The Faithful Ride in Srinagar

A son retraces the sound of his father's faith through Srinagar's streets, where a Lambretta once carried prayers and purpose.

- Syed Majid Gilani

Some memories never leave. They wait in the air like the first call to prayer before dawn, in the scent of burning oil lamps, or in the steady hum of a scooter on a Kashmiri winter morning.

Every 11th day of the Islamic month, Gyarhvi Sharif, carries that sound and fragrance for me. It brings back the pulse of my father's faith and the innocence of my own beginnings.

My father, Syed Iftikhar Gilani, believed that faith should travel, through streets, lives, and generations.

On those mornings, he would polish his silver-grey Vijay Super Lambretta until it gleamed. I would climb up in front of him, my hands gripping the handle, as he kicked the engine to life.

The sound filled our lane, rising above the chatter of neighbours and the cawing of crows.

The ride to Khanyar felt like a small pilgrimage.

Srinagar in those days smelled of wood smoke and fresh bread. Men walked briskly with prayer caps tilted to one side, and women arranged flowers in brass vases for the home shrines.

As we crossed Fateh Kadal bridge, the wind grew sharper. My father wrapped his pheran tighter and said, "Faith is a journey, not a habit."

I didn't understand him then. I only cared about the taste of nadir munji he had bought from a street vendor, the crisp lotus stems seasoned with salt and chili.

At the Dastgeer Sahib Shrine, the world seemed to slow. Men stood shoulder to shoulder, their palms raised. The air carried the soft hum of Darood Sharif, the murmur of Qur'anic verses, and the rustle of prayer beads.