Srinagar hosted an impressive 9-day book festival on the shores of the famed Dal Lake. Muhammad Nadeem spent almost all evenings shuttling between book racks and idea exchanges to record his impressions of a good start
After a decade-long hiatus, Srinagar, the city where every street whispers stories and every stone holds a secret, once again unfurled its arms to embrace a sea of books. This was no ordinary event but a veritable feast for the mind and soul, a literary extravaganza that felt like a reunion with an old friend. For nine days, August 17-25, the Sher-I-Kashmir International Convention Centre (SKICC) transformed into a bustling bazaar of ideas, a living testament to the undying power of the written word in an era where fleeting digital distractions often reign supreme.
Arriving with high hopes and empty pockets, I could not help but laugh at the irony of my situation. There, I was, in the middle of a literary ocean, with not enough to buy even a lifeboat; surrounded by portals to countless new worlds, yet left to gaze through the windows merely. Still, there is something deeply satisfying about window shopping in a bookstore, much like a free spa day for the soul. It is a luxury to get lost in titles, imagining the stories waiting to be discovered between the covers.
As I navigated my way through the maze of security checkpoints – where the frisking was so thorough that it felt as if I were entering a high-security nuclear facility rather than a celebration of literature – I found myself caught in a swirl of emotions. Excitement fluttered in my chest, tempered by a tinge of trepidation. Was it the books or the unnerving similarity to a dystopian novel that made my heart race? I would like to think it was the books. I found myself torn, wanting to be everywhere at once, a literary Schrödinger’s cat existing in multiple states of intellectual stimulation.
A Diverse Fellowship
The last time Srinagar hosted a book fair of this magnitude was in 2014, practically a lifetime ago in the fast-paced world of literature. Back then, I was younger, perhaps a bit naive, but just as hopelessly in love with the written word as I think, I am today.
On the first day, however, I was not alone in my literary pilgrimage. The Daastaan Book Club, a motley crew of fellow book enthusiasts, had decided to make this journey together. With Syed Afreen, Huzain, Faheem, Syed Jeena and Injeel by my side, I felt a camaraderie that was both comforting and invigorating.
Waseem Senu, Faizan Bhat, Hazik, Muhammad Sarfaraz, Mohsin, Advocate Sameer Rather, Sadiq Manzoor and Rabiya Malla will be all seen there in the coming days. Their presence was a warm reminder that the love for books, like any true passion, is best shared.
And then there was Abrar Bashir, who NBT hired to capture the events for the entire festival and whose single-minded pursuit of samosas at every turn added a layer of spice to my literary expedition. Let us have some samosas, he would say, with a seriousness that was both endearing and amusing.
Surreal Encounters
The fair was more than just an event; it was a celebration of a rekindling of old passions and a momentary escape into worlds crafted by some of the finest minds.
There were many prominent polishers like Penguin, Harper Collins, Oxford India, Cambridge India, Zubaan Publishers, Context, Aleph, Westland, Fingerprint, Om Publishers, Rupa, and several others absent from the festival. It felt like a significant gap, especially since many of these publishers, including Routledge, had graced the 2014 Book Fair. I especially missed the absence of Markazi Maktaba Publications.
Yet, there were bright spots too. I had the pleasure of meeting a few publishers whose books had shaped my growth over the years. Among them were the Institute of Objective Studies (Qazi Publishers), Pharos Books, Education Publications, Milli Publications, Manshoraaat, and Farid Books.
New publishers also made their presence felt, injecting fresh energy into the fair. White Dot, IlmStore.in, Huda Publishers were among the new names that stood out, promising exciting new reads for the future. The presence of these emerging publishers was a hopeful sign, suggesting that even in a challenging market, there is still room for innovation and new voices.
Kashmiri booksellers were well represented, too. Al Haramain Publishers, Ashraf Book Centre, Millat Publishers, Meezan Publishers, Gulshan Books, and Ali Muhammad and Sons, were all there, adding a distinctly local flavour to the fair. It was heartening to see these familiar names, reminding me that despite the challenges, the literary culture in Kashmir remains vibrant and resilient.
