SRINAGAR, India – Habib Wangnoo scanned the silver lake from the deck of his empty hotel boat, remembering when he helped Mick Jagger out of a narrow, flat-bottomed canoe during the rock star’s visit to Kashmir in 1981.
Jagger spent most of the next two weeks on the boat’s upper deck, Wangnoo recalled with a smile. The Rolling Stones singer plucked his black guitar and played with Kashmir folk musicians as they watched the moonlight dance in the Himalayas.
Today, Lake Nagin is desolate and quiet as a tomb, devoid even of the paddlers who normally sail on the water. There are no tourists, no money and little hope.
“In Kashmir, the money from the tourism industry goes to every pocket, from arrival to departure, everyone lives off it,” said Wangnoo. “And now, there is nothing.”
Kashmir, the beautiful rugged region in the shadow of the Himalayas, long between India and Pakistan, has fallen into a state of suspended animation. Schools are closed. The blocks were imposed, lifted and then re-imposed.
Once a center for Western and Indian tourists, Kashmir has been recovering for over a year. First, India brought in security forces to crack down on the region. Then the coronavirus attacked.
The streets are full of soldiers. Military bunkers, removed years ago, are back and, in many places, share the road. On the highways, soldiers stop passenger vehicles and drag passengers to check their identity cards. It is a scene reminiscent of the 1990s, when an armed insurgency broke out and the Indian government sent hundreds of thousands of soldiers to crush it.
The conflict in Kashmir, India’s only Muslim-majority region, has been worsening for decades. And an armed uprising has long sought self-government. Tens of thousands of rebels, civilians and security forces have died since 1990. India and Pakistan have gone to war twice over the territory, which is divided between them, but claimed by both in their entirety.
Now, while India flexes its power over the region, even calling Kashmir a disputed region is a crime – sedition, according to Indian officials.
Mr. Wangnoo’s family remained afloat during the darkest days of the conflict. In the midst of it all, visiting dignitaries, young adventurers and Bollywood stars came to sunbathe on the upper deck, amid the floating lotus gardens and majestic chinar trees by the lake.
This time, the seventh generation business – totally dependent on tourism, like so many others in Kashmir – is in danger of sinking.
Other houseboat owners are even worse off. Houseboats date back to the British colonial era, an intelligent solution to restrictions on foreign land ownership. But the elaborately carved cedar vases are in poor condition and many are sinking. Pressured owners are unable to pay for new caulking.
On land, people wear long woolen pherans, traditional tunic-shaped garments that cover them from shoulders to shins, sipping steaming cups of saffron and almond tea and passing small pots of hot coals to keep warm.
Many say that the political paralysis is the worst that has existed in the 30 years of Kashmir’s conflict, and that people have been suffocated and subjected.
Prime Minister Narendra Modi of India stripped the region of its autonomy and statehood in August 2019 and promised that the change – which canceled Kashmir’s inheritance rights to land and jobs – would trigger a flood of new investment and opportunities for the besieged region.
Half a million soldiers attended, imposing the strictest repression that Kashmiris have ever seen.
The money did not arrive. People say they are more scared than ever. Political leaders from Kashmir’s wealthiest and most respected families – former elected officials who worked to reconcile Kashmiris’ call for independence with India’s desire for unity – were arrested and held for months.
“You can do this with the pro-Indian leaders, you can do it with anyone,” said Mohamed Mir behind the counter in his father’s empty pashmina shop in the center of Srinagar, the largest city in Kashmir.
Kashmiris trying to express their anger online at the Indian government are being attacked on charges of terrorism. Many were arrested.
Paramilitary forces suddenly appear. They arrived at the Khanqah of Shah-Hamdan, a Sufi sanctuary drenched in colored glass and papier-mache dedicated to Mir Sayed Ali Hamadni, the Persian and traveling saint who brought Islam to the valley.
At night, soldiers stood guard at the 6th-century Hindu temple on Mount Gopadri, the highest point in Srinagar, the Sankaracharya Temple, while the muezzins to pray in the local mosques echoed through the peaceful valley.
Kashmir’s economy is on the verge of collapse. In the past, even when shootings between security forces and militants became widespread, international tourists continued to flock to Kashmir ski slopes, houseboats and artisanal pashmina and paper mache shops.
Since Indian forces entered, however, almost no visitors have appeared.
The absence of tourists made no difference to Ghulam Hussain Mir, whose jewelry boxes, bowls and paper mache vases are sold online to foreign customers.
But the blocking of Indian government communications has hurt him. Internet, TV and telephone service have been interrupted for months. When they were finally restored, the government allowed only the slowest speeds of the mobile Internet to prevent the video from reaching smartphones. Mr. Mir lost months of orders, and now demand for his products in parts of the world still dominated by the coronavirus has been silenced.
A 700-year-old mosque within walking distance of Mr. Mir’s house and workshop remained open amid civil strife and fires. But after the Indian government took control of Kashmir, it was closed for months. His muezzin was blocked and prevented from making daily calls to prayer.
“Fear is different and worse than at any time in the past 40 years,” says Mir, sitting cross-legged on a thick carpet floor in his workshop.
A large hive of people supports tourism on Lake Dal, which Lonely Planet calls “the jewel of Srinagar”. Some of Srinagar’s poorest residents live right in the center of the lake, in an area partially filled and paved and connected by a network of irregular wooden walkways.
Neighborhoods are dubbed war-torn places like Kandahar and the Gaza Strip. Usually, people find work driving water taxis, repairing boats or selling tourist products from their floating gardens. Now, except for an occasional chore, there is no work.
“Life is stuck because tourism is the most important industry in the city,” said Ghulam Mohammad, 56. Devoid of activity, “now it is like a jungle,” said Mohammad, looking at the peaceful lake.
Except for a handful of Indian tourists, Wangnoo has not received visitors for over a year. In six months, he estimates, he could lose the business and with him the dream of passing it on to the eighth generation, his sons Ibrahim and Akram, in their 20s.
“We have worked hard over these generations, building our reputation. At the end of the day, it’s all over, ”said Wangnoo. “Nobody was a friend of Kashmir, except God.”
With nothing to deal with, on a recent afternoon Mr. Wangnoo lazily leafed through the hotel’s treasured guest book, coming to an exhortation to Mr. Jagger’s father, Sultan, “May you always be light and brite.”
Mr. Wangnoo grabbed the collar of his dark brown pheran as dusk fell over Lake Nagin.
“There is no glow,” he said. “It looks like dark days ahead.”
Showkat Nanda contributed reports.