Intrigued by her father's wartime diary entries and photographs of Kashmir, Deborah Williams came out from Australia to follow in his footsteps across Srinagar:
Roy Williams - photo taken at Mahatta's, Srinagar, in 1943
Long ago intrigued by the mystery of Kashmir when my father entertained us with memories of his war years in India – tales of high snowy mountains, a close escape from a sinking houseboat, a tablecloth embroidered with delicate figures – I have visited Srinagar several times. In the spring when almond blossoms fill the air; in summer when houseboats huddle in the shade of green willows; and now in December, at the beginning of chillaikalan – the coldest, most severe 40 days of winter.
My father, Roy D. Williams, serving as a pilot with the RAAF (Royal Australian Air Force), was based in India from 1942-45. In 2007 the discovery of his wartime diaries inspired me to trace his Indian footsteps, so a year ago, when a BBC article about Mahatta's Photo Studio in Srinagar caught my eye, it was with astonishment that I realised I have a portrait photo of Roy taken while on leave in Kashmir in August 1943. And quite clearly, at the bottom of the photo, is the Mahatta’s signature. I read that Mahatta’s, founded in 1915, continues as a glorious bubble from the past, run by Jagdish Mehta, a silver-haired gentleman clad elegantly in white. The shop still exists, but for how much longer? I had to go there. As soon as possible. Which meant winter.
Roy visited Kashmir twice. In the summer of 1943 and the spring of 1944. He travelled there by car from Murree (now in Pakistan), an eight hour trip over the mountains, before descending through a gorge for 100 miles, alongside rapids, fir, pine and poplar trees, arriving in Srinagar at 4.00 p.m. on 1st June 1943. On 2nd June, he wrote: glorious views of mountain range. Most lovely scenery ever seen on travels. Seduced by the beauty of Kashmir, he was a happy man.
Seventy-two years later, in December 2015, too terrified to face the mountain road from Jammu in winter, I arrived on a morning flight from Delhi, seated next to a rugged Kashmiri, brown and white beanie atop his suntanned head, a brown shawl edged with pink embroidery draped over his shoulders.
The plane descended over misty fields and red roofed houses, the mountains invisible behind a wall of cloud, leafless poplar trees standing tall like frozen soldiers. Outside the airport a frosty chill cut the air as my taxi drove past men in traditional brown phirans, and the intriguingly named Orbit Girls School in shades of hot pink, while gun toting soldiers lined the road all the way from the airport to Dal Lak ... this was not the summer time paradise my father had enjoyed.
Mahatta's had inspired this visit, but was not my only mission – I also wanted to see Nedou's hotel where Roy went to dances, Nishat Gardens where he picnicked by moonlight, The Club, Gagribal Point where he went swimming, Dal Gate, and Third Bridge where he visited a mysterious Subhana mentioned several times in his diaries. In five freezing days I immersed myself in a Srinagar parallel to the usual tourist trail, stumbling into a world of extraordinary warmth and hospitality along the way.
When I first set forth for Mahatta’s, morning frost lay white on stone walls and blanketed the lake's wooden landing platforms. The lake was an icy, silvery sheen, boatmen in voluminous phirans huddled on richly coloured cushions in shikaras, kangri pots perched by their sides, while phiran clad men glided by on bicycles sagging under piles of coats, furry hats, and gloves. The world was cold, still, and surreal in its beauty.
Mahatta's had inspired this visit, but was not my only mission – I also wanted to see Nedou's hotel where Roy went to dances, Nishat Gardens where he picnicked by moonlight, The Club, Gagribal Point where he went swimming, Dal Gate, and Third Bridge where he visited a mysterious Subhana mentioned several times in his diaries. In five freezing days I immersed myself in a Srinagar parallel to the usual tourist trail, stumbling into a world of extraordinary warmth and hospitality along the way.
When I first set forth for Mahatta’s, morning frost lay white on stone walls and blanketed the lake's wooden landing platforms. The lake was an icy, silvery sheen, boatmen in voluminous phirans huddled on richly coloured cushions in shikaras, kangri pots perched by their sides, while phiran clad men glided by on bicycles sagging under piles of coats, furry hats, and gloves. The world was cold, still, and surreal in its beauty.
