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Wazwan Woes

A humorous take on Kashmiri weddings and their aftermath
11:25 PM Jan 22, 2025 IST | Mufti Showkat Farooqi
wazwan woes
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Ah, Kashmiri weddings—a symphony of joy, chaos, and enough food to feed a small nation. If you haven’t experienced one, you’ve missed a cultural phenomenon where the groom enters like royalty and the guests exit with belts unbuckled. But behind the glitz, glamour, and gallons of yakhni lies a story that most prefer not to talk about: the Great Bill of Kashmiri Extravagance.

The star of any Kashmiri wedding isn’t the bride or the groom—it’s the wazwan. A 36-course culinary marathon featuring ristagushtabatabak maaz, and more. Each dish is crafted with such precision that you’d think the waza (chef) trained under Gordon Ramsay himself—except, here, it’s not about the “perfect risotto,” but the perfect rista.

For the uninitiated, here’s the deal: this is a culinary marathon. The food first arrives in tramis (large communal plates), followed by a seemingly unending procession of deags filled with the choicest dishes of mutton and an occasional vegetable. And you’re expected to eat as if your appetite is being judged by your ancestors. It’s a vicious, delicious cycle.

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If you think the extravagance stops at food, think again. Kashmiri weddings are also a battleground for fashion—primarily fought and won by the bride.

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Let’s start with the bride’s wardrobe. It’s not just one dress. There’s the Mehndi dress, the Nikaah dress, the reception dress, and the post-wedding “casual” dress (a phrase that makes no sense because it’s usually dripping with embroidery and crystals). The crown jewel? The bridal Sharara, an opulent creation adorned with gold thread, zari, and enough embellishments to be considered a health hazard. This masterpiece will cost a small fortune, weigh about the same as the bride herself, and—here’s the kicker—never be worn again. Why? Because no Kashmiri bride wants to be caught repeating her wedding outfit, even at her own sister’s wedding.

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And it’s not just the bride. The immediate family—parents, siblings, cousins—compete to outshine one another. From designer suits, shararas to silk sarees imported from Banaras, no fabric is too rare, no cost too high.

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Jewelry is like the bling olympics. The expenditure on jewelry is astronomical. A Kashmiri bride isn’t just a bride; she’s a walking safe deposit. Gold necklaces, earrings, bangles, anklets—you name it, she’s wearing it. And, of course, the pièce de résistance: the rani haar and the dejhoor, a traditional dangler that’s a symbol of marriage among Kashmiri Pandits. They are a subtle reminder to the groom’s family of the bride’s affluent background.

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The mother of the bride insists on buying “a little extra” jewelry for her daughter because, apparently, post-wedding life requires the bride to always shine brighter than a chandelier.

No Kashmiri wedding is complete without an endless exchange of gifts, which, let’s be honest, feel more like economic warfare. The bride’s family is expected to shower the groom and his family with gifts: clothes, watches, perfumes, and sometimes even furniture and electronics. If the groom’s uncle wanted a new recliner, now is the time to ask. The groom’s side, of course, reciprocates with gifts for the bride—but not before quietly tallying up what they received.

The groom himself often walks away with a collection of wristwatches that would make a horologist weep, along with suits tailored to perfection. For a man who, until now, lived in sweatshirts and jeans, this sudden sartorial upgrade feels like entering a fashion witness protection program.

Kashmiri weddings attract two types of people:

  1. Food connoisseurs: These are the guests who’ve been fasting since breakfast to make room for the evening’s feast. They’ll inspect theristafor texture and count the almonds in the rogan josh. 2. Uncles with unsolicited advice: These sages will remind you that weddings in “their time” were simpler (and cheaper). Ironically, they’re the ones who’ll complain if the tabak maaz isn’t crispy enough.

Both groups have one thing in common: they leave with doggy bags. Yes, it’s a Kashmiri tradition to pack some leftover wazwan from the trami, but let’s be honest—it’s also an insurance policy for tomorrow’s lunch. Not to mention the kids at home who will be waiting with bated breath to devour the delicacies. Even before that the guests will do well to exercise extra care not to be waylaid by packs of ferocious dogs roaming the streets in Kashmir.

Now, let’s talk about the real hero of Kashmiri weddings: the father of the bride, aka the human ATM. Once the last guest leaves, and the wazas pack up their knives, reality sets in. There’s a stack of bills that rivals the height of the groom’s sehraMutton costs? Tent rental? DJ who only played songs he liked? Every receipt feels like a punch in the gut.

For days after, the father sits in stunned silence, sipping endless cups of noon chaia and questioning every decision. Did we really need four varieties of chicken? Was that Bollywood choreographer necessary? Why did Cousin Bashir invite his neighbor’s dentist’s brother? Who invited all those children who could have filled a middle school?

Months later, when the newlyweds return from their vacation, the family is still recovering—emotionally, financially, and digestively. But despite the chaos, there’s an unspoken truth: no one would have it any other way. The memories of laughter, dance, extravagant clothes, and gushtaba-induced food comas are priceless.

So, here’s to Kashmiri weddings: the only events where you leave heavier than you arrived, and the only time when financial ruin tastes so good.

 

Mufti Showkat Farooqi, Attorney at Law New York, USA.