By Diya Malhotra
Kashmir’s bildungsroman is interspersed with its contentious history and political landscape. Hence, its cities are much more than ordinary geographies. Its cities have breathed through a blend of varied experiences, one often taking over another. It is at once a beautiful place as well as a conflicted one. In Sadaf Wani’s “The City as Memory”, the author takes us through the story of Srinagar. What stands out in Wani’s narrative is its unique insight into Srinagar which refuses to present it as one monolith. She zooms into the various topographies of Srinagar through a critical lens, to present for every reader, a new insight – especially one that is fresh and new.
We interviewed Sadaf Wani about her newly published book. Here are the excerpts:
1. What inspired you to become a writer?
I think I have always known I wanted to write; it’s the one thing I have consistently enjoyed. I was drawn to literature in school because it was the one space that placed value on feelings, emotions, desires, and all such sensibilities—both personal and political—that make us human. I’ve been shifting modes of writing ever since my adolescence. It started with experimentation in poetry and short prose. Then, as I grew older, academic writing caught my fascination, so I dedicated a few years to that. However, I didn’t find it too fulfilling due to its inaccessibility.
Over the past few years, I’ve been writing some essays and short stories. I enjoy fiction writing, and I think that’s the direction I want to explore further in the coming years. During this time, City as Memory came to me, and it quickly became one of my favorite projects to work on because it allowed me to blend my love for storytelling with my fondness for sociological research. It allowed me to situate both in Kashmir, and home has been central to all my writings, regardless of the medium.
As for what inspired me, I’m not entirely sure, but I came across a quote from Gloria Steinem that best describes why I have stuck with writing. She says, ‘Writing is the only thing that when I do it, I don’t feel I should be doing something else.’
2. Your book vividly portrays Srinagar, though you’re from Baramulla. How did you capture the essence of a city you weren’t native to?
With Srinagar, it came relatively easier to me. I learned to see the city through the prism of my father’s eyes, and later, as I grew older, my interactions with the city were often tied to various research projects. This allowed me to create a relationship with Srinagar where I approached it seeking answers. This time, however, I didn’t have any concrete questions. I just wanted to understand, for my own sake, what the different worlds within the city look like.
3.Your work delves deeply into the issue of caste, which is often overlooked in discussions about Kashmir. What motivated you to focus so intently on this topic? In your view, why hasn’t caste received the attention it deserves in the broader narrative of Kashmir’s social and political landscape?
Muslim cultures in South Asia have a complex relationship with caste. While caste-based discrimination is prevalent in Muslim communities, including Kashmir, it often goes unacknowledged due to the lack of religious justification in scriptures and religious precedents. My initial introduction to the concept of caste came through my undergraduate studies, but it quickly became evident that caste practices had long been present in Kashmir. Everyday phrases like “ye kumo maenz” or “emis kya zaat” were direct attempts to categorize individuals based on caste, and the shame and pride associated with the caste system were ingrained early on. This is why, even in schools, some children emphasized their last names while others downplayed them, reflecting the nuanced ways caste permeates everyday life in Kashmir.
Despite the pervasive nature of caste in interactions, marriage proposals, and practices like touch-based pollution, there is often a facade of superiority in theory. This contradiction has troubled me for a long time, which is why it was crucial for me to address it in my book.
My work has only scratched the surface, and I hope others will continue to explore this topic further. We cannot effectively address this issue until we acknowledge its presence. Additionally, while the ongoing conflict in Kashmir has overshadowed social reform efforts for decades, it is important to recognize that addressing caste-based discrimination cannot be deferred until a larger resolution is achieved. Social reform and conflict resolution will need to proceed simultaneously to ensure dignity for all.
4. In your book, you highlight the distinctions between rural and urban areas, particularly the ‘Graam’ and ‘Shahr’ divide. During your research and interviews in Srinagar, did you encounter any of these biases firsthand? How did these experiences inform your portrayal of this urban-rural dynamic in your work?
I didn’t encounter such biases directly during my fieldwork and interviews, likely because my role as an interviewer altered the power dynamics; people knew I was documenting their experiences, which sometimes changes how they respond. During one interview, someone described Srinagar as the cultural hub of Kashmir, implying that the ‘gaams’ (rural areas) lacked cultural richness, with a tone of condescension. It became a bit awkward for him when I revealed that I wasn’t from Srinagar but rather a product of ‘gaam culture’.
This instance seemed relatively benign compared to the more pronounced experiences of ‘shahr-gaam’ discrimination I encountered in other interviews. The ‘shahr-gaam’ divide emerged as a crucial theme in my book because ‘gaam’ frequently came up unsolicited in discussions about ‘shahr,’ often with a condescending tone. This was particularly striking given Kashmir’s significant rural population.
