With Kashmir all over the place, I had no space to think of writing anything else. But rest assured, this is not about the revocation of Article 370. Enough inexhaustible discussions continue doing the rounds, and so it’s best to give it a rest…despite the congratulatory spirit of Kashmir finally, at long last, being brought into the fold, still making the air blithe despite the heavy humidity which is here to stay till the end of September.
Now where do I begin? With Kashmiri cuisine, I should think, but not before I make myself some kahwah poured into a brass-bowl (khoos) for the sheer novelty. Be back, therefore in a bit, with the brew in one hand, pen in the other, and the air sweetened with cardamom, cinnamon and saffron. For Kashmiri Pandits, Ram Navami, is a sumptuous celebration with a grand spread. And so can be said for Shivratri. A traditional Ram Navami meal—Dum Aloo, Khattey Baingan, Nadru Yakhni (lotus stem curry cooked in yoghurt), Yellow Dal Tadka, Haldi Paneer (haldi for its auspicious, promising character), piping hot aromatic rice, with each grain separated from the other—no mushiness here. The finale to the feast—rice pudding, Kheer served in broad-rimmed earthen bowls with crushed almonds sprinkled atop. Now for Shivratri, it is immensely fascinating that the very day after the Shivratri pooja and feast, a get-together called Salaam celebration takes place. Here Muslim friends come over to the homes of their Hindu brethren to greet them on the occasion of Shivratri. And they are hosted a Wazwan. Pandits actually preparing, serving non-vegetarian dishes with great relish, play the perfect hosts to their Muslim companions, neighbours! Savour this: Rogan Josh, Keema Mattur, Mutton Yakhni, Kabrgah—mutton patties fried in desi ghee with a thin layer of spicy atta. Dessert: Phirni. Taking in this scenario, whoever said, “The way to the heart is through food,” could not have been more right!
While spending a good while in Simla, I always was, and continue to remain, lost for words, open-mouthed, how so many Kashmiri Muslims come down to these mountains, taking up employment as coolies, tucking inside their pheren, (woolen robes grazing the ankles), a portable earthen fire pot to keep themselves warm. (That’s the spellbound, captivating part—in case, it got lost in the long-winding sentence). It’s called a Kangri, and nestled in a cane woven basket, and can be slung with clean-handed, letter-perfect precision around their necks. This internal heating system continues to remain magical for me, and if I decide to spend time in a Christmassy Simla, will ask one of the Khans, so they are addressed, to part with his Kangri even if he demands a staggering amount, propelling me to beg, borrow or steal, “to seal the deal”.
A few years ago, I unexpectedly found some time from the calendar, which for whatever reason is always over-crowded, and so being nearby, took myself to Cottage Emporium. Window-shopping, can spend the entire day quite forgetting breakfast which comprised of a few gulps of tea, and lunch-hour being long over. That point made, my footsteps on auto-walk found themselves in the section dedicated to Kashmiri ware. Cannot go treading on air, but the yards of embroidered curtain cloth displayed did make me go over-the-moon. Is it not a shame that these craftsmen, these artists, go unsung?! Strike the unsung part out, they “live and die nameless”, gifting an ethereal stamp to the house their art lorries into! Most of us, I assume, are familiar with Kashmiri shawls, with their exquisitely intricate embroidery making one visualise how the creator’s fingers and thumb might have been hardened by the magnificent masterpieces, becoming squint-eyed in the exercise, in all probability leading to an early cataract… But back to the drape fabric, with their crewel work.
Before this year comes to its breakneck end, I will, once again this time by design, clear a day’s logbook and procure yards and yards, of the weave and have the “marvel” grace the windows of my room. Speaking of weaves, most of us would own a Kashmiri shawl possibly gifted at the time of one’s wedding, passed down by one’s mum, kept wrapped safely in a tissue cloth, stashed in a chest to be taken out, time and again, for airing but more so to refold, so that the folds do not become permanent streaks. Aah, and one, not by a long shot, has to be a Kashmiri to have one of these shawls. The saying, “From Kashmir to Kanyakumari,” holds true here! I would believe, most Indian homes, would have a Kashmiri shawl shelved in a closet whether from ancient times or bought from Ahujasons or for that matter, ordered online. Speaking of which, the hand-knotted carpets from the valley are another work d’ art; these rugs spreading across floors as far as British houses or hung across walls depending on space, or the fact that Kashmiri carpets need to be heedfully looked after, so wending one’s way over them with mud-crusted wellies would not do! Could go on as always—pinewood windows and doors that trick the olfactory senses inhaling yesteryear’s forest air as today’s…a kitchen orchard laden with a tree or two of apples, plums, apricots, pears, pomegranates, cherries. This pen is fast running out of ink so in haste must wind up… Hindu Muslims sharing the same surname? Bhatt could belong to either of the two. Ditto for Choudhary and Dar, now Dhar.
Before this pen runs dry on me, my mobile pings a notification to join in on a five-day Kashmiri Cuisine Crash Course. Before which, celebrity chef Padma Lakshmi should be sent word, being Salman Rushdie’s ex-wife, and this khaana, the current marketable flavour of the day!
Dr Renée Ranchan writes on socio-psychological issues, quasi-political matters and concerns that touch us all