Songs, Food, And Rituals: A Kashmiri Pandit Wedding In A Migrant Camp

By Syed Majid Gilani

January 2024 arrived with its usual winter chill, but in my inbox, a wedding invitation glowed with colour.

It came from Ravi, my young colleague, along with a call. His voice was warm, insisting that Mushtaq Ahmed and I attend. Neither of us had ever witnessed a Kashmiri Pandit wedding.

The invitation was an entry into a living tradition, one that had survived decades of absence.

We left Srinagar before sunrise, boarding the train that ran only as far as Banihal. Outside, the valley stretched in serenity. Apple orchards, paddy fields, and the slow curves of rivers painted the landscape.

In Banihal, we stepped down among other passengers and crossed to the bus stand. The place hummed with the rhythm of travel. Buses honked, vendors called, and people steered suitcases and parcels.

We found a cab, a Tavera, and began the highway stretch to Jammu.

Nagrota appeared with the routine bustle of the highway, and Rajiv, Ravi's cousin, greeted us with a smile. Every detail of our reception had been arranged by Ravi.

From there, the journey led to the TRT Migrant Camp, a space that carries decades of exile in its walls.

Standing among the rows of temporary homes, I was transported back to 8th grade, when Kashmiri Pandits left the valley almost overnight.

Houses were locked, orchards abandoned, and cattle untended. Families carried what they could: a few belongings, documents, and hope.

Here, at the camp, history and celebration collided. Sorrow lingered beneath the welcome, but resilience and warmth were immediate.

Ravi's parents received us in the Janj Ghar. Noon chai arrived, salty and steaming, accompanied by small snacks. The flavor carried memory of home, ritual, and shared heritage. A sense of belonging grew in the warmth of their smiles, and the familiarity of gestures that spoke louder than words.

The wedding rituals mirrored those in the valley. Wanwun, gyawun, the soft cadence of prayers and songs, and the saffron-tinted kehwa created continuity across time and displacement.

Small differences existed, but they were subtle. The threads of shared culture remained unbroken.

The main ceremony moved to Eden Farm, a large hall buzzing with preparation. Ravi guided us to the kitchen, where cooks from Kishtwar arranged the feast.

The air filled with aroma: nader yakhyn, chuk wangan, chaman tamatar, dum aloo, and haakh. Stalls offered aloo paratha, papads, champ, gol gappa, sweets like gulab jamun and layered pastries.

Each scent and sight became part of the celebration, as essential as the rituals themselves.

The matamaal ceremony followed in the afternoon. Maternal relatives were welcomed with reverence, the hall alive with Kashur gyawun singers and a full orchestra from Srinagar.

Their voices, rising and falling, carried language, memory, and a collective identity.

I watched guests, children, elders, and felt that culture is more than ceremonies. It is persistence, carried forward through song, food, and gesture.

When the wedding ended, as Mushtaq and I prepared to leave, the camp seemed to speak.

On the road back to Srinagar, I thought of the valley and its missing Pandit community. Homes, orchards, streets, even rivers seemed to hold their memory. When they come back, it won't just be a homecoming. It will be the valley becoming whole again.

• - The authoris a government officer by profession and storyteller by passion. He can be reached at [email protected] .

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