India, 2009
In the last hours of daylight, I set out to visit Dastgeer Sahib, a mosque in Srinagar decorated with colorful patterns of papier-mâché.
I followed my map through Srinagar’s twisting streets. When the call to prayer echoed from the minarets, the city briefly hollowed out, the sound hanging in the air like the steady chime of European bells marking the hour.
Soon I reached a small building rising from a triangular park. It looked unremarkable—standing no larger than my bedroom. If I’d read my map right, I was here, yet something seemed off. It looked dingy, yet my guidebook described Dastgeer Sahib as the grandest and most beautiful mosque in Kashmir. Trusting print over perception, I pulled at the timber doors. Chains and rusted padlocks held them shut.
Men sat on the grass nearby. I asked if they could let me in. They regarded me with mild curiosity before one asked whether I was from America or Canada. The aftermath of the 9/11 Attacks and the wars that followed had left their residue.
I didn’t feel immediate danger, but I understood the safer answer.
“Canada,” I said.
He nodded, produced an old key, and unlocked the chains. The doors opened outward with a long metallic squeal. Inside was a dim, bare room that matched the exterior.
“Where is Dastgeer Sahib?” I said.
The man shook his head. “Shri Pratapeshwari,” he said, naming a nearby Buddhist temple. Then he pointed down the road.
~
Farther along, I found a second mosque. This one bore green and white ornamentation that signaled, unmistakably, its Islamic identity. It stood larger than the first, which gave me the confidence to step inside.
Shoes lined cubbyholes near the entrance. I removed mine and walked on. In the next room, I found green marble floors and steaming pools where men bathed. I moved past them and entered a dark hall cast in crimson accents. Shafts of golden light penetrated the curtains, and men in clean white linens knelt in prayer.
An attendant intercepted me at once. His expression reflected what I felt: I did not belong.
“Where can I find the papier-mâché walls?”
“Outside. Around the back,” he said.
Not wanting to cause further disturbance, I retrieved my shoes and left, but wrought iron gates blocked the rear entrance. On them hung a sign: “Nawpora Masjid.”
Either I’d misunderstood him, or he had misunderstood me—it mattered not as I continued down the street.
~
At a crowded intersection alive with vendors, chickens, and traffic, I reached a third mosque. The moment I stepped inside, I knew.
Papier-mâché reliefs sheathed the walls and ceilings—floral patterns molded into textured panels and painted in olive, maroon, and saffron. These did not form decorative overlays or flat painting but structural skins, turning the entire interior into a layered tapestry of color and form.
The space pulled me inward, so I followed, wandering its compact footprint for nearly an hour, absorbing the detail while trying not to disturb the men at prayer. I did not belong here either, but no one stopped me; no one minded. For the first time that afternoon, I felt permitted to remain.