The Dream That Chose Me
Kashmir had always lived in my dreams. Before Switzerland, before Europe, I longed to see our Himalayas. Spiti Valley was the plan-flights booked, group trip confirmed. But then one casual conversation with a friend flipped everything.
She spoke about her Kashmir trip. The next day, my phone showed me tulips, Srinagar, the Tulip Festival. And then, one photo stopped me in my tracks—the Indira Gandhi Tulip Garden. Thousands of flowers swaying like a scene from Silsila.
Spiti was forgotten. Tulips had chosen me.
“Some journeys, you don’t choose. They choose you.”
A Chaotic Start
(Insert your saree picture here, standing against the Himalayan backdrop. Caption: “Carrying chaos in my heart, but beauty on the outside.”)
Nothing about this trip started smooth.
A bandh in Karnataka meant no buses. I paid triple for a cab, only to miss my flight. I begged my way onto another at more cost, exhausted and restless. In Delhi, flights to Srinagar were overpriced or unavailable.
So I boarded a shabby sleeper bus to Jammu. Suffocating, filled with smoke and stares, I fought claustrophobia by sitting near the driver. After tea at a roadside dhaba, I survived the night and reached Jammu—tired, frustrated, but still holding onto the dream of tulips.
“Every setback made me wonder—was Kashmir even meant for me?”
The Stranger Named Javed
At Jammu, while searching for a taxi to Srinagar, I noticed him—a bearded man with curious eyes and an innocent smile. His name was Javed, a Kashmiri artisan who sold shawls and hand-embroidered crafts at Bangalore’s winter exhibitions.
I asked him casually about the availability of taxis to Srinagar. He smiled and said, “We are also going there. Why don’t you join us? We’ve booked a cab, you can share it with us.”
Exhausted from the long journey and already burning through my wallet, I hesitated for a moment. Then something—maybe faith, maybe instinct—made me say yes.
I don’t know why, but I trusted him. Perhaps it was fatigue. Perhaps it was faith. On the way, he introduced me to namkeen chai—salted Kashmiri tea—and stories of his life. I smiled, but my heart whispered: Be careful.
“Trust is never given. It is borrowed, for a moment at a time.”
Embracing the Beauty of Tulips
The first time I saw the pictures of Kashmir’s Tulip Festival, something inside me shifted. It wasn’t just flowers I was looking at—it was a sea of colors that seemed to breathe life into my dreams.
For years, I had imagined Switzerland, but in that one moment, I realized we had our own Switzerland nestled in the Himalayas.
Standing there, surrounded by tulips in full bloom, I felt like I had stepped into a painting. The flowers weren’t still—they swayed, they danced, as if they knew I had come searching for them. Each shade told a story: red for passion, yellow for warmth, pink for tenderness, and white for peace. Together, they created an ocean of emotions that wrapped around me.
I closed my eyes, let the soft breeze brush against my face, and felt as though the tulips were whispering: You belong here, in this moment.
For a while, the chaos of travel, the fear of being alone, even the shadows of doubt—all disappeared. Tulips became more than just flowers for me. They became a reminder that beauty can exist even in the most unexpected corners of the world, that dreams don’t always need to take you far away—they can be right here, in your own land, waiting to bloom.
Finding Safety in Srinagar
Srinagar felt safer once I checked into Zostel. At that time, it wasn’t about luxury or charm—it was about safety. Traveling solo, I didn’t want to risk being isolated in an unknown city.
Zostel gave me the comfort of community, where I could see other travelers like me—backpackers, women, techies, doctors—all under one roof.
My original plan was simple: stay one night, see how it feels, and then decide. But that one night turned into ten. Zostel became my base, my anchor in Srinagar.
Dave and Ash from Bangalore became friends. Irfan, the hostel manager, treated everyone with warmth, always looking out for us. We explored together, shared taxis to Gulmarg and Pahalgam, and split costs. For the first time, fear loosened its grip on me.
The Pull of Innocence
But Javed lingered in my mind. On the third day, curiosity pulled me to his shop. He walked in a little later, his innocent smile still the same.
