Night of the Wanwun Revellers

After 16 years of rushed marriages conducted in broad daylight—because darkness always meant fear—the groom’s journey to his bride’s house now takes place late in the evening, even deep in rural Kashmir.

September witnessed a record number of marriages, especially as the month of fasting begins in early October, breaking the traditional wedding season.

But while fear may have evaporated with the recent calm, its shadows still linger. So Ghulam Rasool Bhat, the groom’s father, made it a point to inform the three army camps situated in the nearby villages of Patoosa, Trugpora and Watergam, in writing. An application was also despatched to the neighbouring police station at Dangiwacha.

Bhat says this has become necessary after last July, when the army killed three teenagers from a marriage party in Bangargund, a village not far from Budhan. They had ventured out of the wedding tent at midnight for a smoke and walked into an ambush.

Budhan is nestled amidst thick pine forests. But it has no hangover from Bangargund. ‘‘We know about the incident. But we have informed the army officers. We hope nothing will happen,’’ says Master Ghulam Hassan, a teacher, his face betraying little apprehension of any imminent trouble. ‘‘Generally, the army doesn’t harass baraatis now.’’

The raucous wedding has upturned the normally sleepy village. In the chinar and walnut tree-canopied space between some 30 households, children run wild, playing hide-and-seek and bursting crackers.

The party started yesterday. As evening approaches, after a hectic day of preparations, the night of the henna or mehndi raat has already begun. In a large canvas tent, women sing and dance to the rub-a-dub of tumbakhnaries (drum-like musical instruments). This night is not for sleep.

Kashmiri folk singers, who were on the verge of extinction during the turmoil, have also returned. Famous folk artistes like Gulzar Ganai, Fayaz Sheikh and Manzoor Sheikh, who charge anywhere between Rs 15,000 and Rs 25,000, haven’t had a single free night during this jam-packed wedding month.

As the night deepens, a copper bowl with wet henna is taken around. And as the women sitting in clusters sing wanwun, or folk songs praising the groom, a green paste of henna is carefully painted on excited, outstretched palms. The only male present is the groom, who traditionally initiates the ritual when an elderly woman of the family dabs it on the little finger of his left hand. The pitch of the songs rises, as if trying to take the celebration to its climax.

Subsequently, relatives and friends weave their way through the crowd to reach the groom and wrap crisp currency notes around his henna-dyed finger. This is for good luck.

When the shy groom makes a small gaffe, a wave of feminine laughter sweeps the tent. Then the female relatives scan the crowd for friends of the groom, their eyes searching for bachelors. As soon as they find one they surround him, pull him next to the groom and dip his little finger in mehndi. This tradition, Kashmiri grandmothers believe, is a good omen—a ritual that expedites marriage.

When the muezzin calls for prayers at the break of dawn, the women in this tent of celebration thin out but the singing continues. The morning begins with steaming kehva served in copper samovars along with crisp kulchas.

It is however, just the beginning of a hectic day of feasting and wazwan.

Once the late lunch is served, four around each rice-filled copper plate, it is time for the groom and his entourage to head out on their journey. The bride’s house is dressed with almost as much care as the bride, and both await the groom’s arrival.

The din reaches a crescendo as groups of women, standing clasped shoulder-to-shoulder, follow the departing groom singing wanwun, or Kashmiri wedding songs.

At Budhan, a procession of around 20 vehicles makes its way through a narrow winding road across thick pine hills and rolling orchards, through drowsy hamlets shadowed by flaming chinars, thick hanging walnuts and dense elms, their gossamer branches projecting ghost-like onto the road. It is autumn in Kashmir and the shrill noise of hedgeflies rings throughout.

Scenes like these were ubiquitous across the Valley in September. ‘‘There are 50 groups of wazas (cooks) in the Rafiabad belt (a tehsil of about 50 villages, including Budhan, in a corner of Baramulla) and all were busy through the month,’’ says Habibullah, the head chef of the group at Ghulam Rasool Bhat’s house. His cooks are seated in a row, singing folk songs as they grind the mutton for Ristas and Gushtaba (balls of minced mutton)—a famous Kashmiri delicacy cooked in saffron-flavoured gravy and yoghurt.

Seventy-five kilometres from Budhan, Srinagar’s more than 500 families of wazas, too, have no time for anything but cooking wazwan and shuttling from one marriage to another. ‘‘This month has been quite hectic. I have hardly found a day to rest,’’ says Ghulam Hassan Khan, a famous chef of Kawdara, Srinagar.

The wedding season has brought life and light to the streets that were once deserted at night. Now, roads across the Valley are witness to a criss-cross of wedding parties: A blinking caravan of 15 to 20 vehicles carrying the groom, the bride and their guests. The party goes on late into the night, a nostalgic throwback to the years before the turmoil began.

Even in the far-flung, foothill hamlet of Budhan, for the first time in 16 years, there is room for celebration and even for bursting of crackers.

And for once the security forces do not mind, although it will take time and an enduring paradigm shift before Bungargund and other incidents fade from memory.

When Basharat, the groom, returns to Budhan at around 10 pm, the villagers come out to greet him. His arrival is announced by the honking of his caravan from miles away. Today, the late night ramble of vehicles on its winding roads does not scare Budhan. And as 25-year-old Aqeela Akhtar takes her first steps into a brick house that will be her new home, there is a rapturous choir of love songs.

As the night deepens and silence descends across Budhan, Basharat’s house, with its blinking fairy lights, stands out in the corner of the village.