Monkeys, Mountains, Magic: Highway To The Heart Of Kashmir

By Dr. Gazanfar Abass

The first time I travelled from Jammu toward Srinagar, something inside me shifted. The warmth of the plains faded behind me. The air turned cool and sharp. Pine trees appeared like sentinels on the slopes, and fog hung low like a secret trying not to spill.

This wasn't just a drive. This was something else.

NH-44, as it's officially called, is the main road connecting the Kashmir Valley to the rest of India. For most people, it's a highway. For me, it's more like a companion, one that breathes with the weather, sighs with the hills, and speaks in the language of tunnels, rivers, and forests.

You begin low, in the dust and heat of Jammu. Slowly, the road climbs, curling through mountains like it's thinking its way forward. The sound of traffic begins to fade. The air smells of damp earth, burning wood, and wildflowers you don't know the names of.

And then the tunnels arrive.

The Chenani-Nashri Tunnel, 9 kilometers straight through a mountain, is the first real pause. You enter in daylight. Then darkness swallows you. It's silent inside, even with engines running. Like the world took a breath and asked you to wait. When you come out, light hits you again. But it feels softer. Calmer.

Further ahead is the Qazigund-Banihal Tunnel. It cuts through the Pir Panjal range and shortens the journey by hours. But what it really does is remind you of what human hands can do, and what they can't. We can dig, carve, build. But we can't erase the mountain's silence. It stays with you, like background music that never quite fades.

This road isn't always easy. In winter, landslides block it without warning. Snow can erase the path entirely. You see trucks parked in lines, drivers cooking meals over small fires. Some sleep in their cabins for days. No one complains much. Maybe it's because everyone knows that this road doesn't belong to any of us. We just borrow it.

I remember one winter stop at Patnitop. Snow covered everything. The trees stood still, like they were listening. I didn't talk. No one did. And somehow, that felt like the right thing.

But it's not all stillness. Sometimes, the road laughs. Monkeys sit on railings like old men watching the world go by. Flowers burst out of rock faces, bright and stubborn. Dhaba cooks shout orders over the steam of rajma chawal and hot roti. There's Kehwa, too: sweet, spiced, unforgettable.

These roadside joints aren't just pit stops. They're homes. A place to warm your hands, to hear a story, to feel human. I once watched a mechanic fix a stranger's tire with tape and prayer. When I asked how much, he smiled and said,“Whatever you feel is right.” I gave him what I had. He nodded like we were even.

Even the flyovers seem to know where they are. They don't shout for attention. They just rise slowly above cliffs and rivers, like they're whispering their way across.

I've seen so many people on this road. Pilgrims, students, honeymooners, army convoys, fruit sellers. Buses full of families staring out fogged-up windows. Bikers chasing something they probably can't name. And always, the road watching them all pass.

NH-44 isn't just a stretch of highway. It's a place where stories happen. Where people change without even noticing. Where nature doesn't just sit on the side. It rides with you.

This road doesn't just take you to Srinagar. It brings you home to yourself.

• Dr. Gazanfar Abass is a Veterinary Assistant Surgeon in the Animal Husbandry Department, Government of Jammu and Kashmir. He can be reached at [email protected]

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