Page 17 of A Kiss in Kashmir

“So why are we here? I am dying to know! You always seem to have something interesting up your sleeve,” Alina said.

George beamed. “Well, young lady, I have a surprise for you. You see, typically the wazwan, the Kashmiri feast served at weddings, is prepared by a waza, a head chef from a family who migrated to Kashmir centuries ago. It includes around twenty dishes that they cook in large pots over wooden fires.”

“Yes, I knew that,” Sharmila said. “Is this an old waza’s restaurant? I guess we’re in for a treat then.”

“Well, yes and no. Traditionally, wazas were all men. But recently women are being included and cooking wazwan. So, Alina, my dear, for your lovely wedding, I thought we would bring some equality into the kitchen and have a woman chef make your wedding meal.”

As though on cue, a well-dressed Kashmiri woman wearing a chef’s jacket joined them in the entryway. “George, how wonderful to see you again. Are these the wedding guests?”

“Raahat. Yes, these are my friends, Sharmila and her daughter, Alina.”

“Welcome. It will be my honor to serve you my version of the wazwan. I hope you will enjoy.” Raahat’s voice was gentle.

Alina had to admit, George certainly seemed to know Kashmir, but more importantly, he knew how to win her over.

“Please come in.” Raahat guided them into the main dining room. Large red pillows and colorful carpets graced the room, for seating on the floor.

“Please wash your hands and make yourself comfortable. I will bring the food and explain to you all what you are eating.”

Despite her objections to being in Kashmir and having the wedding in this unknown town, Alina found herself excited. The room was filled with aromas of saffron, ghee, and freshly cooked rice.

The trio sat down in one of the larger seating areas. Within minutes, Raahat returned with a large brass plate.

“We call this a trami. This brass plate will soon be filled with food, which we invite you all to share. You will eat with your hands, and the shared plate, well, it is custom, but I also believe that it ties us together in a bond. There is nothing like eating together—the food just tastes better with your fingers and with loved ones eating by your side.”

Raahat piled fragrant white rice onto the center of the plate and topped it with mutton kebabs. “This dish is called tabak maaz. It is deep-fried meat,” she said. “It is one of the first dishes you will be served. There is a lot more food coming, so I am just warning you, from experience, to pace yourself.”

“It’s like fried ribs, Alina. Once you eat this, you will never look at ribs the same way,” George added with a wink.

Sharmila took a bite. “My goodness, this is so crispy on the outside and so tender inside. I can’t wait to try the other dishes.”

“Pace yourself, like she said. Raahat serves up to fifteen or sometimes even twenty-five dishes here for a single meal,” George warned her.

“Oh, I’m fine. I think you both should see how much you are able to eat, you know, at your age,” Alina giggled.

“I am ready, Raahat. Can they give me their order?” An older woman, her head wrapped in a golden scarf, appeared from the kitchen that was deep within the back part of the eatery.

“Yes, please come. Everyone, I would like to introduce you to my mother. George, you have met her, I know. But as you can imagine, I need to introduce her again.”

“Yes, of course,” George said, nodding as Raahat made the introductions. Her mother asked what everyone wanted to drink and was pleased to hear that this was to be a wedding feast.

“Oh, you will make a beautiful bride, child. You will bring great blessings to any family that you are a part of.” She added a few sentences in Kashmiri and both Sharmila and Alina turned to George for a translation.

George told them, “She is the loveliest human I have ever met. Alina, she said a special blessing for you. She said, ‘May your love be as pure as the snow, as refreshing as the rain and your bond be as strong as the roots of the old Chinars.’ Now, please tell her what you want to drink.”

As her mother disappeared into the kitchen, Raahat looked a little concerned.

“What is going on? Is everything okay?” Sharmila asked.

“Oh, yes,” Raahat said. “My mother is losing her memory slowly, and to be honest, very painfully. I like to keep her engaged and she likes being here. The only thing is that she will not remember you all or your order. So please bear with me.”

Alina was clearly touched by the love Raahat displayed for her mother. She was quick to get up to hug the young woman.

“We totally understand. Please know that this makes the meal even more special. Because now, each time she meets us, she’ll bless us all again,” Sharmila said.

Raahat began to bring out all her specialties, including traditional rista—mutton meatballs in red gravy—and rogan josh, a ghee-laden braised meat curry. Each dish was better than the last. Lamb cooked in a yogurt sauce, lamb chunks with fennel, lamb in milk, lamb roasted over coals—lamb, it seemed to Alina, cooked in over twenty ways. The humble potato cooked in yogurt tried its best to find a place, too. The meal was complemented with a walnut chutney, a spicy tomato chutney, and saffron rice. Raahat made several breads which, she informed the guests, were not typically part of a wazwan, but she enjoyed pairing each one of the dishes with a different style of bread. By now, the meal was only halfway through.

Raahat’s mother came out with various drinks, none of which matched the order, as Raahat had predicted, but then sat down with them and explained to them with a gentle and kind tone some of the dishes.

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