It was a surreal experience to finally meet the people behind the publications that had been my companions for so long. Some Indian publishers even recognised me from my Instagram, a small but gratifying moment of recognition in a world that often feels overwhelmingly vast. Khalid Tumbi of Ilm Store was particularly generous, gifting me an amazing book for review. I also had the honour of meeting Abul Ala Syed Subhani, the son of the renowned Indian author Inayat Ullah Asad Subhani and the owner of Hidayat Publishers and Distributors.
Reunion
The fair unfolded not just as an event but as a nostalgic odyssey, a bittersweet passage through the corridors of time when I had the serendipitous joy of reuniting with my former mentors. Dr Shakeel Shifaye, the revered poet, author, and orator, stood before me, a man whose vast personal library had once been my sanctuary, nurturing in me an insatiable passion for literature and the pursuit of knowledge. His presence was a reminder of those countless hours spent lost in the worlds his books offered, worlds that shaped the contours of my intellectual journey.
Then there was Dr Gulam Qadir Lone, a scholar whose profound writings on Tasawuf, Science, and Islam—coupled with his enigmatic reflections on the mystique of Khizr—had not only illuminated my understanding but also etched deep, lasting impressions on the minds of so many others. His work has woven itself into the very fabric of our shared consciousness, leaving behind an indelible legacy.
Meeting Dr Suhail Showkeen was no less of an emotional resonance. His unmatched wit, magnetic charm, and exceptional teaching acumen had transformed Islamic Studies from a mere academic subject into a captivating exploration of its vast, intricate tapestry. He made the subject not just palatable but profoundly enriching, endowing us with a lifelong appreciation for its depth and beauty.
And finally, encountering Dr Mueed Uz Zaffar, the visionary patron of one of the finest Islamic Sunday School, Al Manar, was an honour in itself. His commitment to fostering spiritual and intellectual growth in the youth has left an undeniable impact, ensuring that the flame of knowledge continues to burn brightly in the generations to come.
Catalysts for Change
The next day, I was full of excitement, because for book lovers like myself, such fairs are akin to Eid celebrations. But with apologies to great Urdu poet Mirza Ghalib, The world is the body, and books are its soul. And so, with a heart full of hope and a wallet devoid of currency, I embarked on a voyage on the banks of Dal Lake.
I watched as a young boy, no older than ten, convinced his mother to buy him a stack of books taller than he was. You see, I muttered to my empty wallet, that is how it has done.
The importance of such fairs cannot be overstated, especially in a place like Kashmir, where the weight of conflict has often overshadowed the light of learning. Books have always been beacons of hope in dark times, illuminating paths to justice. One need only look at the history of Muslim nations to see how the written word has been a catalyst for change, a tool for revolution against oppression.
A Complex Reflection
As I kept wandering through the aisles of the book fair, day after day, thoughts about how books and authors change societies swirled in my mind, mixing with the cacophony of voices discussing literature in Kashmiri, Urdu, and English. The air was thick with the musty scent of old books and the crisp aroma of freshly printed pages. It was a heady perfume that intoxicated the senses and made one forget the troubles of the outside world.
But reality has a way of intruding even in the most idyllic of settings. As I perused the stalls, picking up books and reluctantly putting them back, I could not help but feel a twinge of bitterness. The economic situation in Kashmir, battered by years of conflict and neglect, has left many of us in a state of perpetual financial precarity. We work jobs that barely cover our basic necessities, leaving little room for luxuries like books.
It is a cruel irony that in a land once known as the Paradise on Earth, many of us now find ourselves unable to afford the very tools that could help us reclaim our narrative and shape our future. A situation prevailing in Kashmir since 2018 has systematically weakened Kashmir’s economic backbone, turning what should be a thriving centre of culture and commerce into a region where survival often takes precedence over intellectual pursuits.
Yet, as I looked around at the sea of faces – young and old, male, and female, all united in their love for books – I felt a glimmer of hope. Despite the challenges and hardships, here we were, 125,000 strong over nine days, thirsting for knowledge, and hungry for stories. It was a silent and peaceful protest against those who would see us remain ignorant and divided.
