In January, you have to work hard to find beauty in Srinagar. All the usual coordinates are scrambled. The Mughal gardens -- Shalimar, Nishat, Chashma-e-Shahi, the names alone tributes to the voluptuaries who conceived them -- are ravaged. The partially frozen Dal Lake is as black and sludgy as an oil slick. There is no queue at the shikara stand, only a boatman who worries the ice with his paddle, creating islands of shards and the mist obscures the mountains. When we land in Srinagar, the sky, the snow and the pigeons are all the same dirty, dispiriting grey. The bus we board is creakily resigned to its disrepair, no longer making the effort to suck the stomach in, to carefully conceal the bald spot, and we trundle towards Lal Chowk, passing checkpoints and barbed wire accessorised with icy stalactites.

