By Taapsi Ramchandani

I spent the best part of last month working as an assistant director on a documentary on the history and culture of the pashmina. This catapulted me into the balls-shrivellingly cold climate of Kashmir (no, I’m not secretly a man, but I know) amid weavers, embroiders and traders of the cloth. While the story of the pashmina will be told in the documentary, here’s a little window into a world ensconced in a valley.

I definitely started my trip on the right foot. The moment I got out of Srinagar airport, I noticed immediately that most people seemed to be potbellied (or pregnant) and were missing an arm or two. I found this phenomenon to be strangely commonplace and was quick to point this out to our driver. Two minutes later I was just as quick to recede into a shell, promising never to emerge again. It wasn’t fat or child that the masses were carrying but a harmless wicker basket called kangdi, fitted with an earthen pot and burning coal. Everyone held this under their long, woollen coats called pherans (this explained the flapping coat sleeves) and the contraption generated heat close to the body.

While at this point it was my face that was rapidly heating up, during most of my travel it was other parts of my body that seemed to be on fire. And that’s because the men in Kashmir are hot! Hot like butter that sizzles on a frying pan. I am a firm believer in the theory of natural selection and up here at high altitude I solidified my belief. For the fruitful longevity of my line, I was ‘naturally selecting’ the chiselled face, the light eyes, the dark hair and long limbs of the baker, the grocer, the driver, the weaver … anyone I laid my eyes on. And Kashmiri men are no less – flirting comes as naturally to them as snowfall in winter.

And as naturally as a hartaal or general strike almost every Friday of the month. Whether it’s the hoarse cry for autonomy or indignity over the Shopian case, the Kashmiri youth are always ready to spring into action - marking the field, sniffing out the opponents and pelting stones at government vehicles with the speed and accuracy of an Indian bowler. It’s no wonder the phenomenon of stone pelting has been nicknamed Twenty20 in the Valley; not as drawn out as test cricket but with the same vigour. We were instructed not to visit certain parts of the city on those days, but otherwise life moved on.

Everyday, as a ritual, I would jump out shivering from the shower and don not one, not two but three layers of clothing - gloves and socks included. And while I grabbed every opportunity to arm myself with the coal-burning kangdi, all around me kids were running barefoot in open courtyards. I asked a lady once what she wore beneath her long coat. She showed me her salwar kameez and one layer of woollen inners over very hairy legs. I marvelled at her immunity to the cold and her freedom from waxing for the better part of the year.

Kashmiris are by and large one of the most hospitable people I have met. In every house we entered, we were welcomed with open arms and a spread of tea and biscuits. Kahva is the traditional tea of Kashmir, the ingredients of which include green tea, cinnamon, almonds and saffron. It is a drink for the gods. And have you ever had Iranian biscuits? Light brown cuboids, sugary and heavy on the first bite, but with so fine a consistency that crumbs magically dissolve on contact with the palette. They accompanied kahva and our fat cells relished them at least twice a day.

Kashmir is just as famous for its bakery products as it is for pashmina shawls, yet it’s the latter that has put the state on the world map. It’s quite something to visit an aged weaver or embroider regaling the days gone by rather than simply Google the history of the pashmina on the internet. We collected enough material for the documentary, but there is that dissatisfaction of knowing so much more than you can fit into a 45 minute film. In our attempt to stick to a storyline we will skirt around large political issues and little cultural nuances. Like the fact that Kashmir has the world’s largest military occupation yet most locals start a conversation with “Koi baat nahin [no problem]". You can’t match that.