SRINAGAR: Kashmiri author Shabir Ahmad Mir, whose previous novel The Plague upon Us was widely praised, returns with The Last Knot, published by Pan Macmillan India. Even before its official release, the novel is drawing admiration from literary circles, with early reviews highlighting its depth, allegorical power, and evocative storytelling.
Celebrated novelist Anees Salim has called the book “truly magical,” while historian and writer Rana Safvi describes it as “a powerful allegory for a community’s longing for freedom.” Farah Bashir, author of Rumours of Spring: A Girlhood in Kashmir, notes that The Last Knot “takes us through the fantastic in fiction [while being] deeply rooted in realism.”
Mir, known for his unflinching portrayal of Kashmiri realities, blends myth, history, and existential questions in his latest work. His writing, often poetic yet hard-hitting, explores the collective and individual struggles of a people caught in the tide of history.
With such endorsements, The Last Knot promises to be an important addition to contemporary Kashmiri literature, cementing Mir’s place among the region’s most compelling literary voices.
Read an excerpt:
“Abli Bab turns to me once again. A faint smile upturns the corners of his lips. ‘Most of them do not believe in Sheba’s gift. It is blasphemy, they say. After all, alchemists supplanting divine dominion is nothing but sacrilege.’ The smile is all over Abli Bab’s face now. It has even crept into his eyes. ‘Sacrilege or submission. The choice is yours.’
But is it? Do I really have a choice in all this? Did I choose to suffer like this? Can I choose anything else but an end to this suffering? Can anyone ever choose anything but an end to their suffering? The choice, if any, is already made; it always is. One look at me and Abli Bab sees that I am way past the illusion that he is calling a choice. ‘But it seems that your choice is already made,’ he says, ‘Be that as it may. Now then, hear me and hear me good. It is a fact well known to all that Solomon’s sigil was a star. His signet bore it and it carried his royal command. And those who know will tell you this as well that Solomon’s treasures were never truly lost at all. As nothing is ever truly lost. Things tend to scatter themselves around us till time makes their presence oblivious. So oblivious that we no longer see them for what they really are. That is how treasures hide in plain sight. That is how Solomon’s treasures are hiding in plain sight. And whoever seeks them, let him be guided by the Solomon’s star. Find the star and perchance, it may lead you to what you seek,’ he says as I walk past him, over to the edge of the ledge.
A shiver passes through the old city spread before me, as if someone had untied the knot that was the night. The pleas of dawn may have failed but the fort’s canonical command is not to be ignored. The old city is waking up. The houses are stretching themselves with yawns. The hearths are lit and blue smoke rises up like sighs. The doors open. Women come out. And the Jhelum finds a way into their houses – in pots and pitchers balanced on hips and heads as they sway down and back up the stairs cut into the banks of the river. As pitchers fill up, lips drooling with the spittle of gossip spill the whispers of the night and rumours of the day before on these steps of the yaarbal. Yaar – friend – and bal – place: a place for friends. A friendly place. A nice place to eavesdrop on this city’s secrets. A nice place to start looking for stars.”
