The summer of 1988 was clinging to its final stretch when I left the office early one afternoon. Deciding to take advantage of the quiet hours, I set out for the revered shrine of Makhdoom Sahib, situated just a couple of kilometers from my ancestral home, Yarkand House in Mallaratta.
While a web of narrow arteries leads up the hill to Makhdoom Sahib from almost every direction, I bypassed the usual route through Saat Syed. Instead, I chose to approach through Shampora, passing the gate near Mori, and made my way toward the hillside via the quiet grounds of the Dar-ul-Shikoh Mosque.
The mosque was built by Prince Dara Shikoh—the intellectual elder brother of the Mughal Emperor Aurangzeb—whose grand vision lives on in the beautiful, weathered stone structures resting at the foothills of Koh-i-Maran. Though once a majestic testament to royal devotion, the mosque now sits largely in shambles, wrapped in a melancholic silence.
As I walked through the tranquil premises, the quiet was broken by a subtle rhythm. There, amidst the ancient stone, stood a man in his late thirties. Dressed casually and carrying a professional camera, he was meticulously capturing the lingering details of the historic ruins.
The moment our eyes met, a quiet understanding passed between us, and we exchanged warm smiles. Stepping into the silence of the courtyard, I initiated the conversation and introduced myself. He responded with equal warmth, introducing himself as Hemen Sanghvi from Morbi, Gujarat—a town legendary across India as the nation’s premier “timekeeper” for its bustling clockmaking industry.
Hemen was a freelance journalist and professional photographer, currently on an assignment for Air India’s renowned in-flight magazine, Maharaja. His classical shots frequently graced its glossy pages, showcasing the rich heritage of the subcontinent to travelers across the world.
After a brief chat about the history of the stone mosque, I invited him to accompany me further up the hill to the shrine of Makhdoom Sahib. He readily agreed, and throughout our ascent and visit, he remained absorbed in his craft, skillfully capturing the devotion and architectural contours of the sacred space.
As the afternoon light began to soften, we descended together and walked toward my home in Mallaratta. There, over cups of steaming coffee and light snacks, we shared stories of our respective worlds. Though I warmly insisted he stay for dinner, Hemen politely declined, noting he needed to return to his hotel in Dalgate before nightfall. Before taking his leave, however, he made a firm promise to return the following morning so we could explore and shoot the grand Jamia Masjid together.
True to his word, Hemen arrived at the appointed hour the next morning. However, my schedule was unexpectedly thrown off as a group of guests arrived at Yarkand House around the very same time. Unable to step away immediately, I called upon my son, Tahir—who was then a matriculation student—to take my place as Hemen’s guide to the historic Jamia Masjid.
To my delight, young Tahir stepped into the role with effortless grace and enthusiasm. He led Hemen through the soaring timbered arcades of the grand mosque and even arranged access for him to photograph the historical tombs in the surrounding precincts.
When they returned later that afternoon, Hemen was beaming with thrill and satisfaction. He had captured some truly exceptional photographs of the historic quarter and was full of praise for Tahir’s keen guidance, local insights, and hospitable assistance.
That evening, Hemen happily accepted our invitation to stay for dinner. The meal was a simple yet sumptuous traditional Kashmiri spread, lovingly prepared by my grandmother, who always poured her heart, affection, and pure love into her cooking. Hemen was absolutely overjoyed by the authentic flavors; in fact, he was literally licking his fingers throughout the meal. Overwhelmed by the warmth, generosity, and exquisite flavors of Yarkand House, he finally bid us a grateful farewell and returned to his hotel in Dalgate.
The following day, Hemen called me on the landline to express his desire to join me on my journey to Tangmarg, where I was then posted as Tehsildar. We agreed on a time, and early the next morning, I picked him up and drove him along with me to Tangmarg.
Once we reached my office, I arranged for two of my orderlies to accompany him up to Gulmarg. Acting as both guides and companions, they stayed by his side throughout the day as he explored the picturesque highland meadows. By evening, Hemen returned to my office in high spirits, having taken an immense volume of photographs—including a few portraits of me seated in my official chamber. We enjoyed a quiet cup of coffee together before I ensured his safe departure back to his hotel in Srinagar.
A few days later, Hemen packed his equipment and bid farewell to Kashmir, embarking on his journey back to Morbi via New Delhi to deliver his curated photographs to the editor of Maharaja. True to his promise, the photos he took during those memorable days were published across a series of subsequent editions of Maharaja. Each image was presented as a breathtaking panoramic shot, accompanied by evocative descriptions of Kashmir’s heritage and landscapes.
In the years that followed, Hemen and I kept the flame of our chance meeting alive through regular correspondence. Then, twenty-four years later, life brought him back to Kashmir. We reunited at my residence, Gilani Grace in Zakura, to share another warm dinner and reminisce about the past.
Time, as it always does, had subtly left its mark. Hemen embraced the passage of years with a distinguished head of salt-and-pepper hair, while I had resorted to a full black dye, playfully attempting to conceal nature’s contours. We spent a delightful evening reliving memories of 1988 before I dropped Hemen and his companion off at the NIT campus premises, where he was staying with friends.
Looking back today, I fondly cherish that chance meeting that began in the quiet courtyards of Koh-i-Maran—a brief meeting of strangers that grew into a friendship across decades. Wherever he may be today, I hope Hemen is doing well.
The author is a former civil servant from the administrative service.
Email: nisargilani57748@gmail.com