Wild Rue, warm memories, and waning traditions—exploring a Kashmiri ritual that still whispers through the smoke.
A vast and precious part of our cultural heritage—woven with the threads of ancient practices, vibrant traditions, and communal memories—is gradually slipping through our fingers. With each passing day, we seem to care less, turning a blind eye to what once gave us our distinct identity. In our growing tendency to imitate elements of foreign cultures, often unconsciously, we are steadily erasing the essence of who we are. Square pegs in round holes, so to speak. Yet, all hope is not lost. The sands of time may be slipping, but they haven’t run out. As Paulo Coelho once beautifully wrote, “When you want something, all the universe conspires in helping you to achieve it.” What we need is intent—a shared will to protect what is ours.
Among the few surviving cultural practices, albeit scarcely noticed now, is the tradition of burning Izband—known in English as Wild Rue, and botanically as Peganum Harmala. This small, hardy shrub, widespread across the subtropical zones of India and particularly abundant in regions like Kashmir and Ladakh, has been a fixture in our religious and cultural rituals since time immemorial. The ritual of burning its seeds, releasing aromatic smoke, is believed to drive away the evil eye and usher in protection, purity, and positivity. It’s a sacred act, a spiritual cleansing steeped in symbolism and belief.
In Kashmiri tradition, Izband is burnt on numerous occasions marked by joy, change, or vulnerability: weddings, housewarmings, the laying of a foundation stone, the announcement of examination results, the opening of a new shop, or the beginning of a new relationship. Even during the annual Tulip Festival, this ritual is part of the welcome extended to tourists—a fragrant gesture of hospitality and goodwill.
Historically, Izband was burnt in the traditional Kangri—a portable earthen firepot wrapped in wicker—which was once ubiquitous across Kashmir. Whether inside homes or outside, the Kangri served as both a source of warmth and a spiritual vessel. Over time, however, societal changes have altered how we carry out the ritual. Today, with an increasing awareness of health and air quality, the practice has been modified. The seeds are now mostly burnt outdoors, placed in a traditional Kashmiri copper vessel called the Izband Soz. This handcrafted artifact, a marvel of local metalwork, adds visual grandeur to the occasion, even as the smoke is no longer welcomed indoors.
There was a time when no Kashmiri household was complete without a small store of Izband. A pinch sprinkled onto hot charcoal in a Kangri would crackle and pop, releasing a soothing aroma that filled the space with a sense of divine presence. The act was deeply rooted in faith—the ritual known locally as Yezband Za’alun was considered auspicious, bringing happiness, protection, and harmony. It wasn’t just about superstition; it was about connection—between people, seasons, beliefs, and history.
Izband is a native plant, deeply embedded in our natural landscape. Often found near graveyards, it grows alongside other flora that once defined Kashmiri identity: Tul Kul (mulberry), Boo’en (chinar tree), Brai Kul (a rare species), Mazarmond (Iris Kashmiriana), and Bremji Kul (Celtis australis). During the autumn season, when the plant dries, its seeds fall and are collected for future use. Though it rarely grows taller than a foot, its spiritual stature is far greater.
What’s fascinating is how Izband was so cherished that people even cultivated it along with Zuer (cumin seeds) on their rooftops, especially on Burza Pash (birch-bark rooftops), giving us a glimpse into old Kashmir’s unique blend of utility and tradition. These practices, though now largely forgotten, tell stories of a culture once deeply in sync with its environment. Our Pandit brethren, while not using Izband, had a similar custom—burning Dupa, known in English as rhubarb (Rheum australe botanically). Both plants, when burned, emit a distinctive fragrance, encapsulating a shared belief across communities in the power of smoke to cleanse and protect.
Personally, this tradition brings back a flood of childhood memories. I recall the excitement of attending weddings in the neighborhood, the air buzzing with celebration and the sweet songs of Wanwun echoing across the courtyards. I can still hear the words of a traditional song sung by women to bless the groom:
“Isband Za’alan Yena Guil Nutnai, Peer Ho Rutnai Athenai Kyeth.
Isband Zalai Saede Aaftabus, Ro’y Kar Khanai Kabus Kun…”
Roughly translated, it means: “While burning Izband, oh bridegroom, may your hands not tremble. Religious elders will carry you with pride. We burn Izband for you like a rising sun—now turn yourself toward the House of God.” The groom was symbolized as the sun (Afta’ab), and the bride as the moon (Zoon). An elderly lady would perform the ritual with great care, holding a beautifully adorned Kangri and moving it around the bride and groom to cast off any evil gaze. It was believed that “Izband Jalay, Doushmun Galay”—the burning of Izband would vanquish hidden enemies.
As children, we were often too distracted by the more immediate joys—collecting the candies and coins tossed toward the couple by the Izband Baye (the woman entrusted with the burning)—to truly grasp the ritual’s depth. But the aroma, that rich titch-titch popping sound, has stayed with me. It’s etched in my memory like a sacred scent of the past, still rising from the ashes of time.
Today, that Kangri has largely been replaced by the Izband Soz, and the elder women by younger girls. The form has changed, but the spirit, however faint, still lingers.
In the process of writing this piece, I reached out to one of Kashmir’s most celebrated poets and satirists, Zareef Ahmad Zareef, who reflected on this tradition with his characteristic blend of wit and nostalgia. “No doubt, the culture of burning Izband still survives, in both villages and towns,” he told me. “But the thrill and soul of it have faded. We, Kashmiris, have slowly uprooted the elegance of our own traditions.” He recited a poignant verse from his new poem Putnazer:
“Izband Sozus Izband Za’lai, Lal Gopalus Ra’ech Kernai.
Izband Mushkun Dushman Galei, Mujloon Laeli Pyra’an Chuei…”
The verses, both mournful and satirical, underline how cultural decay is often self-inflicted. The onus is on us to revive what remains and reclaim what has been lost.
Let us not wait until it’s too late. Let us rekindle the fire of our traditions—not just literally with Izband, but metaphorically, by embracing the beauty, meaning, and identity these practices bring to our lives. In doing so, we preserve not just rituals, but the soul of Kashmir itself.
The views expressed in this article are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the opinions or views of this Magazine. The author can be reached at [email protected]
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