Is Kashmir safe to travel in 2025?
Do people there welcome tourists — or do they just tolerate us?
Is everything as picture-perfect as the Instagram reels show, or is there a layer of tension that never gets posted?
Will you find peace in the valley, or feel the weight of something unspoken?
Are the stories about curfews, army checkpoints, and fear still true — or is that just old news?
These were the questions on my mind as I packed my bags. Maybe they’re on yours too.
And this blog isn’t just about what I saw — it’s about what I felt, what surprised me, and what no travel brochure ever told me.
Because Kashmir… isn’t black or white. It’s snow white peaks under grey skies, warm smiles in cold winds, and a truth that lives somewhere between beauty and burden.
The Itch in My Mind, the Pull in My Chest
To be completely honest, there was a quiet excitement bubbling inside me.
Not just a touristy thrill — it felt deeper than that.
It was like I was about to visit royalty. Not the palace kind, but something more primal… like the King — or maybe the Queen — of the Himalayas. Kashmir held that kind of weight in my imagination. Regal. Remote. Revered.
Somewhere along the way, this place had turned into a symbol in my mind — a light switch waiting to be turned on.
Like visiting here would dissolve something.
Maybe the stress. Maybe the numbness of routine.
Maybe just the part of me that needed to remember what it means to feel awe, not just scroll through it.
🌬️ Touchdown: A Cold Breeze and a Warmer Welcome
The wheels kissed the runway, and for a moment, it felt like the plane itself exhaled. A step closer to serenity. Even before the doors opened, the air carried a vibration of calm, as if the mountains had already begun whispering their peace.
As someone who has spent years in Uttarakhand’s misty hills and Gurgaon’s concrete sprawl, I don’t use the word “pure” lightly.
But the air here felt untouched, like it had never been breathed before. With each inhale, it was as if some weight lifted—not just from the lungs, but from the mind.
The sky above was soft grey-blue, brushed with streaks of golden light filtering through mountain shadows.
It wasn’t cinematic. It was sacred.
The moment we stepped out, our excitement took over—like a kid unwrapping a long-awaited gift.
Taxis lined up outside the terminal, and we quickly found a local cab charging ₹200 per person.
Our destination: a standard hotel tucked away near Lal Chowk—a place with a reputation of unrest in past decades, but now quiet, calm, and guarded by peace.
All credit to the CRPF and Indian Army—their presence is what holds this region together like fragile glass being protected from a storm.
Later that evening, after checking in and warming our fingers with a cup of chai, we made our way to the legendary Dal Lake.
Let me tell you—no photo prepares you for it.
A lake so still, it’s like a giant mirror poured from the sky. Shikaras gently glide, their wood worn but dignified, their boatmen silent and smiling. And floating in that peace is a chaos of color—vendors, flowers, jewelry, saffron, shawls—an entire Meena Bazaar gently rocking on water. While sailing, people row up to you, offering hot food, tea, and of course—Kashmiri Kahwa, which isn’t a drink… it’s a ritual. Infused with fragrant saffron strands, crushed cardamom, cinnamon, and a whisper of rose petals, every sip is a warm embrace of Kashmir’s soul. And for flavor, honey is added, turning the golden brew into liquid sunshine.
“To sip Kahwa on Dal Lake is to taste poetry in a cup,” I whispered to myself.
Here’s a little poem I scribbled while we floated:"Between ripples of silence and waves of gold,
The lake told secrets that can’t be told.
A shikara drifted through mirrors of light,
And the mountains just watched, quiet and white."
Oh—and did I mention the floating SBI ATM? Yes, the first I’ve ever seen in my life. I couldn’t believe it either. There it was, calmly sitting on a houseboat, blending into the story like a tech relic in a fairy tale.
We had considered flying a drone—until we checked the Digital Sky airspace map and saw the strict no-fly zone. Prevention is better than cure, after all. No need for unnecessary trouble.
Still, the hospitality of our boatman made it feel like home. He even let us help row—and we did, clumsily but happily, laughing like kids. He smiled, as if we weren’t just guests, but part of Kashmir’s story now.
Let me tell you—no photo prepares you for it.
