip to Kashmir. And however cliched it may seem, it prompted me to recall the famous couplet attributed to poet Amir Khusrau, “Agar firdaus bar-ru-e-zamin ast/hamin ast o hamin ast o hamin ast... If there is paradise on Earth, it is here, it is here, it is here.”
From shopkeepers to chauffeurs, artisans to pony ride guides — people seem to blame siyasi chaal or political manoeuvres for trouble in paradise. No one blames insurgency directly. Nearly everyone we met declared how open and welcoming they are to tourists, though there was no need to, one could sense the warmth. After all, tourism supports livelihood in a state shorn of many economic opportunities.
Yet the graph of tourism will move in tandem with mahaul, which can and does change in a jiffy. Shakeel, a driver in Pahalgam, told us he got a ride after 17 days of waiting. Before Baisaran, he used to make two sightseeing trips in a day.
Walking up the snow-splattered meadow in Aru Valley, a must-see getaway some distance from Pahalgam, I stumbled upon a patrol of guntoting CRPF. It cut a sharp contrast to the serene landscape.
I tried to chat them up but only one of them was happy to indulge me — possibly to break the boredom. And this is what he said. They have been stationed across tourist spots in Kashmir after the Baisaran incident. “We will leave only after all tourists leave,” he said, pointing towards the upper reaches of the valley where multiple patrols are stationed.
For the first time, a faint unease crept in as images of the Baisaran massacre flashed through my mind, underscoring the vulnerability of holidaymakers taking pony rides, filming reels and recreating familiar Bollywood frames.
I thanked the jawan and his team. “Your presence makes us feel safer,” I told him. He remained silent. What he said after could well sum up the state of affairs. He said, “Yeh Kashmir hai, idhar mahaul kabhi bhi badal sakta hai.”
Any sense of safety felt transient — be it Gulmarg or the rest of the state. It will not take long for mausam or mahaul to change, and whenever that happens, people like Javid, Shabbir and Shakeel will be at the receiving end, as they have been for the last four decades.