The Sacred Story of Isband in Kashmiri Weddings
Peerzada Nazima Shah
In the hushed prelude to a Kashmiri wedding, before the bride’s laughter echoes through the courtyard or the wazwan’s aromas summon guests to the dastarkhwan, a quieter ritual unfolds. Tiny brown seeds—isband, the humble Peganum harmala—crackle softly in an earthen kangri or on a simple metal plate. Their smoke rises in delicate curls, carrying a sharp, earthy fragrance into the crisp mountain air.
To an outsider, it might seem a fleeting gesture. Yet for Kashmiris, this smoke holds centuries of tenderness, the breath of unspoken prayers, and the gentle promise of protection.
In valley homes, isband appears at life’s thresholds: a traveler’s departure, a child’s recovery from illness, a bride’s first steps into her new world. An elder lifts the vessel, circling it slowly around the person while murmuring dua. The motion is unhurried, almost a lullaby in smoke—“Bismillah, nazar na lage”—a shield woven from love and memory.
The belief is neither grand nor dogmatic: isband wards off nazar, the shadow of envy that can dim joy. It is care made visible, affection translated into ritual. No one claims it replaces medicine or faith; it simply accompanies both, like a grandmother’s hand on a fevered brow.
Botanically, Peganum harmala is intriguing. Its seeds hold harmine and harmaline—alkaloids noted in ancient Persian and Ayurvedic texts for soothing lungs, calming nerves, or purifying spaces. Scholars call it a bridge between body and spirit. Kashmiris, however, rarely speak of chemistry. For them, isband is emotion made fragrant.
Every household keeps a small tin in the kitchen or near the Qur’an. It emerges not as spectacle but as reflex—when a newborn stirs in her cradle, when grief weighs heavy, when a daughter crosses the threshold in hennaed hands. The same smoke that once drifted over saffron fields now blesses city apartments, unchanged in its quiet purpose.
At weddings, isband finds its deepest poetry. As the bride prepares to leave her childhood home, tears glisten alongside kohl-lined smiles. Women gather around her, their dupattas brushing the floor. One lights the seeds; another fans the smoke upward in slow arcs. The scent mingles with rosewater and walnut wood—sharp, grounding, maternal.
“Tche chani yaar, safar asaan”—May your journey be gentle, my dear.
The words are soft, almost swallowed by the crackle. No one explains the ritual; everyone understands. The smoke is a mother’s embrace extended beyond arms, a father’s silent vow carried on air.
In that circle, time folds. The seeds once gathered by great-grandmothers on hillside treks now bless a bride who will video-call her parents from Dubai. The vessel may be brass or steel, the hands young or veined, but the motion is the same—three circles clockwise, a pause, a breath, a prayer.
Modernity arrives in LED lights and drone shots, yet isband persists. A cousin slips the tin into her clutch alongside lip gloss. The planner arranges floral arches, but the bride’s aunt insists on a corner for the kangri. When the photographer asks, “What’s this for?” the answer is a smile: “Bas, dil ko sukoon.” Just for the heart’s peace.
Even in diaspora weddings—London, Toronto, New Jersey—someone mails a pouch of isband from Srinagar. It travels in suitcases beside saffron and shawls, arriving like a whisper from the Jhelum. The smoke rises thinner in foreign air, but the circle forms all the same.
There are moments when the ritual falters. A young bride, educated in Delhi, hesitates—“Isn’t this old-fashioned?” Her grandmother lights the seeds anyway. As the scent fills the room, the bride’s shoulders soften. She doesn’t need to believe in magic; she believes in her grandmother’s trembling hands.
Isband asks for no dogma, only continuity. It does not compete with nikah or mehndi; it complements them. Like the walnut wood samovar brewing kahwa, it is background music to life’s milestones—present, unobtrusive, essential.
In an age of algorithms and anxiety, such rituals offer ballast. They remind us that protection need not be loud. A pinch of seeds, a murmured blessing, a shared inhale—these are enough to say, You are not alone.
As the last curl of smoke dissolves into the evening sky, it carries no demand for proof. It simply lingers, like the memory of a mother’s lullaby, long after the wedding drums fall silent.
And in that fragrance—sharp, fleeting, eternal—lies the truest vow a Kashmiri wedding makes: that love, like faith, needs no spectacle to endure.
