The Smoke That Stayed

The Jajeer once brought people together in Kashmiri villages and verandas. But what it leaves behind—in lungs and lives—tells another story.

- Manzoor Akash

In a small rice field outside Shopian, an old man called out to his granddaughter. “Ate Sozze Jajeer Yaad Kareth Yore,” he said. Don't forget to bring the hubble-bubble.

She hurried back, carrying the brass hookah that had sat in their home for decades. He lit the tobacco and leaned back against a pile of hay, eyes half-closed. The sun was soft that day, and smoke curled into the serene surroundings.

This scene might sound like something from a folktale, but in parts of rural Kashmir, it’s still real. The Jajeer—a handcrafted, water-based pipe often mistaken for a safer form of smoking—is more than a habit here. It's a memory, a marker of identity, a centerpiece of community. And it’s slowly killing people.

Before cigarettes ever reached the Valley, the Jajeer was everywhere. You could hear its bubbling sound in village courtyards, roadside shops, and even farmland. It wasn't just for passing time. It brought people together. Preparing the Chillum, the clay bowl where tobacco was packed, meant neighbours might drop in. No invitation was needed. The shared smoke did all the talking.