246 A Sportswoman in India 



And now our stay in Kashmir drew to a close. 

 Leave also was limited ; our associations with the 

 mountains were to become only a memory. A week 

 later we were in a doongha on the Jhelum, making 

 our way to Baramoula. I tried not to realise that 

 it was my last journey in the beautiful vale, my last 

 sight of Haramuk and the Pir Panjal range, never 

 again to live in quite the same way, face to face 

 with Nature. 



As we paddled along, our last evening, the country 

 said its farewell in one of its most gorgeous sunsets. 

 The stately pines on the Tragbal stood out, one 

 beyond another, in a medium of deep, quiet violet, 

 while the grey, bleached summits, peaked and snow- 

 slashed, above them, gleamed with amber light. 

 Watching them, in their unearthly fascination, the 

 scene changed every moment. The river, through 

 whose oily surface we cut, long remained a sheet of 

 burnished gold ; the sky and the mountains, trans- 

 formed by the after-glow, passed through a carnival 

 of colour indescribable. 



At last the jewelled peaks became wan as the face 

 of death, and only a cold, golden light lingered in the 

 west. Night had come with its eerieness. Still in 

 our open kishty we paddled along, until about 1 1 p.m. 

 Baramoula drew near : there was the opening in the 

 mountains, there the grey, mysterious bridge and 

 shadowy houses. It was bitterly cold by this time. 

 Mooring, we walked up to the dak bungalow. All 

 was dark ; but on a bench near the door was huddled 



