When the Kitchen Was the Heart of Kashmir

Rotten meat scandal exposes how far we've strayed from the kitchens that once gave our food soul.

- Muskan Malik

I remember the sound before the smell.

The crackle of wood in the daan, the soft thud of logs settling, and the hiss when fresh meat hit a hot pot.

My grandmother would be there, apron on, head covered, having performed ablution before stepping into the kitchen. She moved with the steady grace of the fire itself.

The meat, bought fresh from a trusted butcher, was cleaned before our eyes, washed, and cooked within the hour.

In Kashmiri family, meat was honour. It welcomed guests, celebrated marriages, and marked festivals.

Every Eid, engagement, or birth carried the scent of something simmering over the hearth. Women from neighbouring homes would gather, sleeves rolled up, kneading minced meat for goshtaba, grinding spices on the stone saddle quern, and stirring rice in large copper pots.

Young brides learned more than recipes. They learned the cultural art of cooking wrapped in laughter and gossip.

Those kitchens were about community. Preparing food together wove relationships tighter than any ceremony. Patience, care, and unspoken love in each dish gave it a flavour no machine or gas stove could match.