Baisaran Valley, Pahalgam

On a bright sunny day (yes, it really was!), we started from Srinagar, got into our white Maruti Suzuki Dzire cab and readied ourselves for the two and half journey ahead. On the way, we stopped at a seemingly well-known and popular spot on the side of the highway and bought dry fruits. At the shop, the salesman’s portrayal of kesar was tempting – pure, high quality, aromatic, premium, handpicked and what not. Convinced just a wee bit, we bought a small packet and got back in the car.

Next stop was a small apple farm and shop. Amidst more than 15 varieties of apple trees - including Royal Gala, Gala, Amritbani, and a golden yellow cultivar - planted in a geometric pattern, there was a small clearing with some chairs and tables. As we got comfortable, came the trays - trays and trays of jams, pickles, chutneys, juices and mixes. We drank a refreshing glass of freshly juiced (plucked and juiced right in front of us) apples each and sampled a veritable array of apple, lotus stem, cherry, and fig-based jams, chutneys, and pickles. With two big bags to show for the visit, we left the apple farm behind and climbed back into the car. 

After some more time, we rolled into the focal point of this piece - Baisaran Valley, Pahalgam. After some haggling over the price (what’s a tourist experience without some bargaining, because deep within it almost always feels like you’re being robbed in broad daylight at touristy spots. Or is that just me?!), three horses – two brown and one white, trotted along with two of their masters. Now, came the ascent, the strenuousness of which none of us really factored in. The terrain was rocky with incredible angles of inclines and declines. While my mom’s and dad’s horses were carefully led by the two masters, mine was just trotting along the sides. I realized that day that horses have a rather peculiar way of turning – imagine a curvy ravine, with nothing but steep drops on the sides, so steep that you could hear the sound of the stones getting displaced by the horses’ hooves for a good minute or two. You’re sitting on the horse’s back with the horse’s neck in front of you. Now, the horses don’t just turn left or right after seeing a twist in the trail – they go up till the edge of the ravine (yes, the very edge) until their neck sticks out of the ground and your legs are dangling barely a feet away from the free fall. But it is only at this point that the horse turns. Imagine my anxiousness at every turn.

But slowly, outright fear turned into controlled tension and I started enjoying the glimpses of stunning views of mountains, streams and tall trees towering over the landscape. Mountain peaks seemed to touch the heavy grey clouds and branches of the trees quivered with the occasional breeze. Just as the pain in my butt (literally, not figuratively) was getting unbearable, we reached the dismounting point at Baisaran Valley, mini-Switzerland. A slightly dilapidated structure served as the entrance and ticketing point to the valley which was like a big clearing nestled between hills. A long stretch of green ahead of me with sloping gradients, while a little away to my left and right stood trees. It was not the surreal “mini-Switzerland” I had conjured in my mind but it was picturesque by its own right. 

My mom and dad found an empty bench with a good view as I strolled off into the woods along the right side. Light and shadow danced along the grounds as I walked just a wee bit deeper into the forest lines. Slowly the humdrum of the tourists faded and gave away to a light buzz of insects, a rather serene moment without another soul in sight. I might have spent about five minutes there, just trying to take it all in – the warmth of the sun, the rustle of the trees, the sound of the insects and the occasional bird.  It brought a smile to my face; I walked back, found my parents and all three of us moved along, waving goodbye to the beautiful place.

That was in August last year. Cut to April 2025, I was thousands of kilometres away from Baisaran Valley. Yet the visuals on my laptop screen were strangely terrifying; the location looked so familiar, I very well remembered the bench on the right side of the entrance my parents sat, I very well remembered the side I wandered off. It all seemed the same - tourists walking along the green grass. But then came the shots, people just dropping down. It was an odd feeling, quite unfathomable. I tried to recall all that was, in August last year, I tried to transport myself to the entrance of Baisaran Valley. But I couldn’t bring August ‘24 and April ‘25 in the same frame. It was exceedingly chilling when I learnt the direction I briefly wandered off towards is likely the same one the terrorists made their entry.    

A blatant all-out attack in a tourist spot where innocent families and kids come to spend a few days beyond their everyday routines is beyond condemnable. It's inhuman. What drives people to such acts is beyond me. And yet, life moves on. With a new breaking story every few days, public memory quietly fades.

But before I close, a heartfelt salute to the pony ride operator who tried to save others and lost his life in the process.