The Kashmir Shawl

by Rosie Thomas

  Aruna accepted the wicker basket and opened the pot within. A heavenly smell rose to surround them.

  ‘That’s good,’ Bruno said.

  Aruna nodded. ‘It is tahar rice, cooked in a special way with turmeric. In Kashmir we make it always when there is a safe arrival, an escape from danger.’

  Mair remembered. Of course. They were Mehraan the karkhanadar’s mother and his two sisters. They recognised her too. The girls giggled and the mother inclined her head.

  ‘I was going to pay a visit to Mehraan’s workshop.’ Mair smiled. ‘How is he? How are you?’

  There was an exchange between the women. Aruna said, ‘If you would sit with us, the rice is to share. It is important. A … symbol. They have brought for Madam, but there is plenty.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Mair said simply. They took their places in a circle, the girls cross-legged on the floor. Aruna brought plates and Mehraan’s mother reverently spooned the rice, a few mouthfuls each. It was eaten moistened with creamy Kashmiri yoghurt, sprinkled with nuts and fresh coriander. Mair and Bruno copied the women, eating in silence, using the bunched fingers of the right hand and chasing up every stray grain with an eager thumb.

  It was one of the most delicious dishes Mair had ever tasted.

  Aruna replaced the lid on the pot. ‘For Mrs Bowen, when she wakes up. She will enjoy.’

  There was more giggling and murmuring from the girls.

  Aruna said, ‘They would like to know, is this man your husband?’

  Mair couldn’t look at Bruno, but she felt his eyes rest on her. She was conscious all the time of his proximity, of the oddness of their being in Srinagar together. Now that all the pieces Nerys had left behind had been put in their right places, it would be time to think of home again, and separate ways.

  Her heart contracted with dismay.

  ‘No, he’s not my husband. But he is my good friend.’

  There was more smothered laughter, and some talk that Mair and Bruno couldn’t follow.

  Aruna composed herself and told them, ‘Mehraan is good. He has come often this year, to help me. In the winter he brought wood and cleared snow. See? He mended the fence.’

  New pickets of light-coloured wood were interspersed among the old splintered ones.

  ‘That’s very kind of him. Where is he? At the workshop?’

  Aruna hesitated. Then she said, ‘Mehraan is not in Srinagar. He has gone to a camp. He has crossed the Line, and his mother hears today that he is safe. So she makes tahar.’

  Mair and Bruno both stiffened.

  To cross the Line of Control into Pakistan-controlled Kashmir was a hazardous journey, and this camp of his could only be a training centre for militant Free Kashmir insurgents. Mair struggled to reconcile this information with her memory of the sombre young man whose responsibilities made him seem much older than his real age.

  ‘I hope … he will be safe,’ she whispered, imagining him returning to his mother and sisters only to be murdered by the army or paramilitaries.

  Aruna wagged a finger at them. ‘This is not what you will be thinking. It is not a war camp. It is for learning of Islam, for peace.’

  The mother spoke rapidly and the two daughters turned their faces to her.

  Aruna did her best to translate. ‘For Mehraan and his friends, there is only one jihad. That is inside the heart of every man, alone, where there is no weapon except God’s truth. It is to this camp, and the teachers there, that Mehraan has found his way. He is missed here, but it is right for him to go.’

  Mehraan’s mother bent her head. Mair found that she was close to tears. There was so much sadness in Kashmir, and such fortitude.

  It was time to leave.

  Bruno and Mair thanked the women for sharing the gift of tahar rice, and Mair asked Aruna if she might call again to visit Mrs Bowen before she left Srinagar. Herself again, Aruna gave a barely perceptible nod.

  Mair hugged Mehraan’s little sisters and bowed over her folded hands to their remarkable mother.

  A moment later she and Bruno were walking away down the lane, under apple and walnut trees touched with autumn colour. They were so full of their visit that they took no notice of where they were heading and after two minutes they were lost in a maze of high-walled alleys. A dog panted beneath some wooden steps.

