User:Shikhavyas/sandbox

"So which group will you bolster?" Asif asks me as he pushes me to his houseboat on the Dal Lake.

Is that a trap question? India is playing Pakistan. Most outstanding opponents both. Feelings are running high. The two nations would much preferably lose the World Cup last than lose a gathering match against the other. Obviously I would bolster India thus excessively would…

"Pakistan," Asif pronounces.

In another piece of India this would be unbelievable, yet we are in Kashmir Valley – a past heaven, now lost to the three wars battled about it amongst India and Pakistan. The blame lines keep running over land, and through Kashmiri hearts, isolating their loyalty. I think about whether Asif realizes that in the no so distant past three Kashmiri understudies were captured on charges of dissidence simply to cheer for Pakistan. Or on the other hand possibly it is on account of he realizes that he is…

My musings are hindered by the black out crash of our shikara, a modest gondola for two, as it brushes against the wooden yard of Asif's houseboat. This quieted doorbell brings Asif's 10-year-old sister, Gul, to the front of the houseboat. Gul grins as though she has constantly known you. There are no wars all over.

"Bhaijaan, come, we are out of lotus stems," she says.

Once out of Asif's sight, Gul gives me the paddles. We grin our mystery grin. She has shown me to push the shikara. Columns of littler houseboats make up Dal's skimming nearby market. I swim through thin water rear ways, keeping away from the bloom dealer, evading the vegetable vender and floating into water weeds. Gul snickers. "What bhaijaan! You don't hone," she shakes her head in taunt dissatisfaction and assumes control.

Before long, Gul and I are in the mystery assemblies of the Dal. Lotus plants flourish. Gul scoops them up. At the point when broiled in hitter they make for a tasty tidbit.

Asif scarcely enjoys them however. India is ahead in the amusement. With each agonizing second, Asif gets tense. Gul and I trade uneasy looks.

"Would you like to rehearse?" Gul asks, indicating the shikara.

As we set out, the sundown sky loans its violet shade to the lake's water. Comparable yet reversed scenes, isolated by the skyline. Like India and Pakistan. Alike, however separated. The valley; their frame of reference. Neither the sky nor the water lay any claim into the great beyond. Be that as it may, the twin countries battle to attest domain over the valley.

Gul and I push profound into the lake, past the lotus plants. We lie level on our backs, take a gander at the moon sneak up on the stars, and murmur Bollywood tunes.

When we push back, the match is finished. Neither of us try to ask the outcome.