However, I could not help but notice the undercurrent of cultural appropriation in some events. It felt like watching a Bollywood movie set in Kashmir – beautiful, but somehow missing the essence. I longed for authenticity, for stories that spoke of Kashmir as it truly was, not as others imagined it to be. Events like these should be free from such influences, allowing literature to thrive in its purest form, untainted by agendas and manipulations. The fair, in all its complexity, reflected the times we live in—filled with both promise and peril, hope, and caution.
A Literary Ecosystem
On the fifth day, I bumped into Owais, a friend I had not seen since we had left those hallowed halls of teenage angst. We embraced like long-lost brothers, our shared love of literature bridging the decade-long gap in our friendship.
Still writing? he asked, eyeing the notebook peeking out of my bag.
Still dreaming, I replied with a wry smile.
But it was not all nostalgia and serious contemplation. The fair had its share of absurdities that kept me chuckling throughout the day. The music, for instance, was so loud that it seemed more suited to a rock concert than a book fair. I half-expected to see a mosh pit break out in the philosophy section.
And then there was the curious case of the missing prayer space. In a fair where nearly 90 per cent of the booksellers were purveyors of Islamic literature, and 99 per cent were Muslims, the organisers had somehow forgotten to allocate a place for ablution and worship. It was as if they expected us to absorb our daily prayers through osmosis from the religious texts on display.
The photo gallery was another source of amusement and reflection. Prominently displayed were the images and biographies of notable Kashmiris and Indians in ways that defy simple categorisation.
Another day, I bumped into Adnan. We locked eyes over a copy of Everyman’s hardcopy of Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina, both reaching for it simultaneously. You take it, I said magnanimously, knowing full well I could not afford it anyway.
At that moment, I was struck by an idea. What if we, the book lovers of Kashmir, could create our literary ecosystem? Book Clubs in every colony, reading marathons, and large-scale gatherings dedicated to the written word. We may not be able to afford to buy every book we desire, but we can share what we have, exchange ideas, and keep the flame of knowledge burning bright.
A Vision for the Future
As I left the fair on the sixth day, my mind full of stories I had glimpsed but could not possess, I felt a renewed sense of purpose. The Chinar Book Fair may be imperfect – too loud, too commercialised, perhaps even tinged with propaganda – but it was a start. A reminder of what we once were and what we could be again: a people of the book, a community of readers and thinkers.
In the words of the great Persian poet Saadi: A wise man among the ignorant is as a beautiful girl in the company of blind men.
Let us strive, then, to be that wise man, that beautiful girl. Let us read, reflect, and share our knowledge. In doing so, we not only enrich our own lives but light the way for others. And who knows, perhaps the next revolution, the next great liberation, will begin not with a bang, but with the quiet turning of a page in a book club in Kashmir.
On the last day, as I was preparing to leave, a small miracle occurred. Insha, a friend, a fellow book enthusiast and a kind human being, approached me with a wrapped package. “I noticed you eyeing this book every day,” she said, handing me the parcel. I consider it a reminder that sometimes, the universe conspires to put the right book in the right hands at the right time.
As I stepped out into the fading light of a Kashmir evening, the words of another great Muslim thinker, Ibn Rushd, echoed in my mind: Ignorance leads to fear, fear leads to hate, and hate leads to violence. This is the equation. But we, the book lovers of Kashmir, have the power to rewrite this equation. Through knowledge, we can cultivate understanding. Through understanding, we can direct our souls in search of the Ultimate Truth. And through this reawaken, we can strive for a future of peace and prosperity for all.
A Journey Just Begun
The Chinar Book Festival may have ended, but our journey has just begun. Let us carry this vision forward, one page at a time, until the day when every child in Kashmir can walk into a book fair with pockets full of possibility and a heart brimming with the joy of discovery.
It may not be just about the books we can afford to buy, but the ideas we choose to embrace, the stories we decide to tell, and the future we dare to imagine. And in that, lies the true power of the written word – a power that no force on earth can ever take away from us.
Although a free bus service was provided, getting home at the end of the festival every day often turned into a complicated affair, especially when I stayed late. The late hours at the festival were not just about losing track of time among books; they were also about good company. It was thanks to the kindness of Abrar Bashir, Nazir Gillo, Sehar, and Anzar that I managed to find my way home on those nights when the city’s rhythm slowed, and the usual conveniences seemed to vanish into the night.