A lake so still, it’s like a giant mirror poured from the sky. Shikaras gently glide, their wood worn but dignified, their boatmen silent and smiling. And floating in that peace is a chaos of color—vendors, flowers, jewelry, saffron, shawls—an entire Meena Bazaar gently rocking on water. While sailing, people row up to you, offering hot food, tea, and of course—Kashmiri Kahwa, which isn’t a drink… it’s a ritual. Infused with fragrant saffron strands, crushed cardamom, cinnamon, and a whisper of rose petals, every sip is a warm embrace of Kashmir’s soul. And for flavor, honey is added, turning the golden brew into liquid sunshine.
“To sip Kahwa on Dal Lake is to taste poetry in a cup,” I whispered to myself.
Here’s a little poem I scribbled while we floated:
The lake told secrets that can’t be told.
A shikara drifted through mirrors of light,
And the mountains just watched, quiet and white."
🌅 The Sunset That Followed
As we left Dal Lake, the sky put on a show—one last gift before dusk.
The clouds, heavy with the day’s light, began to bleed.
Not red, not gold, but something in between—
The rays didn’t just fall; they unraveled,
threading through the gaps in the clouds,
as if the heavens themselves were weaving a shawl of light.
I tried to capture it in words:
"The sun did not sink—it shattered,
a mosaic of fire on the water’s skin.
The ripples, like poets, rewrote the light,
letting the shadows stitch the lake’s hymn.
And for a moment, the water was not water, but a dream woven in gold and wind."
Enhanced Blog Section: “The People and Our First Real Connection”
When you travel to a place that has lived for centuries in headlines and hearsay, the first interaction often rewrites every assumption. Kashmir did that.
Kashmiris are often described as having striking features — the kind that make you pause: high cheeks, Roman noses, and eyes that seem to hold both kindness and centuries of stories. But beyond the surface, what really struck me was something else: their warmth. Despite all the headlines, the people we met — from cab drivers to shopkeepers — carried a disarming sincerity.
Our stay was in a standard hotel near Lal Chowk, a location that once rang with unrest but now breathes peace, thanks to the unyielding presence of the CRPF. The hotel owner, a middle-aged man with a soft smile and an old-world grace, welcomed us like family. Not only was he helpful in every regard, but he also personally helped us book a cab to Gulmarg — at a fare that didn’t feel like a tourist trap. That kind of trust? Rare. Especially when you’re five people traveling without an agent or itinerary.
“We had big plans — Gulmarg, Sonmarg, Pahalgam… even Tangmarg with its frozen waterfalls was on my mind.”
But Kashmir has a way of slowing you down — making you listen to the wind, watch the mist roll off the hills, and live the story rather than rush through it. We didn’t want rigid schedules or polished tour guides. We wanted Kashmir raw, real, and unscripted — and this was our beginning.
And in that very first connection — not with a place, but with a person — we found our first answer:
They don’t just tolerate us. They welcome us.
With sincerity. With chai. With trust that we didn’t expect, but deeply felt.
That was Kashmir’s first surprise.
When you travel to a place that has lived for centuries in headlines and hearsay, the first interaction often rewrites every assumption. Kashmir did that.
Kashmiris are often described as having striking features — the kind that make you pause: high cheeks, Roman noses, and eyes that seem to hold both kindness and centuries of stories. But beyond the surface, what really struck me was something else: their warmth. Despite all the headlines, the people we met — from cab drivers to shopkeepers — carried a disarming sincerity.
Our stay was in a standard hotel near Lal Chowk, a location that once rang with unrest but now breathes peace, thanks to the unyielding presence of the CRPF. The hotel owner, a middle-aged man with a soft smile and an old-world grace, welcomed us like family. Not only was he helpful in every regard, but he also personally helped us book a cab to Gulmarg — at a fare that didn’t feel like a tourist trap. That kind of trust? Rare. Especially when you’re five people traveling without an agent or itinerary.
But Kashmir has a way of slowing you down — making you listen to the wind, watch the mist roll off the hills, and live the story rather than rush through it. We didn’t want rigid schedules or polished tour guides. We wanted Kashmir raw, real, and unscripted — and this was our beginning.“We had big plans — Gulmarg, Sonmarg, Pahalgam… even Tangmarg with its frozen waterfalls was on my mind.”
And in that very first connection — not with a place, but with a person — we found our first answer:
They don’t just tolerate us. They welcome us.
With sincerity. With chai. With trust that we didn’t expect, but deeply felt.
That was Kashmir’s first surprise.
