Remembering what we forget

On 30 October, I travelled to Sopore, the apple capital of north Kashmir, with my friends Danishwar and Owais. Our purpose was not simply to enjoy orchards or the crisp autumn fragrance, but to visit a unique space of remembrance: the Meeras Mahal Museum of Ethnography. What awaited us there was more than a display of objects; it was a living archive of everyday life that once shaped our valley.

Sopore, widely known for its apples, holds far more than fragrant fruit and trade. Beneath its orchards lies a slower, steadier rhythm, a quiet continuity of craft, soil, and community life. As we walked through its narrow lanes, the scent of apples and walnuts hung in the air, a fragrance that ties memory to place. Unlike the bustle of Srinagar tourism, Sopore moves gently: quieter, thoughtful, and grounded. Within this calm, Meeras Mahal gains its true meaning, as a humble yet powerful effort to prevent Kashmiri cultural memory from fading.

The name Meeras Mahal means “Palace of Heritage,” yet it is defined more by its simplicity than grandeur. Founded by the late educationist and preservationist Atiqa Bano (1940–2017), the museum houses more than seven thousand artifacts, each carrying echoes of a time when handmade life held the valley together.

A native of Sopore, Atiqa Bano devoted her life to education before turning to cultural preservation. With remarkable dedication, she collected household utensils, tools, traditional clothing, manuscripts, musical instruments, and more. Travelling from home to home and village to village, she saved what others overlooked: the ordinary objects of everyday people, gathered piece by piece before they disappeared forever.

Still, Meeras Mahal has its shortcomings. Some rooms are dimly lit, leaving many pieces half hidden in shadow. The shine of copper, the detail of carved wood, and the delicate embroidery of a cap deserve gentler, clearer illumination. Much of its vast collection also remains in storage; what is displayed is only a fraction of what exists. This absence feels symbolic, as though our heritage itself is unfinished, still waiting for care and visibility.

Among the many objects that drew our attention were the lungto clay vessels, the mortar and pestle, the zaen wicker baskets, and the familiar willow frame of the kangri. Each carried signs of a life once lived: weaving, cooking, warming, gathering. Wooden sandals known as khraav, hand crafted toys, white metal ornaments, and pieces of traditional headgear evoked a Kashmir shaped by artisans, labourers, and homemakers who created beauty out of necessity. In a quiet gallery, we found handwritten manuscripts and old coins, reminders that learning, art, and livelihood once grew together. Standing before those fragile pages, we felt not just nostalgia but connection, a sense that our story continues.

The legacy of Meeras Mahal belongs to Atiqa Bano, a woman who transformed personal passion into collective memory. After decades of service in education, she could have chosen rest; instead, she dedicated herself to remembrance. Built on her family’s donated land, the museum became her post retirement mission, her gentle stand against forgetting.

The museum was registered as a trust in 2009, and with help from the Span Foundation in Delhi and the INTACH Kashmir Chapter, parts of the building have since been restored and its galleries improved. Yet at its heart, it remains what it always was: the heartfelt labour of a single visionary woman.

As we explored the museum, we felt both nostalgia and urgency. Nostalgia, because many objects reminded us of our grandparents’ homes: kitchens lit by fire, winters warmed by kangris, rooms scented with dry maize and woodsmoke. Urgency, because we sensed how quickly such memories vanish when the objects that hold them disappear. At the kangri display, that symbol of warmth and community, Danishwar quietly asked, “Who will teach the next generation to weave this willow?” The question remained long after the silence.

Meeras Mahal may lack the grandeur of national museums, but its humility feels more sincere. Its walls feel alive; its objects, though simple, carry centuries. What it needs now is attention: better lighting, clearer labels, organized displays, and stronger institutional support. More importantly, it needs affection - the kind that brings visitors not just to see, but to care. Heritage survives not only in buildings but in people who choose to remember.

When we stepped into Sopore’s late afternoon sunlight, the orchards glowed gold. Time felt slower. We walked quietly, each of us thoughtful. Somewhere among the clay pots and woven baskets, we found a deeper understanding of who we are and what we risk losing. Meeras Mahal is more than a museum; it is a mirror. In its gentle dimness, we see ourselves - delicate, disappearing, yet still capable of preserving what matters. Sometimes, memories do not survive in grand monuments, but in a clay pot, a willow frame, and the persistent devotion of a woman who believed they were worth saving.