By Farooq Shah
During a recent wedding we both attended, a friend of mine, originally from Kashmir but living abroad, casually asked, “Do you believe Kashmiris will eventually stop squandering food on such a massive scale, allowing them to channel their hard-earned money into more meaningful pursuits?”
In response, I decided to share a story with him, leaving him to draw his own conclusions about whether Kashmiris had a chance to change for the better.
In 1888, J. Hinton Knowles, the author of “Folk Tales of Kashmir,” which is a collection of stories based on local folklore, included a chapter titled “Man from Shiraz.”
This story narrates the experience of a Shirazi man who visited a Kashmiri friend and stayed with him for three nights. The Kashmiri friend, proud of his hospitality, prepared a lavish feast for his guest.
During the dinner, the Kashmiri eagerly awaited some words of approval from the Shirazi, but the Shirazi, feeling obligated to say something complimentary, only mentioned that the dinner was good, though not comparable to the feasts in his homeland.
The host was so disheartened by this lukewarm response that he couldn’t sleep that night. He spent the entire night suppressing his disappointment and planning an even more extravagant dinner for the following day. He even replaced his chef and gave meticulous instructions to ensure the guest’s satisfaction. However, the Shirazi’s response remained the same – he found the feast inferior to those in Shiraz.
The Kashmiri, suspecting that his chef was the issue, hired another chef and promised a generous reward if the dinner met the Shirazi’s standards. Yet, the response remained unchanged. The Kashmiri was frustrated that he couldn’t please his guest with his hospitality.
Years later, the Kashmiri, now a traveller like his friend, visited Shiraz and stayed with him for three days. He eagerly anticipated the dinner to see how Shirazi feasts surpassed Kashmiri ones. To his surprise, the Shirazi served a simple meal of boiled rice with a few vegetables each day.
The Kashmiri couldn’t believe his eyes and wondered if this was some kind of joke. He realized that the Shirazi’s feasts were indeed plain and modest, unlike the extravagant ones he had prepared for his friend.
The Shirazi explained that they lived a simple life in Shiraz, and their daily meals reflected that simplicity. They couldn’t sustain the lavish feasts he had experienced in Kashmir.
My friend was puzzled by this story, written over 136 years ago.
“I doubt that Kashmiris have any chance of changing,” he remarked as he struggled to finish his meal, piled high with rice and countless meat dishes on a wide copper plate.
What set this wedding apart was the weird condition set by the groom’s family: they decided not to distribute polybags to the guests, a tradition aimed at preventing the wastage of the delectable food, with the intention that it would be enjoyed at home later.
However, the girl’s family anyway decided to serve the baraat guests with an excessive amount of meat, not less than six kilograms per plate, exceeding what the regular guests normally receive.
Even close relatives of the girl’s parents expressed their disapproval in private while the guests wasted food inside an expensive tent.
“I’ve never served like this in my life,” even the waza chef noted.
The story took an even worse turn the next day.
It is customary for selected guests from the inner circle of the girl’s parents to visit the bride’s home to see the girl if she has adapted to the new setting. A lavish meal follows.
“Why should we request polybags when they didn’t?” What this implied was even more distressing: another batch of expertly prepared meat going to waste down the drain.
The act of squandering such significant quantities of food, particularly meat from young animals, was perplexing and challenging to fathom.
Exploring the past is crucial to grasp the causes of this extravagant wastefulness, especially when Wazwan is deftly prepared by expert chefs, often requiring a significant financial investment from the host.
The primary occupation of Kashmiris revolved around agriculture, and the prestigious Wazwan feast was a cherished tradition, especially during autumn months after the harvest.
These weddings were strategically scheduled during this period. While occasional feasts occurred in other months, they were typically hosted by wealthy families. The Wazwan meal consisted of seven courses, comfortably consumable in one sitting, reflecting the grandeur of the occasion. The choice of venue for serving Wazwan was carefully made to match the regal nature of the meal. Less fortunate families reduced the number and size of dishes, yet Wazwan remained a symbol of Kashmiri pride, reserved for significant events.
However, changing fortunes led to the erosion of this tradition. Easy wealth blurred the lines between rich and poor, triggering a class conflict. The newly wealthy attempted to outshine established elites by altering the quantity and quality of Wazwan. This competition inflated the number of dishes dramatically.
The once elegant setting for this feast suffered as well, with limited space forcing Wazwan to be served on public roads, diminishing its ambiance. The excessive food surpassed human consumption capacity, leading to the use of polybags for take-home portions, further diminishing this once opulent cuisine.
Another departure from tradition in presenting the Wazwan feast was the adoption of a buffet system, which doesn’t align well with the grandeur associated with this royal repast. The authentic and irreplaceable experience involves serving it to a quartet of individuals sharing the same trami plate. This not only facilitates casual conversation among the four diners but also nurtures and reinforces the social bonds between them – a dimension that the buffet system seems to overlook or diminish.
As we stand at the precipice of a world filled with hunger and suffering, we must confront the unsettling truth that our heedless squandering of food is not merely a benign act. It is a destructive force that casts a long shadow of despair upon those less fortunate.
Wazwan, originally a rich and royal cuisine, should be served with pride and dignity, devoid of class warfare. It is imperative to return to the traditional seven-course meal, accompanied by proper etiquette. Failing to do so risks squandering a valuable Kashmiri tradition, turning it from a symbol of pride into a wasteful, gutter-bound loss of a rich, nutritious, and elite culinary heritage.
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