  Bruno stopped. ‘Do you think it’s this way?’

  ‘No – we came from over there.’

  They hesitated and he put his hands on her shoulders, looking down into her eyes. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘We’ll find our way. What were you doing, back there?’

  ‘Leaving Zahra’s lock of hair beside Caroline’s bed. It’s not much of a connection, is it? But it’s better than nothing.’

  ‘I’d never have thought of that. But it’s the best thing you could have done. That, and the photograph and the shawl.’

  He was bending his head towards hers when there was a sudden yell, and the thud of feet pounding towards them.

  In the other direction the dog leapt from its shelter, a quivering strip of tawny fur with its red mouth stretched in a snarl.

  Bruno grabbed Mair’s wrist and dragged her away from the animal, running full pelt towards whoever was coming the other way.

  Into Mair’s head flashed the image of a troop of soldiers with their guns raised. But with Bruno beside her she ran anyway.

  From round the corner a mass of children flew at them. They almost collided, but Mair and Bruno jumped aside and let them race by. They were five-year-olds to teenaged boys with white skullcaps, all in neat dark-blue kameez, satchels bobbing, elbowing each other out of the way as they ran along. School was out for the day. The dog turned tail and crawled for shelter, and Mair and Bruno were left flattened against the alley wall as the children ran off. Shouts and laughter echoed behind them.

  He let his head fall back and exhaled with relief. ‘Sorry. Sorry about that. I’m afraid of dogs.’

  ‘It’s all right.’ She took his arm. ‘They must all be heading somewhere. Shall we follow?’

  They walked in the wake of the slower children. A hundred metres brought them out to the banks of a stream, one of the Jhelum tributaries, bordered by a little meadow. There was a fringe of poplars and silvery willows, and grass worn bare in dusty patches. The children were already running and kicking a ball between a pair of discarded satchels. Another group had set up cricket stumps, and a bolder contingent was swinging from a knotted rope over the water. The rope swung further out and higher up, a child clinging to the end like the weight of a pendulum.

  Bruno and Mair sat on a grassy bank to watch.

  The afternoon light was fading as the chill of the evening crept up from the stream, but they still sat there. The games were universal, and the joy of the participants seemed to rub out the troubles of the city beyond.

  ‘They look so happy,’ Mair said.

  Bruno nodded. ‘And hopeful. Even in a dangerous place, with an uncertain future ahead for most of them. Hope’s the most powerful redemptive force, isn’t it? Do you know something else? While we’ve been watching them, I forgot to think about Lotus. I’ve done that several times since we came to India. Like when we were eating celebration rice just now, sitting on that veranda without the pressure of talk or barriers of language or faith. It’s never for very long, but when I do remember her again I feel a pain inside myself. It’s as if to experience even a moment of happiness is to deny the memory of her. As if I’m obliged, somehow, to nourish my sense of loss in order to honour her properly.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know where real grief ends and self-indulgence begins.’

  ‘You’re not self-indulgent,’ Mair said quietly.

  ‘No? I’m always thinking about what I think. I’m not sure I understand anything in the way I once did. All the old values have been turned inside out. What does anything matter, after what’s happened? Ambition, work, success, even love.’

  ‘I don’t know. Those are big questions. I think what matters is this
, here. And versions of it, everywhere.’

  She gestured to the small world of the playground, thinking at the same time of Wales, and Tal and Annie’s baby, and the peace of Bruno’s wood cabin in the mountains.

  And of Zahra’s shawl.

  ‘You’re not ready yet to stop grieving,’ she said.

  He had been staring ahead, but now he turned to look at her. ‘I’m not, no. It might take time.’

  It was the gentlest and the most inclusive of warnings. She appreciated this candour, and the associated concern for her. ‘I know, I understand.’

  As they talked she had been half watching the rope game. Three of the biggest boys swung outwards until the rope was almost horizontal, and at the highest point they each let go and leapt for the far bank.

