from the deserts of Rajasthan to no-shit-sherlock snow in kashmir but of course, my father insisted that the “experience” must be done in a car, because why simply reach a destination when you can develop trauma on the way?
the journey normally takes two days.
but where there is raju ji, there is speed into delusion is equals to velocity. one day in, and somehow the oddly huge car still cannot fit luggage for three people.
understandable: two bags for food, four for the girls, and one bag of my mother’s “just in case” sweaters that she will never wear.
kashmir in december is green and pretty, the type of scenery people gaze at quietly. But place a father and a driver together, and suddenly the himalayas become parliament.
on the way to pahalgam, snow starts falling.
digi-cam out. mother emotional.
dad takes a deep breath and declares:
“Raju, THIS is the beauty which is ours.”
emphasis on ours, as if he personally negotiated the treaty of amritsar.
i genuinely believe Indian dads are physically incapable of saying anything poetic without adding a political footnote.
the most romantic line my father can produce is:
“A vote bank must’ve never seen someone so pretty.”
hours pass. mother has asked me to use the loo 5 billion times, not understanding that my OCD and psychology coursework equals the bladder discipline of a monk.
eight hours in:
four marwaris trapped in a snow apocalypse with nothing but khakhra, thepla, and the recurring delusion that we should buy a house in kashmir.
google maps is white.
Just white.
like okay sundar pichai, we know you’re from tamil nadu, but why must you bully north indians with this blizzard GIF for 200 km straight?
pee controlled.
sleep controlled.
endless dad-driver political commentary tolerated like meta’s algorithm, but live-action and unskippable.
meta is your maata. accept it.
suddenly, my mother wakes me up by screaming my name not unusual, but louder because snow has acoustics.
we stop.
somewhere.
possibly pahalgam, possibly narnia, possibly right next to omar abdullah’s cousin’s dry-fruit shop.
three kashmiri men stand outside sweet, but the scary kind of sweet where either they’re going to offer us tea or offer us to god.
dad immediately announces, not to us, but to the family whatsapp group:
“pahalgam is too far. staying here next to XYZ landmark.”
no one asked, but okay. almost like republic tv took a new way.
the men lead us to “the best room in the house,” which is adorable because my Marwari brain immediately evaluates resale value.
i’m just wondering if maggi exists in this storyline.
the water in the washroom is snow’s elder cousin, colder, angrier, judgmental.
finally, we lie down, three marwaris, one tarzan driver, one snowstorm, and three overly nice kashmiri men who may or may not feed us tomorrow.
and as sleep wins over fear, one universal question remains:
Will we reach Pahalgam tomorrow, or will Raju ji drive us straight into another region dad believes is “ours”?