THE car suddenly screeches to a halt. Before I realise what's happening, I find myself staring into the barrel of a Kalashnikov, less than a foot away from my head. "Jamaati Cho ?" The two-word question is flung at me. There is a quick flurry in Kashmiri from my companion, a local journalist. The man holding the gun, probably in his early 30s and clad casually in a rust-coloured pherun, takes a hard look at me and then slowly recedes into the alley from where he had emerged.