Dr Rekha Jad
Kashmiri cuisine has earned accolades over centuries for its remarkable diversity and depth, delighting gourmets across the world. It is not merely food—it is a magical culinary tradition, steeped in culture, patience, and memory and nostalgia.
Among Kashmiri Pandits, culinary practices have long followed a distinctive ethos. Traditionally, garlic and onion were barred from our kitchens; elders even regarded carrots and tomatoes as “forbidden fruits.” Lamb and sheep were welcomed with reverence, while chicken and eggs were firmly excluded—often dismissed as unclean due to the birds’ feeding habits. These beliefs, passed down through generations, shaped a cuisine that relied not on abundance of ingredients, but on discipline and finesse.
Growing up, I vividly recall my school and college friends eagerly awaiting Shivratri, not for the rituals alone, but to savour the legendary spreads prepared by my mother. They would happily gatecrash our home to feast on dum aloo, nadru yakhni, palak nadru, paneer and more. For many non-Kashmiris, it was unfathomable that such heavenly flavours could emerge without a trace of garlic, onion, or tomatoes. The inevitable questions followed—about recipes, processes, and secrets.
The answer lies in the mindful use of a handful of spices: mustard oil, saunf (fennel) powder, Kashmiri chilli, dry ginger, turmeric, and heeng. These few condiments, when treated with patience and precision, yield a multitude of flavours and textures. Equally vital is the careful selection of ingredients—the perfect shape and quality of potatoes for dum aloo, or the Kashmiri knack for instructing a butcher to reserve the chest pieces for yakhni and limbs for rogan josh, or choosing large fish fillets for traditional fish curries. This culinary discernment is almost instinctive, ingrained in every Kashmiri household.
Yet, while Kashmiri cuisine continues to awe, much of its true heritage is quietly slipping into oblivion. A colleague, Sushant—an avid cook with a passion for authentic Kashmiri food—recently made an observation that struck a chord. What most restaurants and luxury hotels present as Kashmiri cuisine is a predictable repertoire: dum aloo, rajma, nadru, haakh, paneer, and a range of popular non-vegetarian dishes from rogan josh to kabargah. Missing, however, are the unsung dishes that once dominated Kashmiri kitchens for centuries.
Traditionally, winters in Kashmir meant kitchens simmering with dried vegetables—pumpkin, brinjal, fish, turnips, tomatoes, and beans. In summer, greens were strung into garlands and hung out to dry, later becoming winter staples when snowbound landscapes made fresh produce inaccessible. These dried ingredients gave rise to a rich array of dishes: dried tomato and brinjal curries, dried pumpkin with chickpeas, turnip cooked with mutton, dried fish paired with a straw-like vegetable called bhum, and even preparations of dried collard greens. There is also waarimuth, a local variant of rajma, which when cooked with turnips becomes a truly tantalising dish.
Sadly, many of these preparations are on the verge of extinction. Today’s children rarely encounter them, and restaurants almost never serve them. What is needed is a conscious effort to preserve, promote, and practise these authentic heritage flavours within our homes—so that the taste buds remain connected to the true Kashmir ka zayka, and a priceless culinary legacy is not lost to time.
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