Dedicated to my mother, Peerzada Masarat Shah—an editor, a writer, and the woman who showed me that food nourishes not just the body but the soul.
Syeda AB Jan
My earliest memories of food are woven into my mother’s kitchen. The scent of saffron and fennel, the rhythmic knead of dough, and her stories that danced with every dish—food in our home was never just sustenance. It was love, history, and culture on a plate. So, when I read an article in *The Hindu* tracing street food to ancient Greece, where only the elite savored such delights, I smiled. In Kashmir, food belongs to all—shared in bustling markets, sacred shrines, and vibrant festivals. As my mother often said, “Real food is for everyone, no matter their wealth.”
A conversation with friends sparked a question: Does Kashmir’s street food culture still thrive, or is it fading under the shadow of fast food chains? Inspired by my mother’s passion for culinary heritage, I ventured to Hazratbal, the shrine where faith, festivity, and flavors intertwine.
The lanes of Hazratbal buzzed like a living cookbook. Vendors’ calls mingled with the sizzle of frying pans, and the air carried the warmth of spices. I imagined my mother here, her discerning eye critiquing each stall: “More salt,” she’d say, or “Fry it slower.” Her love for perfection would have lit up this place. Here’s what I found in Kashmir’s street food heart:
Nader Monje
: Golden, crispy lotus stem fritters, dusted with chili and salt. My mother called them Kashmir’s answer to French fries—bolder, earthier, and steeped in tradition. A vendor near the shrine gate served them piping hot, each bite a crunch of nostalgia.
Tyil Karre: Light, pea-filled fritters, perfect for a quick snack. On rainy days, my mother made these at home, their simplicity a comfort. At Hazratbal, a young vendor flipped them with practiced ease, serving them with a shy smile.
– **Shangram**: Sweet, chewy cornflour balls coated in sugar syrup. My mother paired them with kehwa on chilly afternoons, calling them “winter’s candy.” A stall by the mosque offered them in small, glistening piles, drawing crowds of children.
Masale Tzhot & Kruhun Masale:
Kashmir’s take on shawarma—spiced, hearty flatbreads stuffed with tangy fillings. My mother would chuckle at the world’s obsession with falafels when these existed, affordable and soulful. A vendor near the market rolled them with precision, each bite bursting with flavor.
Monje Gaad: Fried fish, crispy outside, tender within. It evoked memories of family picnics by Dal Lake, where food tasted better under open skies. A lakeside stall served them fresh, the fish glistening with spice.
Lassi with Tzchochwoar: Frothy lassi paired with soft Kashmiri bread. My mother called this duo “a meal for the spirit.” A vendor churned lassi in a clay pot, serving it with warm tzchochwoar, a perfect harmony of textures.
Roath, Basrakh, Pickles, and Thaen: These weren’t just snacks but heirlooms. Roath’s nutty sweetness, basrakh’s crisp layers, tangy pickles, and homemade butter (thaen) were my mother’s pride. A woman vendor offered them in neat stacks, her hands telling stories of tradition.
Tujji: Smoky, spiced barbecues that perfumed the air. My mother called Tujji “an emotion,” uniting strangers over glowing coals. A tujji stall near the shrine’s entrance drew crowds, the meat tender and fragrant with fennel.
For dessert, Kulfi and Matka Ice Cream sealed the meal. My mother deemed them “memory’s sweetener.” A kulfi-wala pushed his cart, slicing creamy wedges that melted on the tongue.
Beyond the food, the vendors’ stories moved me. Ali Mohammad Bhat, a pickle seller, shared how a single Friday at Hazratbal outearned days of labor. Abdul Ahad, fondly called Chacha, has crafted Shangram for over forty years, his weathered hands a testament to resilience. Their lives echoed my mother’s belief: “Every dish hides a struggle, every recipe a history.”
Yet, these flavors are fading. Fast food chains invade the Valley, their glossy burgers overshadowing humble stalls. My mother always said, “True food needs no billboards—just heart.” Kashmiri street food, affordable and rich with heritage, embodies that heart. It needs revival—young entrepreneurs blending hygiene with tradition, innovation with pride.
Leaving Hazratbal, I clutched a paper cone of Nader Monje, its warmth reminding me of my mother. She was an editor, a writer, a guide—but above all, the cook who taught me to taste stories in every bite. Kashmir’s street food may lack glossy labels, but it brims with love. And that’s the flavor she taught me to cherish.
