Badr Jan
In the misty valleys of Kashmir, where the air once carried the soulful aroma of Wazwan, we’ve traded heritage for a culinary arms race. The revered multi-course feast, a hallmark of Kashmiri hospitality, has morphed from a cultural masterpiece into a grotesque display of excess. What was once a modest seven-to-eleven-dish affair, lovingly crafted by Wazas with stories in every spice, is now a 70-dish extravaganza that could bankrupt a middle-class family faster than you can say “Tabakh Maaz.” And who’s to blame? Spoiler alert: it’s all of us—society, Molvies, Mohalla Committees, and that nosy neighbor who whispers, “Bas yeh hi khana hai?”
The Wazwan Explosion: A Gastronomic Game of Thrones
Picture a Kashmiri wedding today: a dazzling spectacle where the bride and groom are mere props, overshadowed by a buffet that could feed a small nation. The menu reads like a chef’s fever dream—seekh kebabs, methi maaz, four types of Gushtaba, and something called “saffron-dusted trout with almond foam” that sounds suspiciously like it was invented on a reality cooking show. Live counters? Check. Ice-sculpted Rista? Check. A chef flipping kebabs under a TikTok ring light? Double check.
It’s not a wedding anymore; it’s a MasterChef audition where the judges are your 300 closest relatives, all armed with opinions sharper than a Waza’s knife. “Only one type of kebab?” gasps Auntie No. 47, clutching her shawl as if you’ve insulted her lineage. “Where’s the truffle-infused Dum Aloo?” she demands, conveniently forgetting that her own wedding in 1985 featured phirni and a prayer.
Middle-Class Misery: Caught Between Culture and Catastrophe
For the average Kashmiri family, a wedding is no longer a celebration—it’s a survival gauntlet. The math is brutal: invite 500 guests to avoid social exile, multiply by 70 dishes to dodge the “kanjoos” label, add a DJ, a drone photographer, and a dessert table with macarons (because phirni is apparently too pedestrian now). The result? A bill that could fund a small startup and a family left with financial indigestion, real indigestion, and a lingering case of Post-Traumatic Mutton Disorder (PTMD).
The pressure is relentless. Skip the trending “pistachio-crusted lamb chop,” and you’re not just cheap—you’re a cultural traitor. Serve the classic seven dishes, and the Mohalla Committee will whisper about your “declining standards” at the next Friday prayer. It’s a lose-lose scenario, and the middle class is the punching bag.
The Molvies and Mohalla Committees: Enablers of the Excess
Let’s talk about the real culprits: the Molvies and Mohalla Committees, the self-appointed guardians of tradition who’ve turned weddings into competitive cattle shows. These are the folks who nod sagely at sermons about simplicity, then tut-tut at a wedding with “only” 20 dishes. “What will people say?” they murmur, as if society will collapse because you didn’t serve a fifth variation of Gushtaba.
Molvies, with their moral megaphones, could steer us back to sanity. They could preach that a marriage’s success lies in love and commitment, not in how many kebabs you can cram onto a plate. Instead, some are busy blessing menus longer than their sermons, silently endorsing the madness. One Molvi was overheard at a wedding muttering, “This Tabakh Maaz lacks depth,” as if he’s Gordon Ramsay in a skullcap. Where’s the fatwa against financial ruin disguised as hospitality?
Mohalla Committees are no better. These neighborhood vigilantes, who once settled disputes over stray goats, now police wedding menus with the zeal of Michelin inspectors. “Add more dishes,” they advise, “or the groom’s side will think you’re stingy.” Never mind that the bride’s father is selling his ancestral orchard to afford the extra seekh. These committees could cap guest lists or standardize menus, but instead, they fan the flames of excess, ensuring every wedding is a potluck of pride and pressure.
The Casualties: Wazas, Waistlines, and Wisdom
Spare a thought for the Wazas, the unsung artists of Wazwan, now reduced to assembly-line cooks. They toil for 18-hour shifts, juggling demands for “fusion” dishes that sound like they were invented by a food blogger with a thesaurus. Their craft, once a symphony of flavor, is now a cacophony of excess, stretched thinner than the naan at a budget wedding.
Then there’s our health. If cholesterol had a hall of fame, Kashmiri weddings would be its star exhibit. Guests waddle away, groaning under the weight of mutton and regret, while hosts pray their arteries hold out longer than their savings. And the culture? It’s drowning in a sea of saffron syrup, replaced by a hollow show of wealth that mistakes quantity for quality.
A Modest Proposal: Stop the Madness, Save the Mutton
It’s time to hit the brakes before we all need stents. Here’s a revolutionary idea: let’s return to the classic seven-to-eleven-dish Wazwan. Serve Rista, Tabakh Maaz, and Rogan Josh with pride, not as an apology for not having “deconstructed kebab sliders.” Focus on hospitality, not ostentation. Imagine a wedding where the bride’s smile outshines the menu, and guests leave with memories, not heartburn.
Molvies, step up. Preach simplicity as fiercely as you preach piety. Tell families that Allah doesn’t judge a nikah by the number of meat dishes. Mohalla Committees, do your job—set community standards that prioritize sanity over show-off. Cap guest lists at 200. Ban dishes with names longer than three syllables. And society? Stop side-eyeing the host who serves “only” phirni for dessert. Your taste buds won’t remember the fourth kebab, but your wallet and waistline will thank you for restraint.
Let’s Make Weddings Wazwan Again
Kashmir, we’re better than this. Wazwan is our pride, not our prison. Let’s stop turning weddings into culinary cage matches where the only winners are caterers and cardiologists. The middle class deserves to celebrate without selling their souls, and our culture deserves to shine without being buried under a pile of leftover mutton.
So, the next time you’re at a wedding, savor the warmth of the welcome, not the 17th dish. And if someone complains about the “limited” menu, hand them an antacid and a reality check. Because in the end, nobody remembers the extra Tabakh Maaz—but they’ll never forget the joy of a marriage that didn’t cost a family its future.
(Note: Auther is Columnist, corporate veteran,—writing to expose injustice and challenge power.)
