Gowher Bhat
In a quiet corner of a Kashmiri home, a samovar sits, its once-polished copper surface dulled by time. It used to be the heart of the household, lit at dawn with glowing charcoal, its gentle hum signaling the start of the day. Steam would rise, curling into the cold air, as noon chai or kehwa brewed slowly. Today, an electric kettle gleams on the kitchen counter. A button is pressed, water boils in moments, and tea is ready. But as the steam dissipates, so does something less tangible—a ritual, a rhythm, a connection to the past.
In Kashmir, tea has never been just a drink. It’s a ceremony, a pause woven into the fabric of life. For centuries, the samovar was its centerpiece. Charcoal burned steadily within its belly, heating water to the perfect temperature for noon chai—salty, pink, and frothy—or kehwa, golden and fragrant with saffron and almonds. The process was unhurried, deliberate. Families gathered around, cups were poured, stories unfolded. The samovar didn’t just brew tea; it brewed moments. But in today’s rush—work, errands, endless notifications—time for such rituals feels like a luxury. Electric kettles and gas stoves dominate, offering speed and convenience. The samovar, once revered, is often relegated to a decorative relic.
This shift is palpable across Kashmiri homes. In Srinagar’s old city, where narrow lanes hum with life, many households have swapped samovars for modern appliances. A young professional, Mehraj, shared his experience: “Growing up, my grandmother’s samovar was always on. We’d sit for hours, sipping noon chai, talking about everything. Now, I use a kettle. It’s faster, and I’m always running to work.” His grandmother’s copper samovar, etched with intricate designs, sits unused in a storeroom. The tea he drinks is fine, but it lacks the depth of those unhurried mornings. “It’s just tea now,” he admits. “Something feels missing.”
The samovar’s decline isn’t just about function; it’s about what it represented. Waiting for tea to brew was an invitation to connect. Elders shared tales of bygone winters, children listened, neighbors dropped by. In contrast, today’s tea breaks are often solitary, accompanied by the glow of a smartphone. A recent visit to a middle-class home in Anantnag revealed this shift starkly. The family served kehwa, brewed in minutes using a kettle. The taste was familiar, but the moment felt fleeting. Phones stayed in hand, conversations were brief, and the ritual that once anchored the day was reduced to a quick sip.
Yet, the samovar hasn’t vanished entirely. Along Kashmir’s bustling National Highway, a few roadside tea stalls keep the tradition alive, offering travelers a taste of nostalgia. One such stall, near Qazigund, is run by Ghulam Mohammad, a wiry man in his fifties. His brass samovar, blackened from years of use, sits proudly on a wooden table. As he pours noon chai into small cups, the pink liquid swirls, thick and creamy, paired with a piece of crisp girda bread. “People stop here not just for tea but for the experience,” he says. “The samovar makes them slow down, talk, feel the warmth.” Customers—truck drivers, tourists, locals—linger, discussing everything from politics to the changing seasons. For them, the wait is part of the charm, a rare pause in a fast-moving world.
Another stall, in Latpora near Pampore, draws a similar crowd. The owner, Shahzab, inherited his samovar from his father, who ran the stall before him. “This samovar has stories,” he says, pointing to its dented surface. “It’s not just about tea; it’s about keeping something alive.” On a chilly morning, a group of travelers huddles around, savoring kehwa spiced with cardamom. A tourist from Delhi, Priya, describes it as “unlike anything I’ve tasted. The flavor, the setting—it’s special.” These stalls are more than pitstops; they’re living museums, preserving a fading art form.
Historically, samovars were more than kitchen tools—they were heirlooms. Crafted by artisans, the finest ones bore engravings of paisleys or verses, each telling a story. Passed down through generations, they carried memories of weddings, winters, and late-night gatherings. In contrast, modern samovars, when used, are often stainless steel, mass-produced, and devoid of character. In a village near Baramulla, an elderly woman, Fatima, still uses her great-grandmother’s copper samovar. “It’s heavy, it’s slow, but it’s family,” she says, her hands tracing its worn patterns. Her grandchildren, however, prefer instant tea bags, a sign of changing times.
Kashmir’s winters once revolved around the samovar’s warmth. Families sat together, a kangri tucked under a pheran, a cup of noon chai spreading heat from throat to fingertips. That first sip was a ritual, grounding people to home. Today, electric heaters hum, and tea is often a solo affair. In urban areas, pre-mixed kehwa packets promise authenticity in seconds, but they lack the soul of hand-ground saffron and almonds. A shopkeeper in Srinagar’s Lal Chowk notes, “People buy these packets for convenience, but they always say it’s not the same.”
The samovar’s role extended beyond the home. It was a symbol of hospitality. When guests arrived, it was brought out with pride, its presence signaling warmth and welcome. Cups were refilled, conversations stretched into hours. Now, guests are served quickly, and lingering feels like an imposition. In a recent gathering in Pulwama, tea was served from a kettle, consumed in minutes, and the visit ended abruptly. The host, sensing the shift, remarked, “We used to sit for hours. Now, everyone’s in a hurry.”
Yet, there are holdouts. In rural pockets, families like that of Abdul Rahim in Kupwara cling to tradition. Every evening, he lights his samovar, waiting patiently for the second or third cup—the ones that carry the fullest flavor. “The first cup is never the best,” he says with a smile. His children join him, listening to stories of their ancestors. For them, the samovar is a bridge to the past, a reminder to slow down.
Still, change is inevitable. Even in traditional homes, younger generations lean toward convenience. A teenager in Sopore, Ayesha, respects her family’s samovar but admits, “I like coffee from a machine. It’s quick, and I’m always studying.” Her mother sighs, “She doesn’t know what she’s missing.” This tension—between heritage and modernity—defines Kashmir today.
Will the samovar fade entirely? Perhaps. Future generations may know it only through photographs or museum displays, the taste of noon chai from charcoal a distant memory. But there’s hope. The tea stalls along the highway, the stubborn elders, the artisans still crafting copper samovars—they keep the flame alive. Not for nostalgia, but for what the samovar represents: a reason to pause, to connect, to make time.
Because the samovar isn’t just about tea. It’s about moments—moments that linger, moments that matter. In a world racing forward, it reminds us that some things are worth waiting for.
(Note:Gowher Bhat is a published author, freelance journalist, creative writer, and experienced English instructor based in Kashmir.)
