Intuition, India and Individuality: The Houseboat at Srinagar

Intuition, India and Individuality. The hands that woke me. 

I have always believed that intuition outweighs intellect, and sometimes we are fortunate enough for it to surge so powerfully that it guides our actions entirely. Perhaps that is the essence of impulsiveness. Before analysis can even begin, the deed is already done. Later, of course, the rational mind catches up, weaving stories around what has transpired.

Awakening the senses has long fascinated me. Having spent considerable time in India, I can only say I was continually overwhelmed. Words barely do it justice. It is as though a thought arises and the reaction, the very energy of that thought, manifests almost instantly. Instant karma. Whether that is spiritual, psychological or simply the intensity of being immersed in a culture so different from our own, India has always demanded that I become aware of my thoughts.

Imagine someone steals your bag and your immediate response is anger. Before long another frustration arrives, then another, until the entire day seems to unravel. Yet on the occasions when you choose acceptance instead of resistance, something remarkable often happens. Doors begin opening. People appear at exactly the right moment. Solutions emerge from nowhere.

India has always taught me that our inner world shapes the one around us.

Perhaps that is why I keep returning.

It had been eight years since my last visit when one impulsive decision over a glass of wine changed everything.

At the time I was working as the Wellbeing Director at Serenity Cove Wellness Retreat in Port Douglas. One evening I met Sarah, an events manager I'd known for little more than a week. Over a drink at The Coral Reef she casually said, "I think I'm due for another trip to India."

"I love India too," I replied.

She lifted her glass.

"Let's go."

Without thinking I answered, "Okay. Why not?"

The following morning I woke to an email.

Flights booked.

I remember staring at the screen thinking, Holy cow... I'm going to India.

Closely followed by another thought.

How exactly am I explain this one to my husband?

And so, just like that, we were off.

Sarah and I travelled in completely different ways.

She planned everything with military precision. Every hotel, every transfer and every itinerary had been booked before we left Australia.

I booked the first night and trusted whatever happened next.

Some people call it reckless.

I call it leaving space for life to surprise you.

The only request I made was to visit Leh in Ladakh. There was something about those stark Himalayan landscapes that had fascinated me for years.

Sarah couldn't understand the attraction.

"It looks like Mars," she laughed after I showed her photographs.

Maybe it did.

But something about that place was calling me.

As it turned out, intuition had other plans.

The moment we landed in Delhi our luggage disappeared.

Every suitcase.

Sarah was understandably furious while I found myself secretly wondering whether buying an entirely new wardrobe in India might actually be fun.

The airport staff remained incredibly patient as they searched for our bags.

Eventually we climbed into a taxi.

"There has been a landslide," the driver informed us.

"You cannot fly to Manali."

The next morning a travel agent confirmed our worst fears.

Monsoon flooding had washed away much of northern India's transport network. Roads were closed, flights cancelled and almost half of our carefully planned fifteen-day itinerary had become impossible.

Sarah looked completely overwhelmed.

Then the travel agent smiled.

"If I were travelling anywhere in India today," he said, "I'd go to Leh."

I glanced sideways at Sarah.

The only destination I had suggested before we left Australia had suddenly become the only destination anyone was recommending.

Within hours our entire journey changed.

Instead of flying south, we flew north to Srinagar, intending to travel overland through Kashmir and across the mountains into Ladakh.

Sometimes life quietly rearranges your plans into something far better than anything you could have organised yourself.

Nothing, however, prepared us for Srinagar.

Often described as the Venice of the East, the city sits upon the tranquil waters of Dal Lake, where hundreds of intricately carved wooden houseboats remain permanently moored. These floating homes were originally built during the British Raj because foreigners were forbidden from owning land in Kashmir. If they couldn't build houses on land, they simply built them on the water instead.

Many are now over a hundred years old.

They are extraordinary.

Hand-carved walnut panels cover the walls. Crystal chandeliers hang from ornate ceilings. Persian carpets stretch beneath antique furniture. Every room tells the story of another era, when British families escaped the summer heat to spend months living on the lake in floating palaces.

Today, however, many of those magnificent boats carry a different feeling.

Tourism in Kashmir has risen and fallen with decades of conflict. Some houseboats have been lovingly maintained, while others bear the quiet weight of history. Their owners have lived through political unrest, violence and long periods when visitors simply stopped coming.

It is impossible to ignore that history.

You feel it.

The beauty is undeniable, but so too is an almost indescribable sadness.

The eyes of many people seemed to carry stories they would never tell.

Even the silence felt heavy.

Our houseboat sat quietly among dozens of others, gently rocking on still water.

It should have felt peaceful.

Instead it felt... watchful.

Sarah sensed it immediately.

"I don't like this place."

She wasn't being dramatic.

She looked genuinely frightened.

I tried to reassure her, suggesting we could leave in the morning, but darkness had already fallen and there was nowhere obvious to go.

Reluctantly we stayed.

Inside, the bedrooms were unlike anything I had ever seen.

The bed dominated the room. It was enormous, so large it looked more suited to a Maharaja's palace than a floating houseboat. Draped in deep velvet and surrounded by beautifully carved timber, it seemed almost theatrical. Every piece of furniture had been crafted by hand generations earlier.

It was magnificent.

And yet neither of us could settle.

Eventually exhaustion won.

Sometime during the night I woke abruptly.

I wasn't dreaming.

I wasn't half asleep.

I was instantly aware of two hands gripping both my ankles.

The pressure was unmistakable.

Before I could react I was violently dragged down the bed.

The force was extraordinary.

I shot across the mattress and crashed onto the timber floor.

I screamed.

Sarah woke instantly.

The sound of my scream pulled her from sleep just in time to watch me travelling rapidly down the bed before landing on the floor beside it.

To this day she insists she saw it happen.

For several moments neither of us spoke.

My heart was racing.

The room was empty.

There was no one there.

As I slowly pulled myself upright, Sarah stared at my legs.

"Oh my God..."

Around both ankles were pale white finger marks.

Distinct.

The outline of hands wrapped around my skin exactly where I had felt the grip only moments before.

Neither of us touched them.

Neither of us attempted to explain them.

We simply stared.

We did not sleep again.

At first light we packed our bags without saying very much.

The first car we saw was waved down.

"Please," we asked.

"Take us away from here."

The driver looked puzzled.

"Where would you like to go?"

We pointed towards the mountains.

"Up there."

As we climbed higher above Srinagar, the atmosphere seemed to change.

The heaviness gradually lifted, replaced by crisp mountain air and spectacular views across the valley below.

Waiting at the top was the Taj.

Perched high above the city, it felt like another world.

The tariff of around six hundred Australian dollars a night was extravagant by Indian standards, but after the events of the previous evening it seemed a small price to pay for a sense of peace.

We booked two nights.

Later that afternoon our missing luggage finally arrived from Delhi.

Standing beside the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Dal Lake, I found myself taking the first deep breath I'd managed since arriving in Kashmir.

Whether what happened that night has an explanation, I cannot say.

People are free to believe whatever they wish.

All I know is what I experienced.

I know what Sarah witnessed.

I know the white handprints that remained around my ankles.

And I know that whenever I think of Srinagar, I remember not only one of the most beautiful places I have ever visited, but also one of the few experiences in my life that I have never been able to explain.

That was only the beginning.

The next story belongs to the hotel guy.