In the 1980s, while I was studying in a college in Delhi, we would go to Kashmir for trekking every summer. We would walk from Khilanmarg to Gulmarg to acclimatise ourselves. Then we would trek up to the upper Dachigam National Park, camp at Sangergullu, and proceed to the Marsar Lake. The melting snow in the meadows around the lake awakened a billion primulas and irises, painting the meadows pink and blue. While the Kashmir landscape had a dreamlike enchanting quality, it was not difficult to perceive the sullen resentment among people on the streets of Srinagar and Aru. “You are from India”—they would remark.