Kashmir’s Ramzan Lifeline
Syeda AB Jan
As the sun dips below the jagged peaks of Srinagar, the air hums with anticipation. In the modest kitchen of Gulshan Ara, a mother of three in downtown Habba Kadal, a jug of basil seed drink sits chilling—its tiny black seeds swollen in a milky swirl. “Ramzan isn’t Ramzan without it,” she says, stirring in a spoonful of sugar. For Kashmiris, this cool, soothing beverage isn’t just a refreshment—it’s a ritual, a lifeline after a day of fasting. From bustling city lanes to quiet villages, basil seed drink flows through Iftaar tables, binding faith, culture, and community in every sip.
Across the Valley, Ramzan’s 30 days of reflection and restraint amplify the drink’s significance. “It’s the first thing I reach for,” says Tariq Ahmad, a shopkeeper in Anantnag, wiping sweat from his brow after a 14-hour fast. “Water quenches, but this fills you up.” At his home, his wife, Rifat, soaks the seeds hours ahead, blending them with milk and a touch of rosewater—a family twist. Men like Tariq stockpile basil seeds weeks before the crescent moon signals Ramzan’s start, while women like Rifat turn preparation into an act of love. “It’s not just food,” she insists. “It’s a blessing we share.”
That sharing is rooted in faith. Islamic tradition promises the reward of a fasting person to anyone who offers Iftaar provisions—be it a date or a glass of this drink. In Baramulla, 60-year-old Ghulam Mohammad embodies this ethos. Every evening, he sets up a roadside stall, handing out cups of basil seed drink to laborers and passersby breaking their fast. “I’ve done this for 20 years,” he says, his wrinkled hands steady as he pours. “It’s my way of giving back.” Last week, he served over 50 people in an hour—many too poor to afford their own Iftaar.
Beyond its spiritual weight, the drink packs a nutritional punch. Basil seeds brim with fiber, calcium, antioxidants, and vitamins like A and K. Soaked in water or milk, they balloon up to 10 times their size, curbing hunger—a godsend after fasting from dawn to dusk. “It keeps me full till Sehri,” says Aamina Bhat, a student in Sopore, referencing the pre-dawn meal. Science backs her up: the seeds’ fiber aids digestion, their hypoglycemic properties stabilize blood sugar, and their cooling effect soothes parched bodies. For those like Aamina’s uncle, a diabetic, it’s a gentle balm; for others, it eases acidity after heavy Iftaar spreads.
The benefits don’t stop there. Heart health improves with lower cholesterol, skin glows from iron and beta-carotene, and stress melts away—vital in a region where daily life carries its own weight. “After a long day, it calms me,” says Bilal Dar, a teacher in Pulwama, sipping from a glass as his kids chatter nearby. Even oral health gets a boost—goodbye, bad breath—and kidneys thrive on its diuretic kick. Pregnant women, though, steer clear; the seeds can lower estrogen, a risk doctors flag.
In Kashmir’s villages, the drink doubles as a social glue. Take Kulgam’s Fatima Bano, a widow known for her generosity. Each Ramzan, she prepares vats of basil seed drink for her neighbors, her mud-walled home buzzing with gratitude. “People call it ‘Fatima’s Iftaar,’” she laughs, pouring for a dozen kids one evening last week. In urban hubs like Srinagar, NGOs and offices host grander affairs. At a recent gathering by the J&K Youth Forum, over 200 people—clerks, students, vendors—clinked glasses of the drink, a rare moment of unity in a divided city.
For the women who make it, the task is a labor of love. In Budgam, Shabana Mir juggles cooking for six while fasting herself. “The kids wait for it all day,” she says, her hands deftly mixing seeds and milk. “Seeing their smiles makes it worth it.” She’s not alone—across the Valley, kitchens hum with this quiet pride. Yet, Kashmir doesn’t own the drink. From Pakistan to Thailand, basil seeds star in Ramzan fare, known as falooda or sabja. Still, the Valley’s devotion feels singular, steeped in its snowy peaks and warm hearts.
As Ramzan nears—March 22 this year, if the moon agrees—Kashmiris ready their seeds and their spirits. It’s more than tradition; it’s a pledge to generosity, a nod to resilience. In Ganderbal last year, a flood-hit family still shared their last jug with neighbors, a story locals still whisper about. “That’s what Ramzan teaches,” says Ghulam Mohammad, back at his stall. “Give, even when you have little.”
So, as the holy month dawns, let’s keep this ritual alive. Pour a glass, pass it on—be it to family or a stranger. In each seed lies a chance for kindness, a taste of Kashmir’s soul. May it endure, from this Ramzan to the next, a simple gift that echoes through generations.
(Note: Syeda AB Jan is a Class 9 student with a passion for writing, capturing the essence of Kashmiri traditions. Reach her at alikabadrjansyeda@gmail.com.)
