So I am walking around Kashmir last week, big snowboard boots clunking the city streets of Srinigar, and people are looking old. Old men near death with bloodshot eyes hiss at my garish green boots but I stare back at them unwilling to break their gaze.
It’s dangerous here. Everywhere I have seen guns but now I am noticing mounted machine guns and mini tanks and, well, a lot of camoflauge. I am scared with every boom I hear in this town, but I keep walking. A Kashmiri man, a complete stranger, walks beside me and tells me that I am in the oldest trading center in the world. He points at a building and tells me it is 500,000 years old.
You mean 50,000 years old I quickly and matter of factly correct him. No, half a million. You have heard of the Cradle of Man?
Old sinks in to me like the melting snow at only 2000 meters. Age and wisdom sinks in to me. My last week in Kashmir is getting older.