Kashmir, Through The Looking Glass: What The Tourist Destination Looks Like After Operation Sindoor

Kashmir after Operation Sindoor | What was supposed to be a refreshing family vacation, planned months in advance, turned into a fast-tracked academic excursion after April 22. As I waited to board my flight to Srinagar on May 5, the sparse passengers around me came as no surprise. Just days earlier, news broke that 26 civilians in Pahalgam's Baisaran Valley were killed, casting a lull in the tourism hotspot. Yet my journalist parents, driven by inherent curiosity, continued undeterred. I, too, insisted we go, determined to see the fate of "Paradise" teetering between beauty and loss.

Military Presence and Empty Airports: First Impressions of Srinagar

During our brief layover in Chandigarh from Kolkata, most passengers deboarded, leaving only an elderly couple, perhaps returning home. Instead, a fresh wave of passengers boarded, dressed in olive green uniforms with camouflage backpacks slung over their shoulders. Within moments, the atmosphere shifted palpably.

When we landed at the fairly deserted Srinagar airport at 5:00 pm, this military presence grew stronger. We even spotted soldiers boarding CRPF jeeps while waiting for our pick-up.

Riyan Ahmed—our driver, guide, and eventually our friend—greeted us with the brightest smile. He was genuinely happy to welcome tourists during a time when most Kashmiris feared would usher in a long, dry spell for tourism.

The Kashmir we arrived in was a ghost of what I had known. Streets once alive with tourists were now eerily quiet. We stopped at a pharmacy to buy medicines. As I chided my father in Bengali, the shopkeepers, recognising us as tourists, gently explained the difference, and even offered a discount, welcoming us as mehmaans ("guests").

No doubt, I was enthralled by Kashmir's beauty. Its snow-capped peaks and meandering rivers left me speechless, but it was the people who left a deep impression. They welcomed us with warmth, humility, and kindness. Post the Pahalgam attacks, there was a cloud looming over this warmth. Now, it seemed tinted with apology and a sense of vulnerability. Every Kashmiri we met seemed to carry the burden of that day, hanging their heads as if personally responsible for what had happened. In their eyes, you could see the grief, not just for the lives lost, but for the impact the incident had on tourism, their dignity, and their fragile livelihoods.

600 Km Through Conflict

But worries in Paradise didn't just end there. On May 7, India launched Operation Sindoor, following the terror attacks in Pahalgam. Not long after, news headlines unfolded on the TV in my hotel room, providing updates on the tensions between India and Pakistan. As I watched the media give reports, I watched snippets of the scene play out outside my window. There, a massive military convoy moved from the nearby Badami Bagh Cantonment. The atmosphere was tense—on-screen and offline, both.

Over the next few days, we travelled over 600 kms across the valley— through Srinagar, Gulmarg, Pulwama, Awantipora, Sonmarg, the Indus River, and Pahalgam. Every mile carried stories of equal parts wonder and worry.

At Srinagar, I met Nasir, a PhD student in Peace and Conflict Studies at the University of Delhi. He had returned to move his family from Bandipora, where the Kishanganga flows, to Srinagar. "Pakistan Occupied Kashmir is on the other side of that river," he told me. "I brought my mother and sister here. My sister has been hit with a bullet twice before. We were lucky we didn't lose her life then," he said.

Dal Lake in Silence: Echoes of a Vanished Crowd

The following day, while crossing the Dal Lake, a lone shikhara floated in the waters. The rest, painted in vivid reds, blues, greens, and yellows, sat anchored near shore. Bashir Iqbal, a 71-year-old shikarawala who started rowing at age 12, gave us a tour. "Two weeks ago, you could barely take a round of the lake without bumping into other shikharas," he said. "Now, it's empty."

Pahalgam After the Tragedy

On our way to Pahalgam, we passed Pulwama. Over the years, I had seen Kashmir through articles and images online. The same was with Pulwama. Basis this, I assumed normalcy had been restored—and in many ways, it had. Locals affirmed it, the roads were well-maintained, and the infrastructure is robust. The countless army posts, though, juxtaposed this. It's only then that the paradox of Kashmir seemed to emerge: a place so fortified, and yet peace seemed elusive as I explored.

Pahalgam felt particularly sombre. As we drove along Lidder River, Ahmed told us, "Last time I was here, it was peak season. People of all faiths filled the streets, clicking photos and queuing for rafting. The tulip season feels like a festival for us. All the hotels were booked."

This time, it was empty. The restaurants that ordinarily catered to tourists were shut, and shawl shops stood with shutters down. In a town that once thrived with the buzz of tourism, we bought souvenirs we didn't need, moved by the hopeful, pleading eyes of shopkeepers who saw in us the faintest return of something that once used to be.

Drone Strikes and Blackouts

Things took a drastic turn when we visited Srinagar. That night, the city was targeted by drones. I watched balls of fire light up the sky over a city blackened out in silence. Our flight back to Kolkata was delayed indefinitely as 32 airports shut services. A train from Jammu to Delhi was our only saviour. Reaching Jammu, though, required covering 270 kms by road. And thus, our rushed, unplanned departure from a region on the edge began overnight.

Mausim, a staff member at the hotel, reassured us. "Ma'am, your safety is our responsibility. We're used to this! You'll leave safely," he said. Imtiaz, a hotel-recommended driver, picked us up at 6:30 am. My parents and I sat in the backseat, apprehensive about the India-Pakistan tensions and its consequent impact; Imtiaz hummed along to tunes of Kishore Kumar and Udit Narayan. Upon sensing our anxieties about not having confirmed train tickets, he smiled and said, "Don't worry, Madam! I'll drive you to Delhi myself if needed."

We reached the station just in time, still without tickets, but luck favoured us as the train was delayed. Imtiaz, despite an eight-hour drive, waited alongside until we were safely on board. “Come back when things are better,” he said as I shut the car door. We promised we would.