On the way to Mahatta's I passed the once gracious old Nedou's Hotel, where Roy went to dances in June 1943. Its two storey, mouldering white gabled buildings stand forlornly around a water-logged “lawn” graced with rubble. It was a mess.
Impossible to enter through barred gates and barbed wire, I took “creative” photos through holes in the old red wall, and was left wondering at the twists of fate which could leave such a fine old building, once witness to grand and happy times, in such a sad, uninhabitable state. Host to dignitaries including Lord Mountbatten and assorted maharajahs until its closure around 1988-89 when it became a military billet, alas much of its written records and history were lost in the floods of 2014 when the hotel was up to its neck in metres of water. The waterlogged gardens are perhaps a remnant of the Jhelum's waters, but if there are plans afoot to revive the hotel to its past elegance, there is certainly no sign of it.
Impossible to enter through barred gates and barbed wire, I took “creative” photos through holes in the old red wall, and was left wondering at the twists of fate which could leave such a fine old building, once witness to grand and happy times, in such a sad, uninhabitable state. Host to dignitaries including Lord Mountbatten and assorted maharajahs until its closure around 1988-89 when it became a military billet, alas much of its written records and history were lost in the floods of 2014 when the hotel was up to its neck in metres of water. The waterlogged gardens are perhaps a remnant of the Jhelum's waters, but if there are plans afoot to revive the hotel to its past elegance, there is certainly no sign of it.
Nedou's Hotel, December 2015
Mahatta’s was easy to find, still standing proudly in a long black and white building overlooking the Jhelum River. Roy had his portrait taken there on 9 June 1943, and picked up the prints, which he found excellent, two days later.
| Entering its calm, dim interior of elegant wooden counters, glass-fronted wooden cabinets, old cameras, photos and photographic equipment is to enter another era. Alas, the owner Jagdish Mehta was not there, but his assistant, the tall and gracious Gul Mohammad rose from a chair by the door where he had been absorbed in a newspaper, and greeted me with quiet, smiling warmth. He told me that they no longer do portrait photos as the studio had closed, converted into a café, but he graciously took my photo with my own camera, and I took his, before descending to the downstairs café, once the studio, where huge black and white photos of old Srinagar street life cover the walls. I settled at a table, and like superimposed images, saw myself sipping tea in 2015, while the handsome 24 year-old Roy, cravat smartly tied, posed against the wall for his portrait in 1943. Oblivious to the future, and the fact that his daughter would one day be here too, hot on his trail. |  Deborah Williams at Mahatta's  Gul Mohammad |
In search of the Club which Roy had joined on arrival, I followed directions given by Gul Mohammed, and between Mahatta's and Zero Bridge, came across a low slung building partly submerged in muddy earth. It seemed to be sinking, lost in time, fading into the past. The windows and doors were shuttered, sealed with years of accumulated dust and dirt, and the facade unimposing. I suspected that the other side, now inaccessible behind military barbed wire, had been grander, but there was no way of knowing, so I contented myself with a walk along the Bund as far as Zero Bridge, built after the war, in the late 1950s, and now under a frenzy of reconstruction.
The wooden bridge is supported on pillars of interlaced wooden beams, works of art in their own right, and Moghul style kiosks provide shelter at intervals across the length of its elegant span. Two years ago I recall seeing the bridge in a shocking state of near collapse, so this renovation is a bright light indeed.
The wooden bridge is supported on pillars of interlaced wooden beams, works of art in their own right, and Moghul style kiosks provide shelter at intervals across the length of its elegant span. Two years ago I recall seeing the bridge in a shocking state of near collapse, so this renovation is a bright light indeed.
 The Club, 2015 |  Zero Bridge, 2015 |
On my first day of meanderings I was enticed into the Salama Bespoke Tailor shop, founded in 1842, on Polo View Road. The owner, Mr Gulzar, was keen to show me his impressive collection of letters dating back to the 1940s, from dignitaries, officials, UN personnel, diplomats, trekkers, travellers and military officers including a captain in the 6th Queen Elizabeth Own Ghurka Rifles regiment - all glowing reports about the quality of his tailoring and his honesty, and using a vocabulary rarely heard now. When did I last hear someone talk about going on furlough?
