Paradise, Lost - I

This is my entry for the RTE Guide/Penguin Short Story Competition 2012. I want to publish the story in several parts, because as a reader, long blog entries make my head go for a toss. So I keep my entries short and sweet, thank you very much. 
Background: 
When I was growing up, my neighbour across the street was a fairly creepy woman who would spend nearly her entire day staring out to the street from her window. As a kid, one of my pastimes was to imagine what her life must be like. One of my first written poems was inspired by her. The character of Gulaabo in this story is a very twisted take on her too. When I was looking for a place for the setting of the story, I came across a news article on new clashes erupting in Kashmir. Click here to read this article. So, here goes. This is a love story set in Kashmir. 
Disclaimer: This is not the mushy stuff that Mills & Boon is famous for. Happy reading!

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The old ‘Shikara ride for Rs. 30’ board on the pole had almost faded into oblivion. Sitting at the bow of the houseboat waiting for the day’s first customer, Miriam was bored. The water seemed cool and inviting. On a whim, she stuck out her left leg, trying to reach the surface of the lake. As she lowered herself slowly along the starboard, her eyes twinkling with mischief, she suddenly lost balance.  She held on to dear life as the shikara swayed dangerously and yelled “Ismail! Help!”

A middle aged man in a frayed skullcap jumped across from the next boat. “Inshallah one day you will grow up, you spoilt little brat. How many times have I told you? Stay put and try to get some customers. None of this nonsense, you hear me? Gulaabo, do something about her. She is a beast.”

Gulaabo stared out of her own little window as the little shikara bobbed on the crystal waters of the Dal Lake, looking out as she had done for all her life. Miriam’s mischief didn’t disturb her. She, who had been hardened by the long decades of strife and death that had transformed her home. If her grey eyes could tell a story, they would talk of a land of chinar trees, winter snow and sparkling lakes – Kashmir, paradise on Earth as the Mughals had termed it -  that had turned into a zone of terror manned by the armies of men as the children of midnight - India and Pakistan - fought over its possession. As though mirroring the valley of her birth, Gulaabo was now merely a shadow of her radiant youthful self. She looked out over the icy waters amidst her precious wilted roses.

Gulaabo amidst her gulaabs

“O Gulaabo, you don’t care about me. I might have drowned just now and you still won’t talk to me!” the pretty little Miriam jested with her from the other end of the boat. She was nearing adolescence, that one. With a mother who had died in childbirth and a father who had been taken in by the local militia and never seen again, Miriam had been born in strife and stepped into Gulaabo’s life with no one else to take her in. The girl loved the old hag to heart; although Gulaabo had uttered not a word through her lined lips since she had found the bullet-stricken body of Ahmad, her dear child Ahmad, flung onto the houseboat - the remains of her brave son who had stood up to the Fauj, the Indian regiment that manned the valley and tracked down the militia. Miriam had woken up one winter day, face to face with a bearded man in uniform and a gun, breathing heavily down on her while his cronies tore down the old china cabinets. She struggled to free herself from the clutches of the brute that pinned her down.  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her elder brother Younis dragged, hands behind back, to a jeep outside. 

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Read Part II here