SO down below the flower-strewn slopes and across the valley, hidden amongst glaciers lay the elusive Siral lake. Needless to say that we were captivated mesmerized and thrilled beyond description.
I am painfully aware of the fact that I am indulging in superlatives rather too frequently. But then what are superlatives for if they cannot be showered upon a lake like Siral? Just place yourself atop a 13600-feet-high pass and look at Siral down below and you will be after my blood because I have not used enough superlatives to describe the wonder that is Siral, glistening like a sapphire below, down below.
We relieved our poor horses of our weight of sins and stretched our limbs on a field of alpine flowers. We could call it a day here, camp for the night, placing our tents in such a way that the beauty of Siral may be framed in the openings of our tents. But we knew that the night at this height will be rather cruel hence the thought was brushed away. And anyway, we were now treading upon the ground, which was Azad Kashmir, we had parted from Kaghan.
“Salim”, I inquired from my ghorawala “How long will it take us to reach the banks of Siral?”
“Not more than two hours saabji, all we have to do now is to go down”
And go down, I did. In fact, I almost went down and out because the flower strewn slopes were not gradually descending into Siral valley, but falling into it, almost vertically. And no matter how far back I stretched myself, I could not balance myself on the saddle of the horse who was also just falling down the slopes. Believe me I was almost standing on the stirrups.
Needless to say I forgot all about the beauty of Siral and concentrated on saving my dear life for future events. Finally I got off the horse in the same standing position and started to walk down. Soon all my aged joints started creaking and moaning and my knees without taking the rest of the body in confidence, started the jerk dance, climaxing my collapsing on the slope.
The ghorawala had pity on me and told me to mount the beast once again as he had an action plan which would enable me to stay firmly in the saddle while going down. I mounted with his help and then the good fellow, instead of leading the horse downwards, started to zig-zag on the slope. It was time consuming but less hazardous, understandably all other members by now had reached the valley floor. While we were criss-crossing the slope like a dog that follows his own tail, suddenly a small gem of a lake appeared on our left, fabulously placed on the lap of some green mountains. Nobody knew its name, not even the all knowing Bashir Buddha: “It’s just a lake sahib.”
But it was not just a lake; it was an enchanting blue dream, which faded away.
Finally the ordeal came to an end and we reached the floor of the valley and this called for a much-needed rest. One of the ghorawala, Aurengzeb went up to a stone hut, which was reputed, be a local five star facility to procure some hot tea and we stretched ourselves amongst some foul smelling flowers on the banks of a mountain stream.
“Tarar Sahib,” Bashir the Buddha was smiling, “Beside that stone hut there resides the first wife of local MP with her children.”
“And where does this honourable MP of AK Assembly reside himself?”
“With his second wife in Muzaffarabad who is only fifty-five years junior to him.”
“Well Bashir you give me hope, please carry on.”
“Sir there was this very sohni young mountain maid whose father was marrying her off to some obnoxious and ugly looking brute and the maid obviously had some objections. So according to the local custom she presented herself in front of this humble MP in search of justice and implored him to save her. So he saved her by marrying her.”
“She was willing to marry this old man of the mountains?”
“The MP told her that if she does not want to marry anybody in particular he can arrange the same in his own family. The sohni girl was sure that the old man intended to marry her off with his grandson so she agreed readily. Only when the bridegroom appeared on her door step with the barat the girl realized what was in store for her, a cold storage. But by then it was too late”
“Some people have all the luck even if they live in Siral valley,” I sighed.
We had our cup of tea and felt sympathy for the sohni girl and a pang of jealousy for the old man and then resumed our journey. We, or rather our horses climbed a steep slope and down below was another small and silent lake, another climb and suddenly the waters of Siral lake hit us like a bullet; we almost died. Famed novelist Garcia Marquez said, “Every man is a non-man, till such time that a woman enters his life and makes him a man, if he is lucky that is”.
Siral was such a woman. Aloof, protected by high mountain passes, almost unseen as I had never even seen a photograph of it previously and stunningly beautiful. The blue and very still waters were decorated with some miniature icebergs one of which swam slowly like a huge white swan. Describing the Siral lake is a futile effort, even the superlatives abandoned me. I had squandered my word power, if there was any, and now felt like a beggar looking at this marvel of nature. If there are lakes in paradise, this is the role model, the serene Siral.
SO down below the flower-strewn slopes and across the valley, hidden amongst glaciers lay the elusive Siral lake. Needless to say that we were captivated mesmerized and thrilled beyond description.