  Mair’s own muscles automatically contracted as she enviously measured the effort involved.

  One by one the big boys made the return journey across a log balanced over the crusts of yellow scum that came flooding downstream. Now a much smaller boy grabbed the rope and ran up the bank to begin his swing. The last of the returning trio lost his balance on the log and kicked out as he lunged for dry ground. The log rolled sideways and collapsed into the water, but the little boy was too intent on his swinging to pay attention. His weight wasn’t sufficient to create the high arc that the others had achieved, but he wriggled on the end of the rope, swung back and outwards again. The bigger boys were hooting encouragement, but behind them the other children had begun to filter away, playtime ending as the early evening slid towards curfew hour.

  The boy swung outwards for the third time, the rope slackening as his resolve deserted him. But he wouldn’t give up either, and allow the pendulum swing to carry him back to safety. For a split second he hung there, then sprang too late into empty air. Arms and legs flailing, he crashed into the water. He jumped up and tottered to the bank before falling forwards into mud and sand. When he stood up he was drenched to the thighs and the front of his blue kameez was coated with dirt.

  Even at this distance Mair could see him trying to smile, but then he realised that the precarious log bridge had collapsed and he was stranded.

  The big boys called his name.

  Mair scrambled up. She ran the fifty yards to the rope and clamped her feet to the knotted end. As she swung she measured the distances by eye. There was a tree with a low-hanging branch in just the right place.

  Exhilaration shot through her.

  One more swing gave her enough momentum and the proper trajectory.

  At the highest point she let go of the rope. The sky and the grass and the water revolved but she felt the point of stillness, the moment of glory when she knew that she couldn’t fall or miss her landing.

  She caught the branch and turned an entirely unnecessary somersault. Rough bark tore her palms, but she hung on.

  Trapeze wasn’t as good as sex, Hattie used to say. But it was up there.

  Grinning, Mair dropped to the ground. The little boy stood with his mouth open. He forgot to cry, or even exclaim. On the other bank the boys leapt up and down and cheered.

  She stooped to the child’s level. His eyes were liquid.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, and held out her smarting hand. He grasped it and they turned to the bank. Bruno was at the opposite side. He paddled into the filthy water and grasped the end of the log as the other boys bumped around him, eager to assist in this startling rescue. They hoisted it back to a precarious bridge position and Bruno balanced halfway across. Mair led the child to meet him and passed him over. As soon as the boy was deposited safely on the bank, Bruno came back to collect her.

  ‘Be very careful. I wouldn’t like you to slip and hurt yourself,’ he said, taking her hand.

  ‘Thank you for rescuing me. But you’ve got your feet wet.’

  They laughed at each other as the boys capered around Mair, the small one already reabsorbed by the group. One who might have been his brother or cousin was trying to clean off the mud.

  ‘Very good, where you from? England? Good cricket,’ they shouted, as always. The biggest called a warning and they chased up the bank and across the meadow. Mair and Bruno were suddenly all alone.

  ‘You are a surprising woman,’ he said. ‘An absolutely amazing woman.’

  ‘I just wanted to do that.’

  Wind riffled the dry leaves and smoke blew across the roofs of low brick houses. Bruno took her face between his hands and with his thumbs he stroked the corners of her mouth. They stood together, listening to the breeze and the ripple of water.

  Mair remembered Leh, almost a year ago, and the day she had first met Karen and Lotus. And then came the memory of the terrible morning in the snow at Lamayuru. She had done a back-flip to please Lotus and the dog had streaked out of nowhere.

  She closed her eyes, and opened them again.

  A year had changed everything.

  I won’t do that again, she thought. No more acrobatics. The circus was over.

  Happiness unexpectedly possessed her: its reality seemed as perfect and as indestructible and as fleeting as the moment of flight itself.

  ‘It will be dark soon,’ Bruno murmured.

