A Kashmiri Wedding, A Keralite Memory
When my friend —my companion through many years of research life in Trivandrum, under the swaying coconut palms of Kerala’s far south—invited me to his wedding in Kupwara, among the apple orchards of Kashmir’s far north, I knew it would be special. What I did not anticipate was how deeply it would stay with me—not merely as a wedding, but as a journey between two worlds, a glimpse into a way of life that felt at once distant and strangely familiar.
Arrival: The Unexpected Heat
As my plane landed at Srinagar Airport, the first sensation that struck me was heat. Not the anxious weight of military presence, nor the routine security checks that Kashmir is known for—those I had expected. It was the sun, fierce and burning, pressing against my skin. For a fleeting moment I wondered: had the famed coolness of the valley been swallowed by climate change, leaving only stories behind? Yet perhaps such hot days had always been here, tucked into local memory but never mentioned to outsiders. Soon enough, the valley revealed its truer self. By evening, the air mellowed, and within two days, rain washed the land clean, plunging temperatures so sharply that I found myself shivering in long sleeves. Kashmir, I realized, is a land of contrasts—its beauty is never static but alive, shifting like light on water.
The Embrace of a Household
I arrived two days before the wedding and lingered a day after, enough to witness traditions unfold and to be absorbed into the orbit of my friend’s family. Despite the chaos of preparing for their only son’s marriage, his parents never ceased to check on me—whether I had eaten, whether I was comfortable, whether I felt at home. Their quiet attentiveness was not the grandeur of hospitality but its truest essence: making a guest feel like kin.
My friend’s cousins, a spirited band of young men about my age, became my companions. Educated, witty, and full of warmth, they folded me into their circle as if I had always belonged. Their laughter, teasing, and eagerness to show me their land turned my days into something more than observation; they became participation.
Orchards and the Symbolic Chinar
Together we wandered through apple orchards and walnut groves, framed by the dark silhouettes of mountains. Because some cousins owned orchards, I had the privilege of plucking apples straight from the trees—Red Delicious, American, Queen, Dense—and biting into them on the spot. The crisp burst of juice was unlike anything that traveled through markets. It carried me back to my childhood in Kerala, climbing mango and guava trees, before city life trimmed such pleasures from daily existence. Kupwara gave them back, bright and immediate.
They also introduced me to trees I had only known from books—the willow, source of the cricket bats I once held; the pomegranate, its skin hiding a universe of rubies; and above all, the Chinar.
Walking beneath the Chinar at midday was like stepping into a sanctum of coolness. It reminded me of childhood summers in Kerala, when entering an air-conditioned ATM offered a brief, miraculous reprieve—an oasis now fading from memory as even ATMs fall into disrepair. But the Chinar’s coolness was not mechanical, not fleeting. It was elemental, sacred.
Brought centuries ago from Persia and planted by Mughal emperors in their royal gardens, the Chinar has grown into a living emblem of Kashmir. Its very existence is protected by law—not only to preserve history, but because its shade shields the land against erosion, softens summer heat, and guards human health. Beneath its broad leaves, I felt the symbolic weight of continuity: a tree that carried empire, memory, and ecology within its branches.
Night of Song: Wanwun and Tumbaknari
The night before the wedding, the household filled with sound. Groups of women sat in a circle, singing wanwun—melodic verses in Kashmiri, sometimes blessing the couple, sometimes playfully teasing the groom’s kin. Their voices rose and fell like waves, punctuated by the earthy thump of the tumbaknari, a clay drum played with the palms. The rhythm carried through the courtyard, weaving joy and tradition into one fabric.
On the edges of this circle, the men busied themselves with preparations, laughter spilling as freely as their tasks. Many of the younger men had returned home after long absences in distant cities, and the wedding doubled as reunion. Their conversations brimmed with delight at rediscovery, as if friendship, once scattered by distance, had been sewn whole again. The air was thick with warmth: women’s voices, men’s laughter, the pulse of the drum—an atmosphere intimate yet communal, centuries old yet alive in the present moment.
