The Fragrant Memory of Isbund

It was on a quiet evening in Jammu, years after the exile, that the idea first came to me, not as an ambition, but as a yearning.

The lamp in the corner of my study flickered gently. Outside, winter wind hissed against the window, carrying with it the loneliness that so often visits displaced souls after dusk. I had just returned from a small Devgon ceremony of a friend’s daughter.

It was a modest ceremony, held in a two-room apartment, yet wrapped in the warmth of tradition. But something was missing.

That familiar, earthy scent—the curling smoke that once rose from our grandmothers’ kangdis, guarding and blessing every ritual—Isbund. It had not been burned.

It was then I whispered to myself, “We must bring it back.” Not just the herb, but the meaning, the intention, the soul of it.

With that thought, the idea of publishing this story in a magazine titled ISBUND took root. A magazine not just  printed on paper, but on memory itself.

Smoke from the Past: Our Cultural and Religious Practice.

In the Kashmir I grew up in, Isbund was not a superstition. It was sacred mindfulness, wrapped in smoke. 

In every Pandit home, from villages and towns like Anantnag, Shopian, Sopore, Baramulla, Kupwara, Handwara to the lanes of Habba Kadal, Ganpatyar and the courtyards of  Rainawari, Isbund was burned with reverence in all such recognised rituals of the Kashmiri Pandit families.

It wasn’t just for warding off evil. It was for inviting goodness, for whispering to the household gods, for purifying the air before something sacred began.

Even now, when I close my eyes and wander in the lanes of memory, I see my Dekbodd Bhatni (grandmother) sitting near the chul, whispering shlokas, dropping Isbund into the glowing embers of her clay kangdi.

The smoke would rise in thick curls, dancing into the air like an offering without words. We children, playful and curious, would chase it, laughing as it tickled our noses. But our elders bowed their heads to it. That smoke carried more than fragrance—it carried faith.

The House of Jai Kishen: Rituals That Remember

Years later, in exile, I attended the wedding ceremonies of Jai Kishen Pandit’s daughters—Roopa and Bina. Their Devgon, Nehan and Gharachun ceremonies took place not in the courtyards of Kashmiri homes, but in a compact rented hall in Janipur. Yet, Jai Kishen’s family carried their heritage like a torch.

I remember Shama Ji, Jai Kishen’s elder sister, walking in on the day of Devgon with a kangdi in hand, just like our mothers once did. It wasn’t ornate—just an old clay pot with gently glowing embers. From her embroidered pouch, she drew a handful of Isbund.  The moment the seeds hit the embers, a soft hiss escaped and that unmistakable fragrance filled the air.

The room grew silent……

Roopa, seated in bridal attire, paused mid-laughter. Jai Kishen folded his hands instinctively and even the young cousins stopped their chatter.

“Isbund chi havun, devta raazi, drishti doh—yeh be chon aashirvad,” Shama Ji whispered, Poshte Mahra, as she circled the kangdi thrice over the bride’s head. That smoke was no longer just tradition—it was a bridge to our forgotten homes, a portal to our gods, a thread of belonging.

During the Nehan ceremony, Bina giggled under the turmeric and oil, her cheeks flushed, while the aunties sang wanwun. But again, the Isbund returned, this time with rose petals, and Shama Ji, her voice heavy with emotion, fanned the smoke toward the door. “Let the fragrance guide her steps,” she murmured, “Let her carry a piece of home wherever she goes.”

And on the day of Gharachun, as Roopa prepared to leave her childhood behind, the kangdi was lit one final time. The smoke rose like a farewell hymn. Shama Ji kissed her forehead and said, “This smoke is your shadow now. Take it with you.”

Why ISBUND Must Burn Again

I realise now, more than ever, that our younger generation is slowly losing these subtle treasures. They know the rituals by name, some even perform them, but they do not know their soul. They do not know why Isbund must be burned.

So, I decided to write this story for a magazine, aptly titled ISBUND. Not just to preserve, but to revive. A humble offering of remembrance. A collection of cultural breathings. 

A written kangdi for every displaced home.

Let this magazine be a spark, a revival, a memory in ink.

Let it reach every household, from Delhi to Dubai, from Toronto to Tasmania—wherever a Kashmiri Pandit lights a diya, let them also burn Isbund in a kangdi.

Not for fear, but for pride. Not as a ritual, but as recognition. That we belong to a community whose traditions smell of firewood, herb and heaven.

A Call to All of Us

Let us light the kangdi once more.

When we marry off our children, when we hold a Yagneopavit, when we enter a new home or simply begin a new chapter:  Let the Isbund smoke rise again. Let our children ask, “What is this smell, Papa?” And let us say, with joy and certainty:

“This is the scent of who we are.”

Let every function, in any corner of the world—be it London or Ludhiana—echo the silent blessing of Isbund.

Let us not forget our roots, not abandon what was sacred to our mothers, not dim the light that once glowed quietly in kangdis under the chinar trees.

Because if we forget these small things, we forget ourselves.

And if we remember them, we become whole again.