House of Bashir

Bashir is the owner of the house boat on which I'm staying, as well as being a local hotel proprietor, a touring and trekking business owner covering much of north-western India, and generally a man about town who seems to know everyone in Kashmir including local high government officials (although his hotel never seems to have anyone staying and it seems more both a hang-out for his men and a front for the local Kashmiri mafia). I was dubious about the entire situation of my coming to Kashmir because of the manner in which the recommendation came and what I subsequently learned about trapping tactics, but actually I found most of my experiences here to be positive and Bashir seems a relatively honest and generous business man. I'm actually using the computer in his hotel office right now because he says it's more convenient than the internet shops.

Yesterday was the Eid Al-Fitr holiday and Bashir invited me to celebrate the end of Ramadan by having a traditional lunch with his family at their house, which I gratefully accepted. Shakeel, one of his men, escorted me on a local bus from the houseboat to a square a few miles down the road, where he waited with me until a boy picked me up in his car to take me to their house. I'd been to the house before and met most of his family for an evening meal a couple days prior, but this was more of a traditional meal.

When I arrived Bashir took me into the living room where a runner of yellow fabric had been laid on the pinky-green carpet with a scattering of pillows (no furniture, everyone sits on the floor) and oriented towards the TV at one end in a floor to ceiling dark brown wood laminate cabinet with some of the laminate peeling away and missing in a spot. A cricket match between the visiting Australians and the Indian team was playing and apparently was to be the equivalent of football games during Thanksgiving. Bashir explained cricket to me in a very simplified way, and I caught a few of the basics, but there were so many other apparent complexities that there was no way I'd be able to learn in this lifetime. Bashir also told me that Kasmiri's cheer Pakistan first and any team except India second... so he was rooting for Australia. Cricket seems to be a national obsession... the boys are constantly playing in the fields and streets wherever I look.

Bashir's 4 year old son meandered in with his drunken little walk due to a slight limp, being helpful carrying a serving bowl clutched between his right hand and his left arm (he favors the right as his left arm is slightly impaired) and looked at me with his little cross eyes (he usually wears thick glasses) while singing his ABC's (he and I had counted numbers, said the abc's, and repeated a few basic greetings in English on our first meeting a few days ago). I believe he has minor Cerebral Palsy, and he is the sweetest little boy... Bashir dotes on him constantly and sometimes lets him sit in his lap while he drives and navigates the crazy traffic.

The boy who picked me up in the car earlier walked in with a pitcher of water and a large chalice and set the chalice on front of Bashir who reached out his right hand and washed it as the boy poured the water. I followed suit. The food was brought in by the women and a few other relatives joined us, Bashir's mother sitting opposite me at the far end of the runner away from the TV. Each person had a large raised silverish bowl of rice and the common bowls of vegetables and meat were passed around. As most of the food was lamb and chicken, a few vegetarian dishes had been prepared for me including spiced cauliflower, cabbage, and a hot radish dish. Serving utensils were used only for taking from the common bowls and we ate from our own, mixing a clump of rice with a small piece of whatever,and using only our right hand, no napkins. After finishing lunch, the water pitcher and chalice was brought back in and we washed the right hand in the same manner as before, using only the right to wash itself.

The room cleared after lunch except for Bashir and myself and his boy wandering in and out helping to clear and seeking his dad's attention while he was on his cell. The driver boy also came into the room and his cell rang with the tune of Akon's "Smack That" (smack that, all on the floor, smack that, give me some more, smack that, 'till you get sore smack that, oooh). The Kashmiri seem to use cell phones constantly... Bashir has at least three that he has on rotation. I looked around the room to take in more of my surroundings and I noticed a display cabinet partly built into the middle of the long wall with the same dark brown wood laminate framing and with sliding plexiglas doors. The cabinet contained an assortment of photographs of babies, a few of Bashir with important official looking people, plastic flowers (there was also a bright blue side table across the room with a small pot of fake glaringly yellow flowers on top), various plastic farm animals including a cow, a sheep, and a horse, and then also a strange chrome trophy in the shape of two flowers with the words "love" written on it and with the flower buds appearing as if they were soft marshmallow candies in bright red and blue and coated with sugary sparkles. I heard a strange electronic buzzing ring behind me and I looked up to find a bizarre chunky white plastic cuckoo clock on the wall above my head with a pair of small spinning chromed plastic "windmills" set into niches on the plastic face and as well, at the top in it's own niche, a spinning chromed plastic robot, all chiming the hour in a synthesized whirr.

My ride came and I was headed back to the houseboat for a nap.