[dropcap]A[/dropcap] tattered signboard was nailed into the wall just above the door: Salman Khan & Son.

“This first floor has everything that is up for sale.”

The door creaked as he opened it, and when we stepped across the threshold, we were transported to another world. The walls were covered from floor to ceiling in the most vibrant shawls I had ever laid my eyes upon, all embroidered with intricate floral motifs.

“We bring in Kani shawls from the nearby villages every two weeks,” he continued, gesturing to the eastern wall.

Kani shawls are made using the finest pashmina woven through wooden needles on a handloom, incorporating a labyrinth of designs that often take up to years to complete. The details on these shawls were so fine, so specific, it was like they were painted on with a hairpin. I marveled at these masterpieces of art, breathless before the spectacular embroidery.

I caressed the soft fabric of the shawl closest to me. “It is as if they were spun by magic.”

He smiled softly, his eyes following my fingers on the supple fabric. “Not magic, dear. Blood and sweat.”

The plight of the shawl weavers is known in Kashmir. Weavers work from daybreak to midnight in crowded rooms with no ventilation. They earn about four annas per day, half of which the governor takes as taxation. Children worked from as young as five years old. Most of their work went straight to the government and then gifted to European clients who could not even point to Kashmir on a map. There had been waves of artisan uprisings as far back as decades past, yet working conditions were still sordid. There were few shops like Salman Khan & Son that at least attempted to compensate the weavers fairly.

“Tell me, what exactly is it you are looking for today?” The shopkeeper asked.

“Sir, my daughter is looking for a long kurta,” Moaj answered. “A formal dress to wear for important occasions. She is a medical student, you see, and will have professional functions at her college.”

She puffed up with pride.

“Hmm.” He glanced at the steep staircase behind him in the back of the shop. “We purchase our shawls from the villages, but kurtas, my father makes himself. I know just the thing. Follow me.”

He shuffled over to the staircase and began to climb, looking back behind him to make sure we were following.

“Do not be shy!” He called. “It is only Bab up here.”

Moaj and I glanced at each other, and I shrugged.

“It will not hurt to look,” I murmured, and we followed him up the stairs.

We emerged into a large attic space with a ceiling so low that my fingers brushed it when I reached up. The room was dimly lit by a few lamps and morning light that filtered through a small window on one wall. An elderly man faced away from us towards a weaving loom. He wore a skullcap, and short tendrils of white hair peaked out from underneath.

“Baba-Ji! I want to show our guests the piece that you have just finished.”

The man paid us no heed, razor-focused on the task before him. His long fingers were moving seamlessly across a thick strip of threads and he was squinting at a brown piece of parchment hanging on the top of the loom.

“That is my family’s talim,” the shopkeeper said, pointing to the parchment.

“The secret blueprint with all the design and color codes to our work. This one has been in my family for three generations,” he explained with pride.

At that, the older man turned around. He looked Moaj and I up and down. “New customers?”

I nodded. “It is a pleasure to meet you, sir. Your work is outstanding.”

The father, who must have been Salman, scratched his chin. “Thank you, miss.”

“I wanted to show them the new dress that you just finished. The blue one,” Sultan cut in.

“Ah,” Salman replied.

He stood up, bracing his hands on his knees for support.

“Here you go,” he said, picking up a blue dress from a stacked pile of clothing next to him and holding it out in front of him.

I could not help myself, I gasped out loud. It was a shade of blue so pure it was like looking into the sky. There were delicate flowers embroidered by a pearl-white thread flowing across the dress from top to bottom. It was perfect.

“This pattern,” Salman began, his eyes softening as he spoke, “it is not just thread woven into fabric. It is a story passed down through the generations, a tale that begins in the ancient lands of Persia. My ancestors first spun these threads as far back as hundreds of years ago.”

“The design is called sozni embroidery. It takes months, perhaps years, to bring one piece into being.”

With weathered hands, Salman gently smoothed the fabric as though caressing something sacred.

I touched the fabric across the trail his fingers had traced. I turned to Moaj decisively.

“This is the one,” I said.

Back downstairs at the counter, I took one last sweep over the shop. Salman handed Moaj the dress in exchange for a heavy handful of coins, and he looked at me with bright eyes.