After seating me in front of the gas heater, and serving me warming cups of saffron tinted Kashmiri tea, Mr Gulzar proceeded to flourish the softest of Kashmiri scarves, a kashmir-mohair vest lined in silken pinks and blues, hunting jackets with leather elbow patches, plus-fours, knickerbockers, skirts, trousers and other extraordinary outfits from a time now past. He was a seductive salesman, (though I resisted his offer to make me a pair of plus-fours), and also a great source of information, telling me that as a child he accompanied his tailor grandfather to Nedou's, when cows were kept behind the hotel to ensure a supply of fresh milk.
After seating me in front of the gas heater, and serving me warming cups of saffron tinted Kashmiri tea, Mr Gulzar proceeded to flourish the softest of Kashmiri scarves, a kashmir-mohair vest lined in silken pinks and blues, hunting jackets with leather elbow patches, plus-fours, knickerbockers, skirts, trousers and other extraordinary outfits from a time now past. He was a seductive salesman, (though I resisted his offer to make me a pair of plus-fours), and also a great source of information, telling me that as a child he accompanied his tailor grandfather to Nedou's, when cows were kept behind the hotel to ensure a supply of fresh milk.
 Subhana the Worst, 1957 | When I tell him that Roy made advance payment for embroidered work to a man called Subhana who then disappeared with the money, Gulzar's eyes lit up. Subhana “was a villain!”, he declared, known to have a bad reputation, so bad that one night somebody added the words “the Worst” to Subhana's shop sign. Speaking as though the villainish Subhana of 70 years ago was still there, he said that “the father was good, but the son went bad”. Indeed, but Roy, not to be outdone, returned the following year, contacted the Visitor's Bureau, tracked Subhana down at Third Bridge, and got his 50 Rupees back. During this story-telling, in a thoroughly modern moment, Gulzar's son Amjed went online and found a 1957 photo of Subhana seated on carpets and finery at Third bridge, a sign behind him announcing Subhana the Worst. |
Then in a wonderful twist where past blended into the present, on my way home along the Boulevard that evening, I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw nestled at the back of a small shopping complex, a sign which had me laughing out loud – Subhana the TRUST!
Subhana "The Trust", 2015
The old, narrow Third Bridge where Subhana set up shop has been replaced by a nondescript yellow metal bridge, Subhana is no longer there, the river banks are littered with rubbish, the old houses slowly crumbling, and there is little evidence of the once buzzing commercial district where “visitors” used to shop. Gulzar took me there, showing me where they arrived by shikara, disembarking at a narrow laneway running between red brick walls up to what had been a main thoroughfare.
On arriving in Srinagar Roy joined the Club where he socialised, drank the occasional beer, and danced. His month long visits were active and idyllic - long horse rides before breakfast, walking and shopping on the Bund, buying film on the black market at 1st Bridge, and dancing at the Club, Nedou's and Nagin Lake. Returning from a late night dance one night he helped to open the lock gates at Dal Gate at 1.00 a.m. He went swimming at Gagribal Point, spending hours in the cool summer waters of Dal Lake. A “bathing boat” is still moored calmly off Gagribal Point near Nehru Park, proof that despite the now polluted waters, people still swim here.
On arriving in Srinagar Roy joined the Club where he socialised, drank the occasional beer, and danced. His month long visits were active and idyllic - long horse rides before breakfast, walking and shopping on the Bund, buying film on the black market at 1st Bridge, and dancing at the Club, Nedou's and Nagin Lake. Returning from a late night dance one night he helped to open the lock gates at Dal Gate at 1.00 a.m. He went swimming at Gagribal Point, spending hours in the cool summer waters of Dal Lake. A “bathing boat” is still moored calmly off Gagribal Point near Nehru Park, proof that despite the now polluted waters, people still swim here.
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He ate strawberries and cream in the dark on his houseboat, and picnicked by moonlight in the Nishat Gardens where in summer the chinar shaded water terraces flow down to the lake. It must have been magical, but in December the near empty gardens were swathed in mist, sheets of crackled ice coated the fountains and empty water channels, the great chinar trees stood stripped of leaves, and stray dogs slept curled together at their feet. I talked to a gardener who told me the chinar trees here are 400 years old. Sparkling with energy, spittle flying, he shouted questions at me. Country? Job? Ahhh!!! Teacher! He babbled about different jobs, selling cows, building a three storey house, then thanked god three times. When I told him my father came here for a moonlight picnic, he was delighted, pointed to a nearby magnolia tree, saying it flowers by moonlight. So very romantic, he said, grinning. It must have been, but now, too cold to linger, I left - behind me a bevy of gardeners planting flowers in sculpted beds, and two young men photographing tourists draped in richly glittering Moghul clothes.