  He held her hand as they headed across the meadow. At the margin a group of women in fluttering black burqas hurried by as the call to prayer sounded over the low roofs. This was a strictly orthodox Muslim neighbourhood, more like Saudi than Srinagar. Mair and Bruno released each other and decorously followed the path that led to the Jhelum river.

  When they reached the smeared-glass walls of the hotel Bruno sighed. ‘Do we have to stay another night in this place?’ he asked.

  ‘No, we don’t. Where shall we go?’

  He turned in a half-circle towards the glimmering waters of the lake. A handful of shikaras swayed at a jetty, hoping to pick up a fare before curfew. A pair of jeeps loaded with soldiers crawled by.

  Across the water a few yellow lights winked in a row of houseboats. Dusk concealed their peeling paint and sagging timbers.

  ‘What about … There?’

  Half an hour later, without luggage or anything but the clothes they stood in, they had taken possession of the Rose of Kashmir. Proudly the house-boy conducted them through carved rooms hung with embroideries and miniature chandeliers. The boards creaked loudly underfoot and the ornate mirrors were veiled with dust.

  ‘I make dinner,’ he told them, and sprang down the plank leading to the kitchen boat.

  Mair and Bruno stood out on the pillared veranda. A moon like a silver ball floated over the high mountains. The last shikara glided by, its wake punctuated by drips from the paddle.

  He sighed. ‘It’s all very beautiful. But Kashmir would only be a picture postcard if it … if it were not for you. Is it all right to say that, Mair? I did say I’m not sure I understand anything any more. If I’m wrong about this …’

  Tomorrow, she thought, there would be other questions, and no doubt some things that would be more wrong than right, but for tonight there was nothing out of place, nothing missing, nothing but now.

  ‘You’re not wrong at all,’ she said.

  It was dark, but still they could see each other’s face.

  From the trees on the bank an owl hooted.

  Acknowledgements

  Bob and Carolyn Wilkins originally drew my attention to the effects of the veterinary drug Diclofenac on the vulture populations of Asia, and the consequent rise in the numbers of feral dogs and the spread of rabies. Drs Wilkins were also wonderful companions on a lengthy trek in the Zanskar mountains of the Indian Himalaya, as were Jane Maxim, Stephen Barnard and Graham Francis. Our guide was the inestimable Seb Mankelow, who shared his deep knowledge and love of the region with us, and who helped in many ways with the early research for this book. Our local guide was Sonam ‘Jimmy’ Stobges, whose energy and good humour made long days in difficult terrain seem easy. I am grateful to him and to his wife who welcomed us to the family home in Padum, and also to the camp staff and pony men. Dr Tse
ring Tashi of the Community Health Centre in Padum gave me an afternoon of his time to discuss the threat and the effects of rabies. Another Tashi was my resourceful driver on the long and difficult drive across the mountains from Ladakh via Kargil to Srinagar in Kashmir.

  In Srinagar I was greatly helped by the owners and staff of Gurkha Houseboats on Nagin lake. I am grateful to the spinners, dyers, weavers and embroiderers of Srinagar and the Vale of Kashmir who invited me into their workshops, demonstrated their working methods and patiently explained the processes involved in producing fine shawls. Thanks are due to Justine Hardy for her generous advice, and also to Sara Wheeler.

  My brother-in-law Arwyn Thomas was born in India to Welsh missionary parents, and he gave me helpful information about their work.

  I would also like to thank Lynne Drew and everyone at HarperCollins, Hazel Orme, Annabel Robinson and the entire team at FMcM Associates, the London Library, and my unsurpassable agent Jonathan Lloyd.

  As always, thank you to my supportive family, Charlie, Flora and Theo.

  About the Author

  Rosie Thomas is the author of a number of celebrated novels, including the bestsellers Sun at Midnight, Iris and Ruby and Constance. A keen traveller, she has climbed in the Alps and the Himalayas, competed in the Peking to Paris car rally, spent time on a tiny Bulgarian research station in Antarctica and travelled in Ladakh and Kashmir to research this novel. She lives in London.

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