I desperately tapped the ‘airplane mode’ widget as soon as the plane touched the Srinagar airport’s tarmac. As a Gen Z in her early twenties, my phone almost feels like an extension of my arm, its constant beeps and trings demanding my attention like a newborn. It was disconcerting to see no signal bars appear on the home screen. I grabbed a coffee on my way to baggage claim and made my way out of the airport. Still no network. Looking at the SIM card store serendipitously located right outside, I recalled reading something on the internet about prepaid SIM cards not working in Kashmir. I didn’t have Google at my fingertips like always to confirm my doubts, but after a conversation with the shop owner, I realised I would indeed need to buy a postpaid SIM card. “Is this a sign?” I thought to myself, wondering what it would be like to go completely off the grid before realising I couldn’t even contact my driver without my phone. Offline bliss would have to wait. My 72-hour sojourn in Srinagar began with a warm welcome at Hotel Dar-Es-Salam by our hosts at Aadhyam Handwoven, a social enterprise of the Aditya Birla Group. Manish Saxena, business lead, and Vishesh Sharma, head of marketing and business development, invited us to experience the city through curated experiences that honour Kashmir’s craft heritage. After settling into my room with a view of the Nageen Lake, I set out for a papier mâché workshop. There, I met artisans Maqbool and Firdaus who had been running their studio for over 40 years after it had been passed down to them over three generations. They took me through the process, from recycling paper from used notebooks to moulding the paste and colouring the final product. Seeing how paper could turn into furniture, trays and clutches was fascinating. It reminded me of the time I made a pen stand in my SUPW (Socially Useful Productive Work) class in 4th grade, which I still have as a token of my hard work. I had always been a DIY girl, making elaborate cards for friends, family and teachers on every occasion. “Where did all my creativity go?” I contemplated, looking at Maqbool and Firdaus using their hands with practised precision. Next on my itinerary was a visit to the famous Dal Lake. The sundowner on the donga (houseboat) overlooking the water was a surreal experience. As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a golden glow over the landscape, I was treated to a soul-stirring Sufi performance. A full moon night, transcendental music, the cold air stinging my cheeks—it was the perfect end to day one. I fell asleep on the boat itself, lulled to oblivion by the sound of the waves lapping against the hull. The next morning, I sprang out of bed at 4:30, ready to take a shikara to Dal Lake once again. The sun had not yet risen and I could see the stars above my head, the moonlight dancing on the water. Then, the hypnotic aroma of something cooking wafted out to me. Our haenz—the boatman—narrated the story of a family baking bread in the neighbourhood like it was an urban legend. It wasn’t and he got me some fresh girda roti to prove it. No sooner had the boat docked at Dal Lake than I found myself surrounded by a horde of shikara vendors persuading me to buy something from them. The sheer variety of stuff fascinated me. They had everything from fridge magnets and trinkets to exotic flower seeds and phulkari bags. After getting a little carried away, I instructed my driver to get me out of that maze. But it wasn’t up to him. We were stuck in a boat jam. For some reason, I didn’t mind it too much, given my history of living in Mumbai, where 40% of my time is spent commuting to and from work. It also helped that my surroundings were heavenly, instead of the concrete jungle I’m used to looking at. I returned to my hotel for some shut-eye before leaving to meet with Aadyam Handwoven’s sozni embroidery and pashmina cluster. I’d always heard so much about pashmina—how to test its authenticity, how there are so many counterfeits, how the real deal feels like being wrapped in a cloud. That day, I learned a new fact—it takes the weavers 30 days to complete a single pashmina shawl. The artisans patiently explained the eight-step process while I tried to keep track and interrupted with follow-up questions. “What if you break a thread?” Yasmiaji smiled and demonstrated how she fixes it. From combing, cleaning and spinning to weaving and dyeing, everything is done by hand. By the end of the tour, I wondered if I would ever have the patience to work with my hands. In just two days, Kashmir showed me more than its landscapes—it introduced me to the people who shape its identity with their own touch. Be it the boatman who oared me to and from Dal Lake, the kind family that cooked and fed a roti to a stranger, or a weaver who is future-proofing a cherished tradition. The weekend after I returned from Kashmir, I pulled out a colouring book I had bought two years ago only to realise I had barely filled any pages. This time, I finally let myself scribble in it—not to make something beautiful, but to remember what it feels like to create for the joy of it. These Kashmiri creatives want to show you new ways of looking at traditional Kashmiri art Bilquis Mir is the first Indian woman on the Paris Olympics jury. Her journey started in the deep end Jil Sander just launched a line of cute cashmere scarves produced by Kashmiri craftswomen