Snow is the make-up that every mountain needs to climb towards majesty. The long view of the Himalayas, visible during the flight between Delhi and Srinagar, is a stunning meeting point of imagination and reality. The close-up is even more spectacular from a splendid hotel in Gulmarg, perched amidst mountain-sides soaring to a peak, clothed in pristine snow, celebrating a white Christmas Eve from the fairy tales of Europe. The light blue of a spotless afternoon sky begins to fade just a little as it dips towards undulating snowlines, broken by forests of pine. Flurries from an overnight fall rest lightly on multiple branches of tall trees, warming ever so slowly; by the time they seem ready to melt, late afternoon evaporates into early night, the temperature dips below freeze, and flurries harden back into their decorous and decorative mode.
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The dozen-odd kilometres of mountain road from Gulmarg to Tanmarg can take an hour if snow is edging towards sleet, but rarely can the passage of time have been more ethereal. Description is inadequate, for language is helpless in the face of such beauty. The highway from Tanmarg to the airport is faster and mundane, but nevertheless revealing. The names of shops and restaurants possess, expectedly, an indigenous flavour: Zaiqa, Malik Darbar, Habba Khatoon Shawl Palace, Downhill, Pakeeza, Muskan Hairdresser, Riyaan Restaurant, Shaadman Tent House, Do Bhai Traders, Dastigeeri Plaza, Snobar Bakery, Shokeen, Pick N Pack Trading Store, Hunky Chunky, Baba Payamuddin Memorial, Greenz, Pinehill. Interspersed are Vaishno Dhaba, New Vaishno Dhaba, Pandith [sic] Kashmiri Arts Emporium, Sheshnag Restaurant, Punjabi Rosie Dhaba [100 per cent vegetarian] and Mahajan Restaurant. There is a narrative behind each name. Think, and it should become obvious.
Once in a while appears a news story so utterly appalling that rage seems insufficient as response. In an instance of depravity gone berserk, the utterly un-Islamic State imposed by Daesh in Iraq and Syria has codified slavery and rape of women captives. The price of such a sick mentality will be paid by Muslims across the world as even the most gentle of neighbours from other faiths wonder if such behaviour is reflective of doctrine. Muslims who understand the true message of Islam must form the vanguard in the struggle against this barbaric evil.
The last days of a year are peak season for astrologers. There is no rational reason for this: December 31 is only a notional punctuation within the long sentence of life. But why spoil an enjoyable conceit with logic? Predictions are as old as civilisation, as the year-end issue of the Economist reminds me. Ancient Greece had the Delphic oracle; the seer, incidentally, was always a woman (presumably because men are less trustworthy). When Persia invaded Greece in the fifth century BCE, Themistocles, leader of Athens, turned to Delphi. He was told to build a wooden wall. He got the message, constructed a navy of wooden ships and won a famous sea battle at Salamis in 480 BCE. Earlier, when King Croesus of Lydia (proverbial for his wealth) sought to conquer Persia, he consulted Delphi as well. The oracle predicted that a great empire would be destroyed in this war. This turned out to be perfectly true, except that the empire which vanished was that of Croesus. So be careful before you celebrate a rosy prediction. The astrologer is always right, but sometimes regrettably so.
There should be a law against letting screen icons age before our eyes. What use is entertainment if we cannot protect illusion from the advancing fingers of time? It is not in the national interest to reveal that Salman Khan is 50. Silly purists will argue that when one Khan goes another will come trotting along. It is not that easy. It takes a generation to get one, and a minute to lose one. Salman Khan must be frozen at 35, when the vigour of youth is not quite gone and onset of infirmity not quite begun.
