Seeking Kashmir in New Delhi: The air that sang me to sleep

March 12, 2025 by News Desk

Image/ Getty

Anusha Imtiyaz

Waking up in the crisp air of Kashmir, mornings at my house were my favorite. Treading lightly on the creaking wooden stairs, I would watch beams of early sunlight dance around with the Izbandh smoke. The house smelled sacred. Life was not easy, but there was a sense of stillness, a quiet repose at home. The only echoes to remember were of my mother’s Dhikr and prayers

Some four years ago, I moved to Delhi for my undergraduate studies. I remember taking a few months to settle. Any Kashmiri who has left home would know this feeling of being pulled, torn, from two sides. The guilt of leaving behind the intimate familiarity of Kashmir, a place beyond its obvious appearance and traits. Where an unspeakable thread always tugs you to come back.

Yet, we leave. For a world that calls us, which we ought to see.

The constant, migraine-inducing honking of the city, the chaotic footsteps, the sour smell of the air—it was too much to adjust to initially. I remember getting nervous going into large crowds, thinking: what if something happened? I would plan my exit route before I even arrived.

I remember my first day in class. How out of everything I had to offer, my place of birth seemed to hang over my neck like a knife. How every conversation circled back to Kashmir, I still don’t know why. And of course, the human tendency toward the ‘savior complex’—I watched my classmates dissect my life before me, the ‘facts’ they took from hearsay to impose their truth. I watched them from afar, tear apart who I was, and all I did was look away.

Eventually, through time and patience, this city of Gulmohar trees grew on me. I began to appreciate the ever-present fragrance of Saptaparni as I stepped softly, barefoot, on its flowers that fell on my balcony. The smell of herbs and incense at my place in Hauz Khas crept into my subconscious, holding a safe place.

Months later, there were no major complaints from life finally. Everything seemed to settle. With consistent efforts, I made sure that each puzzle fit to ensure I stayed at peace.

In spite of all the comfort one could ask for, there was still something missing. A feeling in the Delhi air that never allowed me to fully rest. To sleep.

Kashmiri author Muzammil Jaleel says, there are three types of Kashmiris: Those in Kashmir, Those who are travelling back to Kashmir and those who want to come back to Kashmir. Photo/ Shafqat Khursheed- TK

Sleeping—something as simple and basic as that—became the thing I struggled with in my four years of living in Delhi. I could be exhausted, my legs sore from walking; even when the sun would have sucked the life out of me, I never seemed to have a complete, uninterrupted, restful sleep.

And so, I spiraled. I researched everything from the best fillings in a mattress to counting my sun exposure. I was desperate to get the comfort of a good rest in Delhi. From drinking chamomile tea to taking pills to sleep—trust me when I say, I tried. Yet, nothing ever seemed to stick for long.

It recently dawned upon me.

Whenever I went back home to Kashmir, just the air of Fir Balsam would ease my nervous system. My tattered self would feel balm over it. What I realized, though, was that no matter how little work or exhaustion I had any day, I would fall asleep, curled up like a small child. Cuddled up in cozy blankets, with the warmth of my mother’s food, I would sleep away all the deprivations from Delhi.

Why was I sleeping so early back home?

Yes, I had all the food to eat, and yes, I liked the familiarity, but still, it felt like the answer was incomplete.

I have thought about this phenomenon for months without fail. From every reason why I am sleepless in Delhi, to every little comfort of home, I realized the simplicity of the answer. This answer lay so close, it was so obvious that I missed it, perhaps the same way one does not realize the blood that flows in their veins.

The void in Delhi that I was trying so hard to intellectualize was nothing but my hunger for peace.

Peace—the feeling of being at peace as a variety of online definitions say: ‘Freedom from disturbance, tranquility, a state in which there is no war, or a war has ended.’

With so many definitions of peace, where does one find what resonates with them? What was so easily filled back home, without any strain, what lingered even when I pushed it away—was peace. In my naive attempts to find reasons for my sleeplessness, I grew to accept the obvious. Whatever the reasons may be, they do not matter here.

What matters is I realized what peace was through the absence of it. I realized, peace is where you can fall asleep.