Those Window Talks of Rural Kashmir

PHERAN DIARIES – 4

By: Dr Sanjay Parva

There was a time when a village wasn’t just a place. It was a living, breathing network of voices, flavors, stories, and glances passed across walls and courtyards. In villages like that of mine and almost around around it, each cuddled in serene folds of rural Kashmir, life once thrived on the simplest of rituals – sharing, talking, waiting, listening. These were not mere habits; they were the very soul of our cultural bonhomie, now slipping silently into memory.

Today, doors remain closed, windows curtained, and voices muffled by television sets and mobile screens. But not long ago, they echoed with the clink of steel tiffin lids, the rustle of cotton pherans, and the unmistakable laughter of women who carried entire worlds in their conversations. They discussed the world that they were not much aware about

Food was as central to rural life and as soulful as these conversations, and food was never meant to be contained within the four walls of a home. It traveled, from kitchen to kitchen, plate to plate, carried in hands that knew no distinction between ‘mine’ and ‘yours.’

When a family prepared something special – tsoonth wangan (apple-brinjal curry), modur pulao (sweet saffron rice), or the winter delicacy hokh syun (sun-dried vegetables) – the first instinct wasn’t to taste it themselves, but to send a small serving to the neighbor’s home.

Sometimes it was wrapped in a steel plate covered with a flat brass lid, other times tucked carefully into, guess what, a a steel or a glass tumbler, still warm from the hearth. A child was often the courier, their small feet padding across the muddy lanes, carrying not just food but an unspoken message: we remember you today. Everyone remembered everyone else every day. And when someone was not heard about, an envoy, again usually a child, was sent to inquire.

And no exchange was ever one-sided. Within hours, another dish would arrive, from another house – a piece of parched vegetable sautéed with something ususual, a bowl of suji halwa with its upper layer crusted by the wind, a slice of freshly made makai-tschot (corn roti). There was no accounting. Only giving. Only receiving.

Almost every home had at least one window that opened onto the street, usually from the kitchen or a side room. And that window, more than any doorway, was the heart of the village’s social life.

From morning till dusk, women leaned out of these wooden frames, elbows resting on sill, dupattas tucked around their shoulders, calling out to passers-by, greeting neighbors, and launching conversations that often lasted for hours, across lanes and air.

“Azz kehe ronuv su’en”?”

(Hey dear, what have you cooked today?)

Or

“Tsche buztha yi khaber… magar me’en drey chei, inn mu’en wanhas?”

(Did you hear this news, but I get you swear by me, don’t even tell her I told you this?)

Gossip flowed not maliciously, but as a current of closeness, of shared life. Stories were embroidered with sighs and laughter. The news of a birth, an engagement, a quarrel, or a guest arriving, and even someone running a light fever – it all passed through these open windows, as fluidly as sunlight.

Sometimes two or three women would gather at a single window – leaning, listening, knitting, shelling peas, or just sipping chai, while the afternoon sun warmed their faces. Children played below, goats shuffled past, and the air smelled faintly of wet earth and firewood.

Every now and then, especially in late afternoons, these conversations would spill out of the window and onto the doorfronts. A visitor would arrive unannounced – not for anything urgent, just to sit, to breathe, to be. To be was to live life to the fullest.

The host would bring out a wicker stool, a copper bowl of water, and a kettle of noon chai. The guest would settle in, sometimes staying long after dusk, even if no meal was served, even if nothing important was said.

Silences were not uncomfortable then. They were shared, respected, even enjoyed. Time moved slowly, as if it too paused at the door, reluctant to move on.

In the winter months, women wrapped in thick pherans and warming their hands on kangris would gather on sun-warmed steps. Jokes flew, matchmakings were planned, songs were recalled, old feuds were resolved, and someone always mentioned how the snow this year was heavier than the last.

But this generation would always ask, where did that Kashmir go?

Today, those doors are locked. Windows are kept shut for security. GI sheets have replaced picket fences and concrete has plastered hearts. Conversations are held in short bursts on phones, if at all. Neighbors, though just a wall apart, can go months without speaking.

No one sends over a dish just because it smelled good. No child is sent skipping down the lane with a warm roti wrapped in a napkin. The widow’s window that once looked out onto the street is now bricked up. The gossip has moved online. The warmth is gone.

But sometimes, when the power cuts out in the middle of a storm, and candles are lit, and the rain taps gently at the window – the memory returns. The image of a woman leaning out of her window, calling her neighbor, holding a bowl of something freshly made. The laughter, the scent, the rustling cotton of a pheran brushing past the doorframe.

It was a world not of possessions, but of presence. Of belonging to each other in ways we’ve forgotten how to name.

And perhaps, deep in some village lane of mine and someone else; ‘s village, if you walk slow enough, you might still hear it – the faint creak of a wooden window, the hush of footsteps, and a voice saying, “Here, this is for you.”

An author, a communications strategist, Dr Sanjay Parva was a debut contestant in 2024 Assembly Constituency. Email: [email protected]