A Kiss In Kashmir: A Timeless Tale Of Love, Loss And Second Chances

Award-winning storyteller and illustrious food writer Monica Saigal, (formerly Monica Bhide) is all set to unveil her 12th book, A Kiss in Kashmir: A Timeless Tale of Love (Bodes Well Publishing, US) a touching story of love, loss, and second chances in the serene backdrop of Kashmir. A Nicholas Sparks-like emotive storytelling that tells a captivating story of late-blooming love and second chances.

An Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

October 2022

Srinagar, Kashmir

“And here is some tea.” Wajid handed tea to the ladies and a very exasperated Mr. Rami, who reluctantly accepted it. 

The group stood quietly for a few moments and sipped as they watched the swans swim up close. The chatter of the vendors selling everything from silver jewelry to water lilies to palm reading was growing louder and louder as tourists began to make their way towards the lake. Large families with older parents, children of varying ages, school groups, and more began to swarm the area. It had been years since the valley had seen this many visitors. The new government was doing its best to bring back tourism after years of problems, and it was, by all accounts, succeeding. 

Frowning, Mr. Rami took the opportunity to check his phone.

It was George who broke the silence. “We overheard your conversation. It appears you are looking for an experienced tour guide? Wajid here offers historical tours of the valley, if that is what you are looking for.”

Alina beamed at George. “Are you from DC? I see you’re wearing a Nationals cap.”

“Oh, I love the Nationals and yes, I grew up in DC. But I was born in Hyannis in Massachusetts. You know, like the Kennedys.” 

Alina smiled. “Nice. We’re visiting from DC, and I went to  Boston College. What a coincidence.” 

“I guess it is a small world. I did grad work in Boston. Well, Cambridge, actually, but Boston College is a great school,” George said. “Now, what’s going on with this gentleman here?” 

“Oh, you see, my mother has a deep sentimental attachment to the idea of having my wedding ceremony in India, particularly here in Kashmir,” Alina explained. “Mr. Rami’s been kind enough to offer his assistance, but it’s becoming apparent that my mother’s cherished vision and Mr. Rami’s proposals are a world apart.”

Exasperated, Mr. Rami said, “That is not fair, Alina ji, I am trying to help. If you could just see the Chinar Hotel. This is the hidden gem I am trying to tell you about. It is truly stunning, and the ballroom has hosted so many Bollywood weddings. Here, see the pictures.” Mr. Rami thrust his iPhone under Alina’s nose. She gently pushed it away. “Okay, okay,” Wajid said. “I don’t mean to insert myself here, but as George said, I do give tours of this area. I have done so for over twenty years and would be happy to help you.” This was much to the annoyance of Mr. Rami, who began to rant loudly. “You cannot do this. This is my customer. What is your name? Wajid? Wajid what? You cannot simply take my customers away.” 

Alina ignored him. “Oh, Ma, we should do the tour with them. We can see everything. I don’t know about a wedding here, but maybe at least we can get a good tour.” 

Before Sharmila could respond, Mr. Rami erupted again. “You cannot take my customer. I will take you to the police. How can you do this? This is my customer. From America. My customer. Not yours. Find your own customers.” 

Passersby stopped to see what was going on and to eavesdrop on the unfolding drama. Wajid politely asked them to keep moving.

“It is just a tour, Mr. Rami,” he said. “Why are you getting so upset? I am not a wedding planner like you.” 

But Mr. Rami was not having any of this. “Do you know who my brother is? He is a high police officer, the senior-most officer here at the main prison. I will get you arrested. I will call my brother. He has power. He will shut down your tourism business.”

Sharmila heard Alina disguise a laugh with a cough. 

Finally, George stepped in. “Sir, what is your consulting fee? She has paid you already, yes?” With a knowing glance at Sharmila, he went on, “Can I suggest that perhaps you can keep that as a cancellation fee and then you can go ahead and sell your services to people who better appreciate what you do? Clearly these ladies cannot see the amazing value you bring. I’ve seen the Chinar Hotel and I agree with you. It is gorgeous.” Now George winked at Alina. 

Alina looked at her mother. “Yes, yes, we will let you keep your fee. Ma, can’t we do that?”

Sharmila was grateful for George’s intervention and couldn’t wait to get rid of this man who had offered no value in the past two days in the city. More importantly, this was the first time Alina seemed willing to explore the area. Alina had been reluctant to even come to India, let alone get married here, and had been moping as Mr. Rami had simply been meeting them for lunch and trying to convince them to see the one hotel and meet with just one caterer. 

“Yes, I will keep my fees. You will all regret this. These tour guides don’t know anything. But madam ji, it is your choice.” Mr. Rami seemed relieved that he would be able to leave these demanding foreigners who knew nothing. Who hosts an outdoor wedding in Kashmir in winter or so soon after winter? This was crazy. They don’t know anything. He left, still grumbling to himself. 

Sharmila turned her attention to Wajid and George. “Thank you for your help. As I am assuming you overheard, we’re here planning Alina’s wedding. We want to explore the valley and find just the right spot to host the ceremony. We want it to have all the cultural elements of this amazing place—the food, the jewelry, the traditions. That’s very important to me.” Sharmila gave them her incandescent smile, a smile that lit up her eyes. 

George couldn’t help but smile back at this diminutive woman in her long, flowing pink dress draped with a light skyblue cashmere shawl. 

“That sounds excellent,” Wajid said. “But if it’s okay, may I ask, why Kashmir? I mean, I love my birthplace and home. I’m just curious as to why you chose this place?”

Alina said, “Oh, my father was from here. We want to honor his memory, and having it here makes Ma feel like he’ll be part of the celebration.” Then she asked for more tea. 

“And who is the lucky man you’ll be marrying?” George asked. 

“His name is Emilio. He’s in law school so he couldn’t come with us. Want to see some photographs?” Alina had already pulled out her phone and was soon sharing pictures with Wajid and George. 

Sharmila took another sip of her tea and sighed in relief.

Extracted with permission from the author and the publisher (Bodes Well Publishing, US)