There’s always been something elusive about Kashmir tourism, like it's always two steps forward, one step back. My tryst with this paradise on earth dates back to 2006, during what was supposed to be one of the happiest times of my life, my honeymoon. But as fate would have it, we landed in Srinagar just three days after a round of firing and bombing had rocked the region.

Ironically, it felt like the safest place on Earth. Indian Armed Forces were practically everywhere, on every corner, rooftop, alley, and especially near tourist hotspots. The streets were quiet, and there was an odd sense of calm, almost eerie in how peaceful it was.

Shops were open, yet there was no rush, no bargaining, every item was sold at MRP, not a rupee more. Even tips were gently declined. One local vendor told us, “The fact that you’ve shown the courage to come here means more than any tip.” That hit me hard. There were hardly any tourists, but those who were there, most of them were Maharashtrians. It honestly felt like a small corner of JP Nagar had found its way into the valleys of Kashmir. Apart from Kashmiri, all I could hear were snippets of Marathi and Hindi floating through the crisp mountain air.

Tourist towns like these have a strange resilience, they bounce back faster than we realize. Back then, the Congress-led government and Prime Minister Manmohan Singh were at the helm. There was this quiet insistence on peace after every setback. And perhaps that’s what helped Kashmir regain some of its calm so quickly.

But our return journey, that’s where the real story unfolded.

We had a connecting flight from Srinagar to Mumbai via Delhi. Air Deccan was our chosen airline. But just as we were getting ready to fly out, we were stopped nearly 2 kilometers outside the heavily guarded Srinagar Airport.

“Which flight are you on?” the soldier asked.

“Air Deccan. Flight so-and-so.”

“Flight’s canceled. You’re not allowed in.”

What?

Turns out, the airline had sent out a message, but since our phones didn’t have roaming (remember Hutchison Max Touch?), and Kashmir only supported BSNL at the time, we never got it. With no way to enter the airport and no plan B, we turned back toward the city, our hearts sinking.

Our driver, seeing our plight, took us to a travel agent. No internet cafés in the area, no online bookings. Just one guy at a desk, with one phone, and an offer: Jet Airways flight to Delhi. ₹7000 per person.

For context, our entire Mumbai–Srinagar round trip had cost ₹14,000 for both of us. This one-way ticket was going to cost the same. But what choice did we have?

There was a catch though, he didn’t accept cards. Only cash.

Now, I was a firm believer in plastic money. I barely carried cash. The driver, again empathetic, offered a lifeline.

“Sir, I know it’s wrong to ask, but if you give me ₹1000, I’ll take you to the nearest ATM.”

“Only if I can withdraw cash,” I said.

And so we went, racing against time. We reached a J&K Bank ATM with what looked like biometric-level security. This was 2006, mind you. I had three debit cards, ICICI, HDFC, and Kotak Mahindra.

ICICI — declined.

HDFC — no response.

Kotak Mahindra — approved.

I could’ve hugged that ATM machine. I managed to withdraw ₹20,000, just enough. We raced back to the travel agent, booked the tickets, and headed straight for the airport.

The security post, still 2 kilometers out, now let us through.

The Jet Airways flight took off on time. We landed in Delhi around 2:30 PM. Our SpiceJet flight to Mumbai was at 3:30 PM.

We rushed, sweaty, exhausted, hungry, anxious.

And yet again, fate threw us a bone. The flight was delayed by 30 minutes.

We made it.

But just when I thought the saga had ended, there was one final twist, a quiet conversation that’s etched in my memory even today.

As we flew over Gujarat, I pointed out the Sabarmati River to my wife. An elderly gentleman beside us corrected me.

“That’s the Narmada,” he smiled. Then, after a pause, he said something odd:
“Change is coming. From Gujarat. Modiji sab theek kar denge.”

I nodded politely, not really registering it. I was too tired, too spent. But those words, they stayed with me.

Years later, in 2013, the meaning hit me like a delayed echo. That man had seen something coming long before the rest of the country had. And I, just 25 at the time, had stumbled my way through a travel nightmare, and perhaps, into a moment of prophecy.