September 12, 2025

Under the Shamiana

Kashmir, September 1984. The valley was slipping into autumn, the days golden and warm, the evenings gently chilled. The plum orchards near our home sagged with the weight of fruit and the haystacks sparkled under the slanting light left  from the harvest.

Bengashi’s house was alive with celebration. Her eldest, ‘Didda’, was getting married, and the whole place buzzed with laughter and bustling preparations. Relatives spilled out everywhere, rooms, verandas, even her perfectly manicured lawns. I remember us, cousins and friends, sitting in circles and singing, plotting silly pranks and eagerly waiting for what the coming days would bring.

If you have ever experienced a Kashmiri Pandit wedding, you know it is never just about two people tying the knot. It is families coming together; it is old traditions, thick with meaning. The house smelled of marigolds and saffron-laced moghul chai (kehwa) as we strung garlands and passed cups around. Even before the main ceremonies, we celebrated in everyday ways; children darting between adults, buas and masis shimmering in September’s soft light, ready to take center stage. In hindsight, that week felt magical and timeless.

It was the first wedding I remember. The details of the rituals blur now, but the feeling remains: fun, excitement, togetherness. Papa had managed to get a camera for the event, a big deal at the time. The film roll had just 24 precious shots, each one capturing everything we treasured. Life splintered us in the years that followed, but I still cherish one photo: my sister and I, surrounded by cousins—a proof of a childhood otherwise lost to time.

So many moments linger from that week. On phirsal day, another guest brought a prized camera, and there was an uncle who arrived on the wrong day, confused by a misprinted invitation. I remember noticing odd details nobody else seemed to care about. Mistakes simply became part of the celebration—folded into the chaos and charm.

Our family weddings never truly started without Pinky Didi’s singing. Her voice soft and sweet, like the Devgon kheer. What stayed with me is the hush that fell when she sang “Zubi Zubi” from the movie Julie: children who were usually noisy fell silent and for a few minutes, the whole room listened, spellbound.

Over the years, migration scattered families. Some customs faded, others held tight. We still sing wanwun, send roth khabar, wear dejhoor. New traditions came along, and Instagram and wedding planners shaped celebrations. Yet, I miss the old-style weddings, full of silly errors, teary singing, and simple, infectious joy.

Weddings once unfolded in the intimacy of home, transformed by the humble magic of a shamiana—a tent carefully set up for ceremonies and feasts, while the rest of the celebration took place within the bustling rooms of the family home. The whole neighbourhood pitched in, clearing rooms, lending beds, opening doors to distant relatives and weary guests.

In this new era of destination weddings and endless food spreads, where banquets rival the length of a Rajdhani train, there’s a yearning for the simple magic of the past. Those Kashmiri wedding feasts, prepared by wazas in makeshift backyard kitchens—were legendary. The long white sheets would be unrolled across the masaland under the shamiana, guests lined up on either side, each one waiting for the feast. Traditions were quietly honoured as each thaal was filled, Dumaloo nestled beside Rajma, Yakhni swirling gently, finally crowned with the beloved Kaliyan Tchaman. No buffet, no glittering hotel table can match the warmth of cardamom wafting from those time-honoured family servings.

There was something special about those intimate weddings—the shamiana, the cushions, the laughter mingled with the clang of utensils and tumbaknar. Rooms transformed for visitors; neighbours lent mattresses; cousins giggled late into the night. Boundaries faded—every house part of the celebration. Weddings belonged to everyone.

Today,  banquet halls and hotels have taken over and that old communal magic is rare. But I hold close the memory of tents fluttering in the wind, neighbours hurrying in with trays, the air sweet with masala. What truly remains is the feeling: hospitality born from generosity, not grandeur.

Life changes, customs shift, but I still feel the heartbeat of those old gatherings—the simple magic of belonging, meals made with love, laughter echoing across walls that once seemed so permanent, and now only exist in memory. And perhaps, as autumn returns to the valley, those feelings come rolling back, reminding us that some warmth can never be replaced.

Dr. Sheetal Raina is the founder and editor of ISBUND, an immersive platform dedicated to preserving and celebrating Kashmiri culture. Deeply connected to the heritage and traditions of Kashmir, she brings a distinctive voice to cultural discourse - blending academic insight with heartfelt commitment to her roots.

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