His shop was filled with warmth—rows of shawls, embroidered jackets, handmade bags, each piece carrying the delicate touch of Kashmiri karigari.
As I moved through the shelves, picking shawls one by one, his eyes followed quietly.
“Madam, this color looks good on you,” he said, almost shy, as if the words had slipped out by accident. Whenever I picked something elegant, he would gently insist, “Keep this one for yourself, it suits you.”
In the end, I picked up a few things for my sisters and friends too—though honestly, the way he kept flattering me, I started wondering if it was kindness… or just a very clever marketing strategy!
My friend Aish, a fellow traveler from Zostel who understood the local language, leaned closer and whispered, “He’s charging you very fairly.” Her words made me stop for a moment. In a place where outsiders are usually seen as tourists to bargain with, his honesty felt rare—almost disarming.
I walked out with bags full of shawls, dresses, jackets, and embroidered bags—but carried heavier questions inside me. Why did his words linger? Why did his simple kindness feel so different in a place where I had been guarding myself so tightly?
Later, I realized Javed often keeps his Kashmiri collections stall in Bangalore’s exhibitions. Maybe it was that Karnataka connection that made him treat me a little better, a little special. Or maybe it was just who he was.
Before I left, Javed looked at me with that same soft smile and said, almost hesitantly, “Madam, you must visit my home one day and meet my family.”
The way he said it—without pretense, without expectation—felt deeply innocent. It wasn’t just an invite; it was a gesture of trust, one that gently unsettled my walls of caution.
The Invite: A House of Fear, A Hug of Faith
“The home that tested both my fear and my faith.”
On my last day, Javed called to check if I was still there.
“Madam, please come home. My family would love to meet you,” he said with his usual gentle smile.
But as soon as I told my cab driver where we were heading, his face stiffened.
“Madam, this area is not safe. Just a few days ago, there were murders… even a terrorist attack nearby. You should not go there at this hour. Don’t trust strangers here.”
My heart began to pound. Every warning I had heard about Kashmir came rushing back at once. The car felt smaller, the night heavier. I almost told the driver to turn back.
But then, Javed’s innocent face flashed in my mind—his stories, his honesty, the way he had treated me with kindness when he didn’t have to. Was I being foolish? Or was this trust being tested?
To be safe, I shared my live location with Irfan from Zostel and another friend, begged the driver to walk in with me, and held onto the bag of fruits and chocolates I had brought for his children like it was my shield.
As we drove deeper into narrow lanes, my mind screamed at me to run. Shadows of houses looked like threats, and every turn of the road made me wonder—what if this was a trap? What if I never came back?
But when the door opened, the scene was nothing like my fears.
Javed’s family welcomed me with warmth. His mother wrapped me in an embrace, whispering blessings in Kashmiri I couldn’t understand but could feel in my heart. His sisters smiled shyly from the corner, his children peeked out curiously, and the air smelled of iftar.
Javed offered me namkeen chai and snacks, his voice calm and reassuring. Before I left, he handed me a handwoven Kashmiri shawl.
“For you, madam. Stay in touch.”
I smiled-part faith, part fear-and hurried back to Zostel. My body was safe, but my heart was still racing, trying to make sense of how a place could hold both terror and tenderness at once.
“Sometimes the scariest choices lead to the kindest embraces.”
A Goodbye Shadowed by News
Twenty days later, I heard of the terrorist attack in Pahalgam. The same valleys where I laughed, sang, and walked among tulips were now stained with violence.
I froze. Fear flooded back. Yet, when I close my eyes, I don’t remember the fear. I remember tulips swaying in the wind, strangers becoming friends, and a mother’s hug in a home I almost didn’t enter.
In the End
Kashmir is not just mountains and valleys. It is contradictions-fear and warmth, suspicion and trust, shadows and light.
I went chasing tulips, but I came back with something else: a reminder that even in places marked by conflict, humanity blooms quietly-like tulips after a long winter.
“Kashmir stays—not in fear, but in flowers and in the arms of mountains, in faces, in faith.”
