Srinagar, Kashmir
- sri mathi
- Jun 1
- 5 min read
I was born and raised in Srinagar, Kashmir.
From a young age, I was deeply connected to the natural beauty that surrounded me — the mountains, lakes, and rivers felt like a part of who I am. The lake was just a fifteen-minute walk from my home, and on clear days, the mountains seemed to grow right into my small window. Our homes were always warm, because in a world so heartlessly cold, home is where warmth truly lives. Just as we can only fully appreciate the endless icy landscapes stretching beyond the horizon when wrapped in the gentle heat of a Hamam, warmth at home is the soul’s refuge. This early connection with nature planted a deep selflessness as a kid.
Surrounded by so much serenity, I rarely felt the need to go out — not even to restaurants — until I started college. Even now, I only visit places that come highly recommended. One special favorite is the Tibetan Bowl, where I delight in their delicious, steaming hot momos.
Growing up in Srinagar, Wazwan has always been more than just food — it is part of who we are. Whenever there’s a wedding or family celebration, the excitement is already building in the air. The aroma of spices, the warmth of everyone gathered, and the giant trami set before us — it feels magical. We usually sit in groups of four, sharing from the same copper plate. That’s one of my favorite parts, the laughter, the gentle disputes over who gets the last piece of Rogan Josh, and the closeness it brings. From the rich red Rista to the velvety Gushtaba, every dish feels like a story told by the Wazas, the incredible chefs who cook everything over firewood. The care they pour into each dish is something you can taste.
For me, Wazwan isn’t just a feast, it’s a feeling. A blend of tradition, love, and togetherness that reminds me of home every single time.
One memory that remains etched in me is the slow disappearance of streams that once flowed freely into drains over time. I used to visit a relative’s home where a pristine, cascading stream ran right across their porch. Over the years, it was covered and cemented over, blocking all trace of the once lively water. It was heartbreaking to see the natural flow silenced, and that was the last time I visited.
There was so much beauty in those small, quiet wonders — and yet how easily we destroy them, turning them into nothing.
As a Muslim, Eid is the most joyous time of the year for me. When the holy month begins, we come together to celebrate its special significance. In college, our small Muslim community organizes iftar parties, and I love being actively involved in those gatherings. While gazing at the crescent moon hanging delicately amid the mountains in the night and sending prayers honoring our ancestral heritage, is the perfect way to end Eid.
A few years back, I met a designer who was also an artist like me. We clicked instantly, sharing stories about art and films, that brief meeting deepened my passion for creativity, and then we have been in touch ever since.
I began sketching at a very young age, but my interest deepened in painting in 2017, when I started exploring different mediums. When COVID hit, painting became my refuge. I often find quiet corners where my friend and I can paint undisturbed, soaking in untouched nature. Sopore is one such place where we love plein air painting.
I pack my painting kit and easel and head out to capture landscapes that speak to my soul. Finding the perfect spot, I spread out my materials, pinned the canvas board in place, and began to paint. Slowly, I lose myself in the lush scenery around me.
Recently, I had a peaceful experience, sitting quietly in a shikara on Dal Lake, painting the breathtaking view across Dargah Hazratbal. The stillness of the moment, the gentle sway of the boat, and the soft ripples of Prussian blue water made it feel as if time had slowed down. The breeze carried the fresh, earthy scent of the surrounding flora, adding a delicate calm to the morning. I thought, if only I had woken up at 5 AM! I might have caught the famous floating market, where boats brim with fresh vegetables and local goods, and vendors flushed pink from the cold, passionately debate prices over the water.
Skiing has always been one of the most exhilarating parts of my life. There’s something unforgettable about gliding down the snow-covered slopes of Gulmarg, the icy wind rushing past, freezing your face and making your hands feel like wings soaring through the air. That rush, the speed, the thrill, the silence of snow under my skis, it’s pure magic. As a professional skier and state-level player, I have had the privilege not only to enjoy the sport but to represent my region with pride. One of my most cherished memories was participating in Khelo India, competing with some of the best talents across the country. For me, skiing isn’t just a sport, it’s freedom, passion, and a way to connect with the soul of these mountains I call home.
When the gods test the coldest a human can bear, Chillai Kalan arrives — a harsh 40-day winter spell starting December 21st. We wrap ourselves tightly in layers of wool beneath our Pherans, long before frost steals the breath from the air. During this time, we mostly stay indoors, avoiding the biting cold that seems to freeze even the strongest spirit.
I remember visiting Prang in Ganderbal, where the gentle flow of the Sindh River carves its path through the valley. The riverbed there is scattered with soft, fine sand, unlike any I had seen before. I spent the afternoon walking along the edge, letting the cool water ripple over my fingers as I carefully scooped handfuls of the smooth, golden sand, perfect for crafts and even construction.
Once, on a college photography trip to Sonmarg, I wandered through a dream — glacier waters whispering below, snow-capped peaks touching the skies, and bridges I longed to run across with streams roaring underneath. Acres of farmland rolled into the distance, the sun casting a warm golden glow on mountain caps. Surrounded by meadows, towering conifers, and frozen lakes, each frame was a painting, each moment a story — how could I ever capture it all?
I have traveled to many places, even flown out of India, but nothing compares to the breath of Kashmir. It isn’t just the places, it’s the atmosphere, the biting cold, and the warm steam that drifts from glasses of Kashmiri kehwa.
The city life I once fantasized, lost its shine.
And I realized, this land has long been an obsession for cameras, cinema, explorers, and adventurers. They all come here, drawn by its breathtaking beauty and serenity.
But I am the luckiest of all — because I was born here. And I swear, I will never leave Kashmir.
Hello! It's Afnan Shora.
Comments