I was also struck by the lack of consensus on what constitutes the ‘shahr’ or who the ‘shahr’ people are. Frequent accusations of neighbors being ‘gaamek’ and not ‘shahrek’ enough revealed a deeper insecurity within Srinagar. This dynamic reflects Kashmiris’ historical struggles with poverty and the suffering associated with agrarian life, marked by famines, floods, crop failures, and state neglect. The promise of urbanity and modernization was seen as a means to escape this unpredictability. Thus, the derision of the ‘gaam’ can be partly seen as a remnant of this historical connection, where the ‘gaam’ is viewed as a reminder of primitive times, and there is a desire to dissociate from it. This interpretation compelled me to explore the issue further.
5. You describe the transformation of Kashmir in the late 1980s and early 1990s. As a female author writing about such a turbulent period, what unique perspectives do you believe you bring to this narrative?
In Kashmir, there is a significant lack of literature focusing on the lived experiences of Kashmiris during the 1980s and 1990s. While many books trace the historical trajectory and provide macro-level analyses of the conflict, exploring both global and local factors, there is a glaring absence of narratives that capture how individuals, particularly women, made sense of their shifting realities—how they navigated changes in their communities and coped with traumatic political events.
Kashmir has undergone drastic transformations over the last 30-40 years, and Kashmiri women have had to change with it, yet their stories remain largely undocumented. I feel a deep sense of frustration at this gap —I want to understand how our foremothers dealt with grief and joy, their political conflict, and their connection to the land, water, and the aspirations they held for the future of Kashmir.
Historically we’ve had a rich tradition of oral storytelling, but the rapid pace of change today makes the need for documentation more urgent. In our everyday lives, we risk missing critical historical context, and without it, our future generations might assume that before Kashmiris opened their first Instagram accounts, there was nothing. We can’t allow that to happen. Kashmiri women authors are responding to this historical void, and we need to listen to their voices. This book is my attempt to contribute to the ongoing conversation that many Kashmiris have sustained through their art forms.
6. Your book appears to be a coming-of-age story set against the backdrop of conflict. In writing about Srinagar, were there any groups or perspectives you felt you couldn’t fully represent – perhaps people from certain social classes or backgrounds? How aware were you of these limitations? Did you attempt to include a wide range of perspectives, and if so, how did you approach this challenge?
It was crucial for me to include diverse perspectives from Srinagar in my book, so I made a concerted effort to capture a range of experiences. When approaching people, I relied on past affiliations and common contacts to build trust and ensure ethical engagement with those I interviewed.
The book had to be written within several logistical constraints, including word limits, publisher guidelines, limited access to various social groups, and the challenge of balancing a full-time job with the demands of the project. These constraints, along with limited financial resources, meant that I had to make difficult decisions about which areas to explore.
I regret not being able to include voices from Sikh, Christian, and Tibetan migrant communities, as well as queer and trans narratives. I struggled to find entry points into these communities, and even when I did, I felt it was not ethical to extract narratives without investing adequate time in rapport building. These communities have faced complex challenges and deserved more sensitivity and investment than I could offer at that stage.
Additionally, I chose not to interview individuals or families directly affected by violence. I felt that, as a researcher, I had nothing meaningful to offer them in return and did not want to risk triggering their trauma without providing substantial support. Moreover, I believed that a brief biography could not do justice to the complexity and depth of their narratives, given the multitude of subjects covered.
7. Do you think this is a good time to be a woman and a writer, or not? Is writing still a man’s world?
I think it’s a relatively good time. The internet has done a lot to democratize writing, making it accessible to a wider range of people. It has unclogged some communication channels, allowing writers to connect with publishers, editors, and fellow writers. It has also allowed for direct engagement with readers, which has both advantages and challenges. While privilege and networks still play a role in the publishing industry, more women from diverse backgrounds are now part of the conversation, revealing just how incomplete the literary landscape has been.
We’re also seeing growing recognition of the nuanced perspectives women bring to previously male-dominated spaces. To think that at least 15 of the last 20 books I’ve read were by women writers makes me happy because it shows the range of women’s voices now available to us. I see this as a small but significant win for feminist and social justice movements globally.
8. Is there anything that you’d like to share with our young readers about your book or your experiences in writing?
The most important step in writing is getting your first draft on paper, no matter how terrible it may seem. As you write, it’s crucial to have clarity on your motivation and why what you’re creating matters to you and your community. I firmly believe that writers, especially in their early stages, shouldn’t aim for recognition or fame. Starting with that mindset can taint your motivation, and this lack of authenticity will inevitably seep into your work. Recognition can be a byproduct of good art, but it can never be its driving force.
If I were to give advice to young people—or anyone embarking on a passion project—it would be to focus on enjoying the process and not let the capitalist logic of consumption, extraction, and accumulation dictate their creativity. In this digital age, there’s a heavy emphasis on numbers—likes, views, purchases—but it’s essential to discern that just because something is popular online doesn’t mean it’s good, and conversely, art that doesn’t meet these thresholds of virality isn’t necessarily poor.
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