The houseboats moored in the Dal or Nigeen go back a long way and the tribe at the helm curiously associates itself with Prophet Noah.
by Faheem Gundroo
11 November 1989. Houseboat Billoo Palace. Guest log book: “Professor Sidiq taught me a great deal. Our next visit to Kashmir will be much longer and, of course, we will want to stay at the Biloo Palace. Carolyn and I sincerely wish you all a peaceful prosperous healthy future.”
While Ralph and Carolyn must have been admiring the most striking feature associated with the Dal lake – the wonderful mountain amphitheater that surrounds this ancient lake, or finding curious floating gardens of low growing brushwood and whispering seeds made of earth and vegetables accumulated on water or simply having a deep conversation with Sidiq, who managed housekeeping – I’ve always found them curiously interesting with an anecdotal memory: a war was brimming in Kashmir and continues ever since.
I don’t know where Ralph and his wife Carolyn are now, but their quiet prayer of peace and prosperity, which they must have wished on that smoky autumn morning with hardly any sunshine, while the shikarawallah was waiting to sail them ashore and thousands of miles away from the fabled land of Lala Rookh, has remained unanswered. The Californian couple, it seemed, had turned prescient.
Rummaging through the guest book, I realized how in certain cracks, corners and sights of a city, time stops. It’s ephemeral that feeling, but true nevertheless. Time, that construct which moves on day in and out since billions of years, holding moments in it while we mortals are alive—fleetingly—till the door is opened and may be everything vanishes like a dream or another dimension gives everything a different meaning in another life. I don’t know.
You wade through the labyrinths of old Delhi or lose track while looking out from your window into vast Bosporus Sea of Istanbul or sip coffee in an old café at Rome, owned by a primitive man, looking at architecture made from ash brown bricks, half burnt, the feeling and vibe is the same.
The houseboats moored in the Dal or Nigeen lakes go back a long way and the tribe at the helm curiously associates itself with prophet Noah, which of course has no merit or historical backing. The original boat was called, in local parlance, as dounga, which used to be a low flat-bottomed hull, upon which a light wooden structure was raised with a flat roof. The interior was very basic, divided into some makeshift compartments, a vestibule or outer cabin through which one passed into the dining or cabin, which again opened into two or three little bedrooms and a couple of bathrooms. It is with the arrival of the British residents that houseboats took the shape and grandeur we associate with them now.
While there are more than a thousand houseboats in the Dal right now, it’s important you pick the right one while visiting. An older boat, if you ask me, and a discerning eye can easily separate the wheat from the chaff. Like so many British reception rooms, the older houseboats shine replete with objets d’art, inclining to Oriental luxury rather than the newly caught faze of gaudy interiors.
In Fairy-land, whose streets and towers
Are made of gems and light and flowers
~ Lala Rookh
Probably nothing is more surprising to a visitor than the wonderful beauty of wood carving that is done in these boats. In addition to the walls and ceiling, called khatamband, the favorite designs are called Lhassa and Kashmiri and both are visible. In the former, the dragon and animals prevail, and in the latter flowers, vines and leaves. This wood-carving has a possible rival in silverware that shines through the wooden cabinets in the dining room area. Most of the cutlery and china is Oriental with beautiful floral design on some, while some carry portraits of Duchess and Earl on them. There is a good amount of old silverware too and you will, in all probability, sip tea from an old silver teapot if you insist to the owner and he will in turn narrate a whole history behind the teapot. You may find all off that exaggerated but it’s quite amusing. Another ware that is to be found in these boats is papier mache work, and this is made in candle sticks, vases, boxes, paper holders, and other variety of articles. The decorations on most part are in design and color like those of beautiful old Kashmiri shawls, some being very delicate and subdued and others bold and pronounced but all rich and beautiful.
There is one particular painting in papier mache, in one of the rooms of the boat that caught my eye. Omar Khayyam of Naishapur sitting with Jehan Ara in a garden, under a grove of grape trees. There are Persian couplets under it.
If but the Vine and Love-abjuring band
Are in the Prophet’s paradise to stand
Alack, I doubt the Prophet’s paradise
Were empty as the hollow
Of one’s hand
On threats of Hell and Hopes of paradise!