❄️ Gulmarg Diaries: Meadows, Gondolas & The Day We Laughed Like Kids Again
Let’s begin with a clarification for the curious reader:
“Is February even the right time to visit Gulmarg?”
Well, technically it’s the tail-end of winter tourism, sandwiched between the busy December snow-hunting season and the lush-blooming valleys of March. But if you're someone who finds joy in quieter chaos, trust me — February is still magic in Gulmarg.
There was a crowd. But not the kind that makes you want to turn back — the kind that reminds you that this place, nestled about 40 km from Srinagar, continues to breathe in wanderlust all year long.
We left early from our hotel near Lal Chowk without breakfast, hoping to squeeze in a full day of mountain magic. On our way, we stopped at Tangmarg — a lesser-known town that feels like a hidden prelude to a snowy symphony. It was here we had a warm and soulful breakfast (underrated moment), and two of our group members rented snow boots on local advice.
Mine were good. Theirs? Well, let’s just say the upgrade was worth every rupee.
🚡 The Gondola Ride: Suspended Between Earth and Awe
By 11 AM, we reached the base of the Gulmarg Gondola. Here's a traveler's tip:
🎫 Book your gondola tickets in advance via the official J&K Cable Car Corporation site.
If you skip that, local agents will add their own “extra charges” with the sweetest sales pitch you’ve ever heard.
We paid ₹1100 per person for Phase 1 — the ride to Kongdoori Meadows. And though it took us 2 hours of waiting just to step into that yellow cabin, every second paid off when the cable lifted us gently into the clouds.
There’s something poetic about watching pine trees disappear beneath a veil of snow, while the world gets quieter, whiter, and weirder — in the best possible way.
The gondola doesn’t just take you up a mountain.
It takes you out of whatever life you had below.
And once we landed? That’s where things really began.
🐾 Where Dogs Frolic, Humans Laugh & Bears Turn into Punchlines
We saw meadows blanketed in snow — the kind you only see on postcards and wallpapers. Gulmarg’s beauty isn't dependent on season. Snow or sunshine, this place is certified gorgeous, period.
And somewhere between our tourist awe and icy toes, we all became kids again.
We made one of our friends believe a bear was walking nearby.
In reality? It was a fluffy mountain dog, wagging its tail and playing like it owned the meadows.
The look on our friend’s face? Priceless.
That dog’s carefree jumps? Mood-lifters for the day.
We laughed till our jaws hurt. Sometimes nature gives you a show, sometimes it gives you a comedy special.
🎿 Skiing: Chaos, Balance & Finding Joy in Falling
Naturally, we signed up for skiing. Initial quote? ₹2500 per person.
Final deal after Team Bargain stepped in? ₹1500 with:
✔ Full ski equipment (rental)
✔ Instructor guidance
✔ AND personal videography with our own gear (including the DJI Osmo Action 4)
Now, let’s not pretend we were pros.
Some skied like ducks to water. Others fell like falling was their hobby.
But that’s the beauty of it.
❄️ “Snowfight Sonata”
We wore no armor, just scarves and pride,
Charged like warriors on the snowy wide.
Ski poles clashed and snowballs flew,
In the meadow winds that whistled through.
We fell, we rose, we screamed with glee,
In Gulmarg’s lap of powdery spree.
And when we stopped, just for a while,
The mountains watched with a silent smile.
☕ Sweet Endings in Snow & A Rush Against Time
After nearly 90 minutes of skiing, the exhaustion started whispering in our legs.
That’s when the Kalcha guy showed up — offering that unique Kashmiri coconut sweet that hits just right after a tumble or ten.
And then, our favorite mountain chant returned:
We finally said yes.
One small paper cup. One big warm moment.
Because when your gloves are off and fingers feel like popsicles, hot chocolate becomes a ritual.
At 3:15 PM — with just 15 minutes left for the final gondola descent — we rushed, grabbed a few drone shots, played a last-minute snow match, and made our way down.
Funny thing?
The return gondola felt slower than going up.
Maybe because coming down always feels like leaving something behind.
❤️ So, Was It Worth It?
Every stumble, every chill, every bargaining session, and even that two-hour line for the cable car?Absolutely worth it.
Gulmarg isn’t just a destination.
It’s a memory you don’t realize you're making while you're living it.
And if you ask us if we’d go again?
We already left a piece of our hearts there.
