The Secret Destination

Hidden among deodar forests and apple orchards in Kashmir Valley, there is an oasis of peace called Rafiabad.

The hair on the back of my neck bristles when I take my first step into the Kashmir Valley. The tension of being in a conflict zone is palpable and accentuated by the inescapable presence of assault rifle-equipped security personnel. But voila — suddenly, as if by magic, the morning mist turns the men in worn battle fatigues to harmless apple trees, and even better, they are burdened with the richness of their succulent red produce.

There is no better way to describe the stark contrast as I broke off the beaten track and headed into Kashmir’s hinterland. The route was through rolling hills off the arterial Srinagar-Muzzafarabad highway and led into Rafiabad, within the bounds of Baramulla district, one of the valley’s largest apple-growing regions.

The destination was the tiny village of Ladua, a picturesque speck nestled among the foothills leading to snow-capped heights. Twenty-eight-year-old farmer Sajaad Hussain Khan is all warmth as he welcomes me into his two-storey timber home. “Welcome to the real Kashmir,” he says as he offers me his hand.

Khan and his fellow villagers are visibly excited about hosting a visitor, and not without reason. They are part of an ambitious project to bring tourism to parts of the Valley that were off-limits to tourists wary of being caught in the crossfire between armed insurgents and security forces.

“This area is safe and perhaps one of the most beautiful locales in the valley,” Khan announces, and he eggs me to strap on my hiking boots and follow his lead. “We have marked out miles of trekking and mountain biking trails,” he adds. Khan obviously knows his countryside. What makes Khan and his compatriots unusual is that they were once branded as “timber smugglers” for harvesting the handsome deodar (Himalayan cedar) that abounds in the region.

In their defence, they say they had been harvesting wood of those tree for generations, till a Supreme Court diktat banned it. Nevertheless, today they want to preserve what is left of the deodars and showcase their beauty.

We head out to the jungle through orchards and I marvel at the ground peppered with countless fallen apples — an expensive fruit in Indian markets, mind you. I bend down to pick one up, but Khan, instead, gestures me to pluck a low-hanging one from a branch. “That is American Delicious, very sweet. Eat and carry as many as you want,” he laughs.

One has to lie flat on dew-soaked grass meadows to appreciate the deodar, as its conic crown frames the blue sky. The only sound is the crushed pine cones you leave behind on the forest floor. My ears perk up at a “thwack” in the distance, followed by peals of giggles. A group of boisterous young women from Ladua are dicing up deadwood for the winter fires.

The deodars briefly give way to the valley of Pazwoal Pora. The village is the definition of a picture postcard, framed against the backdrop of stepped paddy fields, deodar forests and, finally, towering behind them, the snowbound peaks of Waji Top, Malandri Top, Satsaryan, Gabiwar and Bosian. And yes, every house here has a walnut tree in its courtyard. The welcome is equally warm and I am forced to accept the hospitality of Akash Ahmed Mir, another farmer. A little probing though reveals that there is grief behind his genial smile.

“We didn’t suffer much due to the militancy. This was a quiet area but who knew about that? There has been no development. Though we have plenty to eat, there is hardly any money to make here. This year was especially bad as the unrest in Jammu meant our apples rotted on the trees,” he says. But Mir’s neighbour in the next orchard, Basheer Abbas, urges us to look at the brighter side. He directs us to a sparkling brook, where he claims we can catch the best rainbow trout in the Himalayas.

The walk up the slope to the twin villages of Hamam-Markut is interspersed with more deodar, an encounter with a troop of raucous Himalayan macaques, and sampling more varieties of apple — Maharaja, Cream Land and Delicious. The brook separates the villages and the abundance of fish is a dampener to the angling experience. It takes only a few minutes to bag four worthwhile specimens.

The trudge back to Ladua is tiring and eerily quiet with the fading light. Everyone’s mind is, no doubt, on grilling and smoking the fish. Before I hang up my boots for the day though, Khan tells me, “You have to promise to come here again, and please bring more people with you.” Now: do I want to let the secret of Rafiabad out?