The Kashmiri Kandur: Revered and Resented

In the quiet corners of Kashmir’s bustling markets and tucked away in winding alleys, the unmistakable aroma of fresh tchut (bread) wafts through the air. It’s a scent that, to a Kashmiri, is more sacred than saffron, more tantalizing than wazwan, and, dare I say, more essential than Wi-Fi. At the heart of this fragrant drama is the humbleKandur—a bread maker with the power to unite, divide, and mystify an entire culture.

The Kashmiritchut(bread) isn’t just bread. It’s a philosophy, a lifestyle, and occasionally, an excuse for marital spats (“Why didn’t you buy enough lavasa?”). TheKandur, the torchbearer of this culinary legacy, is no ordinary baker. He is a mystical figure with dough-covered hands and a heart that beats in time with the crackling fire of histandoor.

Picture this: dawn in a Kashmiri neighborhood. The sun has barely stretched its golden rays, but theKandurhas been awake for hours. Histandoorglows like the molten core of the earth, and his arms move in a rhythmic dance, slapping dough onto the oven walls with the precision of a seasoned artist.

Outside, a queue begins to form. Domestic helps, groggy husbands, and occasionally a disheveled student all gather, their expressions a mix of anticipation and mild desperation. “Is the bread ready?” someone inevitably asks. “Just two minutes!” replies theKandur, a phrase as timeless and suspect as it is reassuring.

TheKandur’s repertoire is as diverse as the Kashmiri dialect itself. There’s the iconiclawas, a paper-thin flatbread so delicate it feels like it might dissolve if you breathe on it. Then there’s thegirda, robust and crusty, perfect for soaking upnoon chai(salt tea). Let’s not forget the festivekulchaand thetchwur, adorned with sesame seeds, beloved by children and adults alike.

Each type of bread carries cultural weight. Running out oflawasduring a family breakfast? Unthinkable. Servinggirdaat a wedding? A faux pas. And woe betide the poor soul who forgets to buy enough tchut for the kids on a picnic.

Bread in Kashmir isn’t just food; it’s a social contract. The morning exchange at theKandur’sshop is where neighborhood gossip is traded, political debates are sparked, and cricket matches are analyzed.

The act of purchasing bread itself has become a ritual. In some families, it’s the father’s sacred duty, often performed with the seriousness of a military operation. Returning with misshapentchutor worse, a bread count too low, can lead to a domestic inquisition that rivals an episode of Sherlock Holmes: Kashmir.

For all his flour-dusted humility, theKanduris a silent philosopher. He observes life from his smoky perch, privy to the intimate details of his customers’ lives. He knows who’s planning a wedding, who’s having an early-morning squabble, and who’s nursing a sleep hangover that onlynoon chaiand freshgirdacan cure.

Yet, despite his central role, Kandurremains an enigma. He doesn’t seek fame or fortune; his mission is simple: to keep the fires burning and the tchut flowing. So, here’s to the KashmiriKandur, the unsung hero of our mornings and the guardian of our carbs. He may not wield a sword or pen, but his spatula is mightier, for it feeds not just our stomachs but our souls.

Next time you visit theKandurand impatiently ask, “When will the bread be ready?”, remember you’re not just buying bread. You’re participating in a tradition, a culture, and a love story written in dough.

But recently, this mystification has turned to outright frustration, as theKandursof Kashmir have committed what many are calling the ultimate betrayal: doubling the price oftchwur, girda), the beloved crusty bread that has graced Kashmiri dastarkhan for centuries.

The announcement landed like a stale piece of bread on an unsuspecting plate. For generations, the girdahas been the affordable, dependable staple of Kashmiri households, paired lovingly withnoon chaiandmakhan(butter). To suddenly find its price doubled is, to put it lightly, a cultural shock.

“This is a conspiracy!” exclaimed an outraged shopper outside aKandur’sshop in Srinagar, shaking her cloth bag filled with other essentials, conspicuously empty of bread.

Social media erupted as well. Memes flooded Kashmiri WhatsApp groups and Instagram stories, with captions like “Girda is becoming as precious as saffron.” and pictures ofKandursportrayed as cunning tycoons.

To their credit, theKandursaren’t entirely unsympathetic to the uproar. Rising costs of flour, firewood, and other essentials have left them little choice, they claim. “A kilo of flour is expensive, and so is firewood.” oneKandurexplained, while deftly flipping bread from the roaringtandoor.

While some customers acknowledge these challenges, others argue that the suddenness of the hike is what stings. “If they had increased it gradually, we wouldn’t have felt this shock” one customer muttered as he begrudgingly handed over double the usual amount for his tchwur.

Bread in Kashmir isn’t just food; it’s a cultural cornerstone. A price hike intchutis not merely an economic issue but a disruption of the sacred morning ritual. For many families, the cost of breakfast has now doubled, leading to creative compromises: skipping thetchwurforlavasa, or even daring to experiment with store-bought alternatives.

Neighborhood conversations have also shifted from politics and cricket to the soaring cost of tchwur. Debates on whether the price hike is justified have become as heated as thetandooritself, with tempers flaring and loyalties to localKandurstested.

For all the anger, there’s a reluctant acknowledgment that theKandurremains indispensable. As much as we grumble about the cost ofgirda, we continue to queue up at dawn, clutching our bags and exact change. TheKandur, aware of his critical role, meets our complaints with a calm that suggests, “The bread will come, just be patient.”

As the dust (or flour) settles on this bread controversy, Kashmiris are learning to adapt. Some are making tchut at home, rediscovering the labor-intensive art oftchutmaking. Others have reluctantly accepted the price hike as the cost of preserving tradition and placating furious wives in a changing world.

But one thing is clear: theKandurremains at the center of this cultural saga, a figure both revered and resented. So, the next time you find yourself asking, “Why has bread become so expensive?”, remember that theKandurisn’t just selling bread—he’s selling a piece of Kashmir’s soul, even if that soul now comes at twice the price.

In the end, thetchwurmay cost more, but its ability to unite Kashmiris in shared frustration and humor remains priceless.

Mufti Showkat Farooqi, Attorney at law, New York