My default position was to like Kashmiri families, even when I saw the signs of the hustle approaching loud and clear. And as my hosts brought in that night’s dinner, on hilarious silverware, they had no idea how happy I was to see the simplicity of the food. Stewed spinach, boiled potatoes and cardamom-infused dhal sat beside some of the lightest rice you can find in Central Asia; this wasn’t South Asia anymore. The sharp features and doleful eyes of the Kashmiris barely concealed a softness brought on by centuries of wonder. As I wolfed down the meal, I could feel the eyes of the family sizing up my reaction. The ancient father sported a look of casual acceptance; he’d seen all this before. His thirty-year-old doughy son, who initiated marriage chatter whenever the conversation would rest on anything non-food, was trying to place me in the spectrum of tourists to India, throwing mentions of Pink Floyd in the same sentence as shopping for trinkets. The mother, mid-fifties and crying poverty at every opportunity while lounging in an ocean of silk pillows, was eying me up with a mixture of pleading and suspicion. I knew what was coming. As she shuffled out to the kitchen to prepare the post-dinner tea, the son opened up. “I’m sorry about my mother. She is sick.”

“Here we fucking go,” I thought. I quickly traced my mind back through the various houseboats I had stayed on over the years. My sample size was starting to become undeniable as I pictured myself as some white grim reaper. Every mother needed an operation. Their tack was so old that it was in danger of looping back on itself. “Don’t worry about it. She doesn’t have to do anything for me,” I replied with gracious selfishness.