One thing at least is certain – This life flies;
One thing is certain and the rest is lies;
The flower that once is blown forever dies
The revelations of devout and learn’d
Who rose before us, and as prophets burn’d,
Are all but stories, which, awoke from sleep
They told their fellows and to sleep return’d.
So the doungas morphed into luxurious houseboats starting roughly around 1950s, just after the Britishers left the sub-continent. Many of the houseboats owned by resident Britishers were gifted by them to their servants and housekeepers. While the demand for tourists began to rise in the 50s and later in the 60s, with the arrival of Bollywood and Shammi Kapoor, a number of new houseboats were constructed.
Billoo Palace was constructed in 1974, as its current owner Showkat Billoo told me. There were two more houseboats adjacent to it, all owned by Billoo’s father – Razak Billoo. They were called the New Ruby and Ruby Palace. Both boats were lost to the vagaries of time. Billoo had a picture of the earliest houseboat from 1892, when the valley was less frequented. It was a basic dounga having a smaller boat paddled to it for carrying rice harvest along many canals and water bodies of Kashmir.
While evening was starting to set its golden hues across our faces, sitting outside on the deck of Houseboat Billoo, under a placid sheet of still water, its surface only broken here and there by the silvery trails of rippled water left by darting shikaras or slow moving market boats, shining in the crystal clear atmosphere, in front of us rose the Takht-e-Sulaiman. Its thousand-feet of rocky stature dwarfed by the holy Mahadev massif and his peers, whose shattered peaks ring round the lake, their dark purple cliffs and shaggy steeps mirrored in the peaceful surface of the Dal beneath.
Billoo, blowing out cigarette smoke from his lungs, looked back on life in a rather non-philosophical way, which made me even more interested. He had business, a shop in Frankfurt Germany, which his partner gobbled up and he had to return. Billoo is married now with kids, picking up his life again through Biloo Palace houseboat.
Reminiscing about the times gone, he suddenly turned rueful: ath rood na veyn sou maze – it’s not the same now. I prodded him further. Billoo went on to narrate how, back in the 70s and 80s, the culture around houseboats looked nothing short of Lake Annecy in France, with its languid nature and leisurely tourism. On weeks together, the white sahibs would just soak the energy of the surrounding beauty, few times breaking for a swim, jumping off from the houseboat terrace into the clean lake. After a few weeks, they would go on trekking and fishing expeditions with Billoo’s father and the wise housekeeper and cook – Sidiq, who had earned the sobriquet of Professor for his philosophical approach to life. Sidiq would keep the sahibs joyful with his witty remarks and philosophical overtones. These camps would take Billoo to Kolohai, Harmukh, into the deep lush valleys of Harbaghwan Lake, fishing in the roaring waters of Lidder and Sindh valley. They would return with tired limbs. After a few more days of relaxing in the houseboat, the travelers would return or continue their travel further into Ladakh or wander in search of the mythical land Shangri-La, falling along the hippie trail.
I was lost into the imagery that Billoo painted in front of me. The light and color of sunset were very beautiful now, and behind us stood a very large grove of willow trees. The oppressive humid air of day was a thing of the past, broken by a gentle breeze which seemed to travel from the Harmukh mountains behind us.
Biloo was quick to collect himself:waqt chhu rozaan pakaan, insanas taam chunne kiheen’ (time keeps on rolling, permanence is beyond man). Saying nothing further, deep in thought, his silence was eloquent enough.
The flow of creation will go on
with me or without me
Only do not make me forget
that I am none
and that you only exist and create
in ever-changing mobility
I looked far beyond the waters of the lake, where lights were shining over a strange line, a bird humming what looked like a sweet psalm of Solomon from the thick green foliage behind us. Everything was tranquil. And I thought of all myriads who passed the door and may have had similar conversations on the same deck, getting a little wiser when they sailed across to the shores. Yet not one returns to tell us of the road which, to discover, I realized, we must travel too.
Faheem Gundroo is an ICT engineer based in Dubai, with interest in travel, history and current affairs.
