After years of singing competitions and performances of Western repertoire, Sheherazaad “stopped singing completely,” citing her “disenchantment with English as an emotive language” after encountering British colonial history. But she also felt a visceral disorientation resulting from long stays in India, where her mixed North and South Indian heritage further complicated and left a deep imprint on her hyphenated young psyche, and speaking accent.

Instead, she turned to experimental theatre spaces and Bollywood dance as a means to express her evolving positionality. Moving to New York for university, she quickly discovered a more radical South Asian arts community. Sheher began following the likes of the Swet Shop Boys, studying the UK’s historic Asian electronic counterculture, and eventually crossing paths with experimental Pakistani artist Arooj Aftab. “I felt determined to resurrect and recalibrate my singing voice”, she says, “to participate in this new wave I saw of diasporic music innovation and its links with political liberation.”

Relocating to California then, for vocal rehabilitation, Sheherazaad found her Northern Star in the Hindustani classical guru Madhuvanti Bhide, who helped Sheher reshape her old voice, using “gharana” methodology. In a further attempt to re-access lost heritage, Sheher also studied Arabic, Hindi, and Urdu, where she quickly advanced and wrote test lyrics. These would result in her self-released 2020 underground project Khwaabistan, and garner the attention of Aftab, who offered to produce Sheher’s next record.

Working long-distance from separate coasts during the pandemic, the pair got to work on Qasr. The collaboration would culminate in the heart of Brooklyn at the Glass Wall studio, during late-night, feverish recording sessions and utilising a groundbreaking cast of international musicianship, including Basma Edrees (Egypt), Gilbert Mansour (Lebanon), and Firas Zreik (Palestine).

It’s a record that plays with your perceptions. Sheher’s melismatic vocals emerge like a wisp of smoke on ‘Mashoor’ (“Famous), billowing through the earthy acoustic guitar of Ria Modak, lending the song an almost religious quality. But ‘Mashoor’ is in fact a rumination on the pitfalls of a society obsessed with fame and narcissism. Pizzicato fiddles cut through on ‘Dhund Lo Mujhe’ (“Search For Me”), almost unnervingly jaunty alongside her tumultuous delivery. “For me, it brings up this circus of the insane, carnival of the unhappy,” she explains. “It suggests a very specific insanity, that of the immigrant experience. There is implied bloodshed, glamour, hallucination, and schizophrenia.”

The tendency, she explains, in the US context, is for Asian people to fit the “model minority myth”, and hide the more ominous dimensions of themselves. “I want listeners to unleash all of that unabashedly,” she says.