“There was once, in the country of Alifbay, a sad city, the saddest of cities, a city so ruinously sad that it had forgotten its name. It stood by a mournful sea full of glumfish, which were so miserable to eat that they made people belch with melancholy even though the skies were blue. In the north of the sad city stood mighty factories in which (so I’m told) sadness was actually manufactured, packaged and sent all over the world, which ever seemed to get enough of it. Black smoke poured out of the chimneys of the sadness factories and hung over the city like bad news.” 

Haroun and the Sea of Stories is the only book by Salman Rushdie I have ever been able to read. A time and a place, I suppose. I am re-reading it and it is only now, after having actually been to Kashmir that I fully appreciate it.

The story is itself a wondrous tale of a boy, Haroun and his storyteller father, The Shah of Blah. On their journey to the Valley of K, probably Srinagar, Mr. Butt a courier takes them on a bumpy and treacherous drive on what I can say is one of the scariest roads on the planet, the Zoji La. As a child I thought it was all “made up” but seeing Zoji La, having people point out the truck that fell over the edge just a few days ago, made it a beautiful albeit scary, reality.

The Dal Lake, which should probably be called just “The Dal” because Dal means lake, is called the The Dull lake in the book. This lake also has houseboats and a floating garden, but turns out to be far more interesting than the men who surround the actual lake asking if you’re on your honeymoon and want a shikara ride.

Old shikaras on the lake

Our boatman picked all of us flowers. 🙂

If you haven’t read Haroun and the Sea of Stories, please do. And read the illustrated version. It paints a far better picture than the reality that is now Kashmir.