We wake to the call to prayer. It is soft and faded, as if the muezzin is far away. The sound is like the colour of Dal Lake, soft and shimmering, betraying a vast, unseen depth beneath.

“We have all day, what do you want to do?” asks my partner, Alison, over breakfast. We scoop vast amounts of Gujarati thali into our mouths with our fingers – long-grained white rice, spicy vegetables, curd, yellow fried dhal, and a thick, creamy lassi (yogurt drink). The lassi is saturated with sugar.

Dal Lake stretches before us. It is the tourist attraction of Srinigar, the winter capital of the north Indian state of Jammu and Kashmir. Pakistan and India are, technically, still at war over the area. Masses of Indian soldiers gather at dirty, hovel-like barracks. There is a soldier, a gun half his length slung casually over his shoulder, spaced every 20m on the pavements.

Twenty years ago the wooden house boats of Srinigar were crammed with tourists. Today, we watch Indian families bargain over ice-creams on the land before taking a shikara (water taxi) back to palatial mansions moored in formation, row after row of absolute luxury. A Thai couple strolls passed the restaurant, hand in hand. There are few tourists. Not even half the houseboats are occupied.

Life here happens on the lake. Even the Srinigar post office is a wooden houseboat, stately and old. It reminds me of colonial times.

We opt to walk along the lake shore. The lake is ringed by mountains. The mountains are vast and eerie, they reach all the way to the hazy blue sky. Some are vague shades of purple and blue. Others are as green as the summer that reaches the far north of this country for only two months of the year. I gaze into the shimmering water. It is hard to imagine this lake surrounded by snow and ice.

The mountains dwarf the vast lake, dwarf all. I feel very, very small here.

The water is ice-cold and calm. A concrete path winds alongside the road, separating the lake from the rich hotels with the spectacular views.

“Do you want houseboat? I offer good price. Where are you from? No commission to talk. Free to look.” The tout begins to follow us. He is wearing old suit pants and a dirty, scuffed dress shirt. He does not stop talking.

“Ok, I offer shikara,” he changes tack, as a brightly colourful, luxury water taxi comes floating towards us. The oarsman is an old man with white hair and a torn shameer kameez. The name of his boat is proudly displayed in a sign on the roof, advertising some local toothpaste. Before his seat is a massive, plush reclining couch for his passengers.

The silence of the lake makes it is easy to ignore the tout.

We pass shikaras moored into rows, extending into the lake. Each has a golden yellow roof that glares in the bright sun. A group of boys are playing further on, jumping into the water from jetties that jut into a mass of water-lilies. They scream and shout when the shikara “drivers” chase them away.

The mountains are beautiful. It is so peaceful here. It is hard to believe this is a war zone.

“I want to go to Old Srinigar,” I tell the man at the hotel reception. I seek his advice. “I have heard people say that Jesus is buried there.”

The man is a Sufi, an Islamic mystic. He is eager to help. The Sufis search for a union with God. He quotes Rumi to me, lines on the joy of searching. I smile; Rumi is my favourite Sufi poet. He wrote love poems to God 1,000 years ago. Sufis believe Jesus to be the second to last prophet of Allah before Mohammed.

There is a story, passed down through the ages in the East, which says that a great man came from the West. He walked from a place called Jerusalem. He preached a new religion, followed by his disciples. This man died in the Kashmir valley, and is buried in Srinigar. His tomb is 2,000-years-old and sacred to Muslims.

“You need to go to the Khanyar district,” says the Sufi. “There is a shrine to a great Sufi on the corner, Dastgir Sahib. Further up is Rozabal, the tomb of Jesus. It is called the tomb of Yousaf.”

The old city is bustling and chaotic. Grand old wooden buildings rot into the dust. The streets are narrow and dusty, filled with pastry shops, vegetable wallahs (a “wallah” is someone who sells something) and autorickshaws. Our autorickshaw driver dodges cows and chickens, children and old women. We pass men hacking at carcasses with axes, their butcheries black with rotting dirt.

The tomb is “there, there”, says the driver, pointing down a narrow alleyway. He speeds away in a cloud of dust and rotting dirt.

The building is smaller than I expected. Its walls are wood, its roof tin. A manicured lawn – the only green in sight – is protected by a high, steel-pole fence. A sign at the entrance announces this as the tomb of “Ziarati Hazrati Youza Asouph”. Visitors are requested to leave offerings and gifts in the metal box provided.

The tomb is off the main square. It is quieter here, a trickle of tranquillity among the ruins of a once-great place.

We walk up the concrete pathway to the entrance. Wire bars the windows. A metal grating separates the two rooms of the tomb. The room we stand in is bare but for the offering box. In the other, stands a long, oval tomb, covered with an old, tatty carpet. The floor is rotting wood, the walls a dirty sea green. It is hot and stuffy, but strangely quiet and beautiful. I spend a long time at the wire grating, just staring at the simple tomb. I feel at peace.

We come back to reality at the corner of the main square. A ragged group of men sell watermelon by the slice. Street urchins haggle, autorickshaws scoot passed.

At the corner of the square is the imposing Pir Dastgir Sahib, the shrine of the great Sufi saint. Its white walls are wood, its roof a bright green. It looks more like a civic building than a mosque. The interior is made of papier-mâché, a glorious intricacy of Arabic script and floral motifs.

“Did you find it?” the Sufi asks when we return to the quiet of Dal Lake. We nod, unsure what to say. “It does not matter you know, if Jesus is buried there or if he isn’t,” he nods. “If Jesus ascended into heaven, his body is not here. If Jesus died, he is in heaven, and his body is now dust. Either way, it is the same.”

I like the way he thinks.

We walk along the lake as the sun sets, catching the pink and orange rays as they fall onto the water and reflect in wonderful shimmers. It is beautiful, peaceful and quiet. I once again find myself remembering that Srinigar is a war zone, and once again find it difficult to believe.

(Published in the Saturday Star, October 2008)