Roy didn't confine himself to Srinagar. In May 1944 he travelled by mail bus to Pahalgam and set out on a three day trek to the Kolohai glacier, accompanied by Kashmiri guides, and enthralled by the magnificence of the mountains. But not all was idyllic – back in Srinagar, rain set in, and on Wednesday 17 May he wrote: Still raining steadily in morning. Continued throughout day till late afternoon. Took walk up to Bund. Spent evening on boat. Awakened at 2.30 A.M. by Alec. Annex capsized. Lucky to escape. All clothes and bedding saturated. River rose 3 feet due to heavy rains in mountains. I remember clearly his story of how the houseboat had broken its moorings, and trapped beneath a bridge, was flooding in the rapidly rising river.
More recently, in September 2014, Srinagar was metres under water when heavy rains swelled the Jhelum, burst open the lock gates, and flooded surrounding areas. Houses and hotels were submerged, people evacuated, hundreds died, and the damage can still be seen in collapsed buildings and a boardwalk by Dal Gate which rolls and sags as though in an earthquake.
And far from idyllic now is the bubbling undercurrent of discontent with the political situation. Young men talked of their desire for an independent Kashmir, of their frustration at the corruption and repression of free speech. Older men spoke with anger and tears in their eyes at the irresponsible destruction of lakes and waterways now turned to dry reed beds filled with rubbish.
Roy didn't confine himself to Srinagar. In May 1944 he travelled by mail bus to Pahalgam and set out on a three day trek to the Kolohai glacier, accompanied by Kashmiri guides, and enthralled by the magnificence of the mountains. But not all was idyllic – back in Srinagar, rain set in, and on Wednesday 17 May he wrote: Still raining steadily in morning. Continued throughout day till late afternoon. Took walk up to Bund. Spent evening on boat. Awakened at 2.30 A.M. by Alec. Annex capsized. Lucky to escape. All clothes and bedding saturated. River rose 3 feet due to heavy rains in mountains. I remember clearly his story of how the houseboat had broken its moorings, and trapped beneath a bridge, was flooding in the rapidly rising river.
More recently, in September 2014, Srinagar was metres under water when heavy rains swelled the Jhelum, burst open the lock gates, and flooded surrounding areas. Houses and hotels were submerged, people evacuated, hundreds died, and the damage can still be seen in collapsed buildings and a boardwalk by Dal Gate which rolls and sags as though in an earthquake.
And far from idyllic now is the bubbling undercurrent of discontent with the political situation. Young men talked of their desire for an independent Kashmir, of their frustration at the corruption and repression of free speech. Older men spoke with anger and tears in their eyes at the irresponsible destruction of lakes and waterways now turned to dry reed beds filled with rubbish.
Dal Lake, December 2015
Much has changed, but traces of the past live on and the Kashmir which charmed my father so many years ago is still a place of ethereal beauty despite years of fighting and political woes, and a tourist industry which has seen the number of houseboats explode and the waters increasingly polluted.
When Roy left Kashmir, he made the return trip to Murree by bus, a tiring 12-hour journey over a road no longer accessible from Srinagar. Now travellers have the choice between a spectacular, hair-raising road to Jammu, or a short flight over snowy peaks. I chose to leave on a SpiceJet flight to Amritsar, sad to leave but relieved to escape the worst of chillaikallan when I feared a Kashmir sealed in ice and snow. Only five days there but an experience rich in the past and present intertwined, and the knowledge that the essence of Kashmir has not changed.
When Roy left Kashmir, he made the return trip to Murree by bus, a tiring 12-hour journey over a road no longer accessible from Srinagar. Now travellers have the choice between a spectacular, hair-raising road to Jammu, or a short flight over snowy peaks. I chose to leave on a SpiceJet flight to Amritsar, sad to leave but relieved to escape the worst of chillaikallan when I feared a Kashmir sealed in ice and snow. Only five days there but an experience rich in the past and present intertwined, and the knowledge that the essence of Kashmir has not changed.
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