The Wazwan: A Banquet of Meaning
If there is one experience that defines a Kashmiri wedding, it is the legendary Wazwan. More than just a feast, Wazwan is a cultural performance and a symbol of honor. Guests are seated in groups of four on intricately woven carpets around a trami, a large copper platter heaped with rice, onto which a dazzling procession of meat dishes is served. This scene stood in vivid contrast to the wedding receptions I’d grown up attending in Kerala, where guests sit upright on chairs, each with their own neatly arranged plate at a table. But my grandparents often spoke of a time—not too long ago—when even everyday meals were shared from a single vessel, seated cross-legged on the floor. That tradition may have faded from our homes, but here in Kashmir, it lives on, quietly and beautifully.
Before dining, we washed our hands in the tash-t-nari, a copper basin carried around by attendants, a small ritual that heightens the sense of occasion.
The procession of dishes began. First came Tabak Maaz—crisp-fried lamb ribs, an edible emblem of respect. Then Rogan Josh, its fiery red sauce signaling festivity, followed by Rista, saffron- rich meatballs, symbols of vitality and celebration. Soon after came Yakhni, a yogurt-based broth offering balance, and Aab Gosht, tender mutton cooked in milk, whispering of purity. Between these, many more mutton delicacies appeared, their names too many for me to recall. Yet the feast was not only for meat-lovers. A fragrant Haaq (leafy green curry) arrived for ’vegetarians’, a mushroom preparation for ’those who avoid meat but not fungi’, and a creamy paneer dish for others with different preferences. Finally, the banquet reached its climax with Gushtaba—the soft, creamy meatball revered as the “king of dishes,” always placed ceremoniously in the small compartment at the center of the trami.
What surprised me, however, was the sight of Coca-Cola bottles and Pass Pass mouth fresheners. I couldn’t tell if these were part of tradition or signs of modern lifestyle quietly merging with it. Then there was a small folded paper handed to each guest. At first, I wondered about its purpose—it certainly didn’t feel like tissue. Only when the tash-t-nari (hand-washing basin) arrived did I realize its secret: once wet, it dissolved into a lather, serving as soap. Another thoughtful gesture was the distribution of shufaal—carry-home packets. Guests filled them generously, piling dishes into the covers while still savoring as much as their own stomachs allowed. I too was offered one, though unlike the locals I could not take it home. I was returning to Delhi for work, not all the way to Kerala where my home lay. Still, the act of being included in this tradition touched me—it was hospitality extended beyond the table.
Eating together from a shared platter carried etiquette as eloquent as the dishes themselves: take modest portions, honor the rhythm of others, savor collectively. Hospitality here was not in excess, but in attentiveness—ensuring no guest was left unseen, no appetite unacknowledged.
When the platters were cleared, attendants poured Noon Chai, the famed pink salted tea, served with unsweetened crisp biscuits. To me, raised in Kerala where weddings end with sugary tea and
syrup-laden snacks, the contrast was striking. In Kashmir, restraint is tradition. Perhaps it is also health: diabetes, rampant in my home state, finds little foothold here. Culture, I realized, shapes not only taste but the body itself. One of his cousins even remarked that I looked more Kashmiri by the final day—an offhand comment that made me wonder if food can, quite literally, transform the body as much as it transforms the self.
Reflection and Departure
The days blurred into one long embrace of ritual, taste, and companionship. Kupwara, with its mountains, orchards, and Chinars, offered a backdrop of serenity, yet what stayed with me most was not landscape or feast but the warmth with which I was received. Hospitality in Kashmir is not measured in grandeur, but in weaving a Mehman—guest—into the fabric of the family’s joy.
As I left Kupwara, I carried more than memory. I carried the laughter of my friend’s cousins, the voices of wanwun rising into the night, the fragrance of Gushtaba, the warmth of Noon Chai. In Kashmir, a wedding isn’t just a union of two people—it’s a reunion of community, a celebration of continuity, and a reminder that hospitality, when offered with heart, becomes its own kind of home.
Author’s Note: V.C. Sabeer is a Delhi-based researcher whose academic work explores global trade and migration. When not modeling global flows and policy impacts, he writes about the quieter intersections of culture, memory, and place.
