Gowher Bhat
To speak of Kashmir without invoking Wazwan is to leave a melody half-sung. Picture a vibrant Kashmiri wedding, where a copper traem gleams under a canopy of anticipation, surrounded by locals and wide-eyed tourists, all hushed in reverence before the first bite. Wazwan is no mere meal—it’s a ritual, a performance, a tapestry of flavors woven into the very fabric of Kashmiri identity. It’s the kind of feast that leaves you plotting your next visit before you’ve even finished the last morsel.
From weddings to festivals, housewarmings to reunions, Wazwan is the heartbeat of Kashmir’s most cherished gatherings. Its presence isn’t just expected—it’s non-negotiable. Rooted in royal traditions and perfected by generations of master chefs, or wazas, Wazwan is a culinary art form that tells the story of a people. “I came to Kashmir for the scenery,” says Sophie, a British tourist who stumbled upon a Wazwan feast in Srinagar, “but I left obsessed with Gushtaba. It’s like the food hugged my soul.”
The name Wazwan—derived from waz (cook) and wan (place)—hints at its origins. Legend has it that chefs from Persia and Central Asia, traveling the Silk Route, brought their culinary finesse to Kashmir’s verdant valleys. Here, their techniques merged with local ingenuity, preserved not in cookbooks but in the rhythmic pounding of meat and the flicker of firewood-lit stoves. Passed from father to son, apprentice to master, this knowledge is a living archive of Kashmiri pride.
A traditional Wazwan is a lavish, multi-course affair, sometimes boasting up to 36 dishes, though even a modest spread of ten to twelve is a masterclass in flavor. Standouts include Rogan Josh, a lamb curry glowing with crimson warmth; Rista, silken meatballs bathed in red chili gravy; Gushtaba, velvety orbs in a yogurt-based sauce; Tabak Maaz, crispy fried lamb ribs that crunch with every bite; Marchwangan Korma, a fiery lamb dish that dares you to keep up; and Aab Gosht, lamb simmered in spiced milk. Each dish is a labor of love, demanding not just skill but soul. “I watched a waza pound lamb for Gushtaba,” recalls Arjun, a Delhi food blogger, “and it was like watching a drummer in a trance—pure rhythm, pure devotion.”
Preparation begins days in advance, with firewood as the preferred fuel, its slow burn coaxing out flavors no gas stove can match. The waza, a revered figure, orchestrates this culinary ballet. A grand Wazwan might involve a small army: spice grinders, meat washers, fire tenders, and servers, all moving in sync. For locals like Ayesha, a Srinagar native, the waza’s craft is sacred. “My uncle was a waza,” she says, eyes gleaming. “When he cooked, the neighborhood knew a feast was coming. His Rista was so good, people still talk about it.”
The unveiling of the traem is Wazwan’s crescendo. Four diners gather around each shared copper platter, sitting cross-legged on the floor. Before eating, hands are cleansed with the tash-t-naer, a portable basin and jug—an act of purity that sets the stage. When the lid lifts, a collective gasp follows. Saffron-flecked rice, glistening meats, and vibrant gravies dazzle the eyes. “It’s like opening a treasure chest,” says Maria, a Spanish tourist who joined a local family’s feast. “I didn’t know where to start, so I just followed their lead and dug in with my hands.”
Wazwan’s magic lies in its communal spirit. Strangers become friends over a traem, as stories and laughter flow. For locals, it’s a ritual of connection. “My best Wazwan memory?” muses Bilal, a Kashmiri cab driver. “Sneaking extra Tabak Maaz as a kid while my cousins distracted the adults. We got caught, but the scolding was worth it.” Tourists, too, are swept into this warmth. “I was nervous about eating with my hands,” admits Liam, an Australian backpacker, “but the family I sat with made me feel like I belonged. Now I’m dreaming of Yakhni back in Sydney.”
Beyond its flavors, Wazwan is an economic lifeline. A single feast can employ dozens, from butchers in Safa Kadal to spice traders in Maharaj Gunj and copper craftsmen in Shehr-e-Khaas. “Wazwan isn’t just food—it’s our livelihood,” says Rafiq, a Srinagar spice vendor. “When a big order comes, the whole market buzzes.” This ripple effect underscores Wazwan’s role as both cultural and commercial bedrock.
Today, Wazwan is stepping onto a global stage. Young Kashmiri chefs are reimagining its classics—think Tabak Maaz tacos or Rogan Josh-stuffed ravioli—blending tradition with innovation. While purists grumble, others, like chef Zainab, see it as evolution. “I made Rista sliders for a pop-up in Mumbai,” she says. “People went wild. It’s still Wazwan, just wearing a new outfit.” Social media has amplified this reach, with food bloggers and filmmakers documenting wazas at work, digitizing recipes, and archiving oral histories.
For Kashmiris, Wazwan is deeply personal. It’s the scent of Yakhni on a winter evening, the pride of hosting a flawless feast, or the thrill of a second helping snuck under a parent’s nose. “My grandmother’s Wazwan was legendary,” says Mehreen, a student in Srinagar. “She’d supervise the wazas like a general, and her Gushtaba? Unbeatable.” Tourists echo this sentiment. “I’ll never forget my first traem,” says Sophie, the British traveler. “It wasn’t just the food—it was the love around it.”
Wazwan is more than cuisine—it’s memory, belonging, a call to linger. It demands you eat with your hands, meet a stranger’s gaze, and savor the moment. When the traem is cleared and the final sip of kehwa warms your throat, what lingers is not just flavor but feeling—a story to carry, a heartbeat to share.
That is Wazwan’s enduring spell: not just the grand symphony of Kashmiri cuisine, but its soul.
(Bio: Gowher Bhat is a published author, freelance journalist, creative writer, and English instructor based in Kashmir.)
