Hot Kahwa by Sayani De

When I suggested visiting Aru, my family stared with blank eyes.

‘Where is Aru?’ my father asked.

‘It’s a non-touristy village in Kashmir.’ I replied.

‘Why go there? It’s a conflict zone. Terrorists could attack us. Isn’t tourism just funding terrorism?’ my mother frowned.

I sighed. ‘No. And tourists aren’t really of interest to terrorists. Aru has no history of violence.’

They were unconvinced. My husband showed them pictures of the village —snow-capped peaks, verdant meadows, and cottages nestled below. My parents couldn’t say no.

The morning after we arrived, the spring air held the chill of a recent hailstorm. My husband, fighting a sore throat, slept through the morning while I slipped away with Andy, our toddler, and accompanied my parents to a nearby café. The scent of freshly brewed coffee greeted us. The sun finally peeked through the conifers as we devoured our cheese sandwiches. I felt a pull to explore the village and the river nearby. My parents, content to relax, waved me off.

I hoisted Andy onto my hip, ignoring the fact that my baby carrier was back at the hotel. Inspired by the village women, I fastened Andy on my back with a thick shawl.

I walked past the wooden houses, men in thick loose pherans. The women carrying firewood on their loosely scarved heads cooed at Andy. As I passed a weeping willow, my achy back slouched. I had been walking too long with the weight on my hip. A group of women sitting by a patch of wildflowers called out to me. Their curious eyes studied me, noting my jeans, my boots, and Andy who was starting to fuss.

‘Sister, come here,’ one of them called. Her name was Farhana. I joined them. The questions flew – where I was from, what I did for a living. At the mention of Bangalore, they nodded in approval. They invited me to join them for kahwa, the traditional Kashmiri tea.

Inside their humble home, with a fire crackling in the centre, I sat on a moth-eaten carpet. The conversation was simple: Were there schools nearby?  Was the tourist season good last year? Was Andy hungry? They shared the difficulties of life in the valley. A five-year-old girl showed Andy a wooden horse, and they ran around the room together, giggling.

Farhana offered Andy freshly baked lavasa which he ate eagerly. I sighed in relief; I had forgotten to carry snacks for him. Our kahwa arrived. The warmth of the sweet golden liquid filled me with a simple comfort. When it was time to leave, Farhana handed me two more lavasas. ‘Andy likes them,’ she smiled.

I offered to send them the photos I took, but they shook their heads. ‘We don’t have smartphones,’ Farhana said.

I bit my lip. As I left, neighbours gathered, asking me to visit them next time. I left knowing what I experienced that day in the strife-stricken state would stay with me for years to come.

Sayani is a bibliophile, compulsive traveller and sustainability enthusiast. Her work has been featured/ is forthcoming in The Bangalore Review, Witcraft, Muse India, The Selkie (UK) anthology, Indian Review, Borderless Journal, Mysticeti, Mean Pepper Vine, and Women’s Web. She currently lives in Bangalore, India.