“Now, no matter how far your studies take you, you can wear this and remember where you are from.”

[et_pb_heading title="About the Novel" _builder_version="4.27.5" _module_preset="default" theme_builder_area="post_content" title_font="|||on|||||" title_text_align="center" border_width_bottom="1px" hover_enabled="0" sticky_enabled="0"][/et_pb_heading]  [et_pb_image src="https://inverse.azan-n.com/content/images/2026/04/flames_cherry_lo.webp" _builder_version="4.27.5" _module_preset="default" theme_builder_area="post_content" title_text="Flames_Cherry_lo" hover_enabled="0" sticky_enabled="0"][/et_pb_image][et_pb_button button_text="Visit Book Page" _builder_version="4.27.5" _module_preset="default" theme_builder_area="post_content" button_url="https://darajapress.com/publication/flames-of-the-cherry-tree/" url_new_window="on" hover_enabled="0" sticky_enabled="0" custom_button="on" button_text_size="16px" button_text_color="#000000" button_bg_color="#FFFFFF" button_bg_enable_color="on" button_border_width="1px" button_border_width__hover_enabled="on|hover" button_border_width__hover="1px" button_border_color="#000000" button_bg_color__hover_enabled="on|hover" button_bg_color__hover="#f7f7f7" button_bg_enable_color__hover="on"][/et_pb_button]

The year is 1940, and the winds of change stir in the valley of Kashmir. Aafreen Khan is a young girl that dreams to be a doctor like her beloved grandfather, defying the boundaries of convention as a Muslim and a woman in a country rigged against her. But as the partition of India looms closer, Kashmir reels under the weight of greed and power, and Aafreen is swept into the whirlwind of a story much larger than her own. When love, loss, and revolution reshape her entire world, Aafreen learns the terrible truth of what it means to survive.

Flames of the Cherry Tree is a sweeping, intimate portrait of a young woman’s coming-of-age against the backdrop of colonialism, rebellion, and the violent birth of today’s occupied Kashmir. At once tender and unflinching, it traces the story of one family through oppression and resistance, illuminating the forgotten histories that have shaped Kashmir and the hope that survives in its people.

Source: Daraja Press

A lyrical, unflinching novel that rebuilds Kashmir from beneath the rubble of empire — a testament to the people who refused to disappear.
– Tariq Mehmood, author, The Second Coming

Light and tender yet deeply haunting, this luminous tale of friendship and love unfolds in Kashmir against the gathering darkness of partition and local political churnings, bearing witness to both the radiant beauty of young love and the unspeakable horrors unleashed when hatred fractures a subcontinent along religious lines.
– Anuradha Bhasin, Managing Editor of the Kashmir Times

A hauntingly beautiful tale of loss and resilience where the author masterfully weaves history with humanity. Tender, brave, and unforgettable.
—Rumana Makhdoomi, author of Warriors and Falcons: Life Sketches of 100 Outstanding Kashmiri Doctors

[et_pb_heading title="About the Author" _builder_version="4.27.5" _module_preset="default" theme_builder_area="post_content" title_font="|||on|||||" title_text_align="center" border_width_bottom="1px" hover_enabled="0" sticky_enabled="0"][/et_pb_heading]  [et_pb_image src="https://inverse.azan-n.com/content/images/2026/04/leena-img_4461-300x397-1.webp" _builder_version="4.27.5" _module_preset="default" theme_builder_area="post_content" title_text="Leena-IMG_4461-300x397" hover_enabled="0" sticky_enabled="0"][/et_pb_image] Leena A. Khan is a J.D. candidate at Harvard Law School with an interest in international human rights law. She graduated from Georgetown University summa cum laude in May 2023 with a B.S. in International Politics and a certificate in Arab Studies. At Georgetown, Leena received the Michael Hudson Award for her excellent achievement in her written work on Arab Studies. She was a CASA I and CASA II fellow in Amman, Jordan, where she researched neocolonialism in international law. Her published works include analytical pieces featured in the Middle East Institute Blog and the Georgetown CCAS Newsmagazine. Flames of the Cherry Tree is her first novel.

Leena Khan speaks about her first novel ‘Flames of the Cherry Tree’

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