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Chindu Sreedharan

Ten minutes later, we were at the top. Maybe it was the blessings which a 'holy' man -- who looked a permanent fixture some 20-30 steps up -- gave us at the drop of a couple of coins. Or maybe it was the easiness with which security personnel, carrying bundles of firewood, overtook us -- the 224 steps (there were another 18 more to the door of the temple) weren't as threatening as they looked from down.

The temple stood on a raised platform, grim and silent and very lonely. On our left were the tents of security personnel, here since the start of militancy. The board in front asking us to 'Please Be In Queue' looked a sad joke -- besides us there must have been altogether six or seven visitors around!

"People now come only on Sunday evenings," we were to be told later, "And that too, mostly security personnel's families -- not tourists."

We removed our shoes and climbed the remaining steps. There was a jawan or soldier there, his shirt untucked, looking curiously naked and defenceless without his gun and boots.

We could see the capital city spread out before us.

"Disappointing," my colleague commented.

I had to agree with her. We had been promised a marvellous sight. Guide books even claimed we could see the snowcapped Pir Panjal peaks from here -- but all we could see was Srinagar in its ugliness... or at least, at its worst: The dirty green Dal Lake, the soiled greenery rising in patches on its fringes, the rows upon rows of shabby houseboats (that's how they all looked from atop), the crowded, dingy roads... and the hazy dust blanket over all of it. Even the mountains around, shorn of their winter coat, looked anything but beautiful. In snowtime, maybe, things would be different; but for now, Srinagar was a bit disappointing.

Still, even in its dirtiness, the Dal Lake had a beauty. The narrow, algae-cloaked boat-ways (incidentally, none-too-sweet-smelling, as we had the occasion to find out later!) which crisscrossed its banks connecting parts of the lake, for instance, was pretty bewitching...

We climbed a few more steps to the sanctum sanctorum. Inside, besides the Shiva linga , sat the priest who looked suspiciously like an army jawan. He gave us prasad, painted red tilaks on our foreheads and allowed us to take pictures...

The sun was failing by the time we came out. We hurried down, meeting only security personnel and a lone 'pilgrim' on our way.

The temple stared after us wistfully -- lone and silent in the fading sun, an eloquent victim of militancy.

Photographs by Jewella C Miranda

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