As plastic sheets and wet tissues dominate weddings, Kashmir risks losing more than just aesthetics; it risks losing identity.
By Manzoor Akash
In Kashmir, weddings are more than ceremonies; they’re the Valley’s most elaborate social performances, woven with ritual, memory, and a culinary culture that has survived centuries. Traditionally, the season winds down by late October, with only a handful of weddings stretching into early November. By December, when the cold tightens its grip and the air turns sharp with winter, marriage functions become rare. Kashmiri families prefer the late-summer and early-autumn months, believing that Wazwan, the region’s iconic multi-course feast, tastes its richest during the September–October season, when the weather is crisp and the atmosphere adds a certain magic to cooking.
But this year, something unusual happened. The Srinagar–Jammu National Highway, the Valley’s lifeline for fresh supplies, faced repeated closures. The result was a severe mutton shortage that forced dozens of families to postpone weddings. In a culture where Wazwan isn’t merely food but identity, the absence of mutton is enough to bring an entire season’s festivities to a halt. Kashmiri families cannot imagine a wedding without steaming copper tramis filled with aromatic rice and lamb dishes, carried ceremonially into the hall. A marriage without Wazwan feels incomplete, almost unimaginable.
Yet something deeper than supply shortages is reshaping Kashmiri weddings—an erosion of rituals that once defined the Valley’s cultural fabric. Traditions that every household followed only a generation ago are now receding into memory. At the centre of this quiet disappearance is the Tashna’er, a copper hand-washing set that marked the beginning and end of every traditional feast. Guests would fold their sleeves and wait for the rhythmic swish of water pouring from the Tash into the Na’er, signalling that the communal experience of Wazwan was about to begin.
Today, that ritual is vanishing. Instead of copperware gleaming under wedding lights, wet tissues are being passed around. Dasterkhan, once a finely stitched cloth spread out as a marker of respect, has been replaced by plastic sheets that are tossed away after a single use. The earthy charm of Zamut Doudh served in clay bowls has given way to disposable curd containers bought in bulk. The shift is not only aesthetic; it’s cultural, environmental, and emotional. What once represented hospitality and pride is slowly being overtaken by convenience and cost-cutting.
Older Kashmiris say they hardly recognize wedding scenes today. Guests seated in rows with plates of Wazwan still capture the spirit of togetherness, but without the Tashna’er’s ceremonial welcome, something feels missing—something that once set Kashmiri weddings apart from those anywhere else in the world. It is ironic that while Kashmiris proudly tell outsiders about their rich heritage, the heritage itself is being packed away, replaced by cheap alternatives made of plastic, foam, or disposable material.
The Tashna’er isn’t just a utensil. Its roots lie in Kashmir’s centuries-old relationship with Persian culture, brought here through Hazrat Mir Syed Ali Hamdani, whose influence reshaped the region’s art, craft, and spiritual life. Initially used in royal households, the Tashna’er gradually became a staple of every family’s kitchen and a symbol of hospitality. Its arrival in the marriage tent traditionally meant only one thing: Wazwan was about to be served, and the feast would unfold in all its grandeur.
There are two classic types of Tashna’er. One is the Kalai version—tinned, polished, and worked upon by skilled artisans known as Thaan-thurr, who coat it with a protective surface to ensure hygiene and durability. The other is the Kandkari style, engraved with delicate motifs and left untinned, glowing with an unmistakable reddish hue. Both styles reflect painstaking handwork, individual artistry, and cultural pride. They also provide livelihoods to hundreds of coppersmiths across Kashmir, artisans who now fear that their craft is slipping into obsolescence as modern substitutes flood the market.
Ask any foreign tourist who has visited a traditional Kashmiri wedding or dined at a heritage restaurant in Srinagar, and they’ll tell you that the Tashna’er ritual is one of the most memorable parts of the experience. Many hotels still preserve it for this reason. At places like the popular Salam-e-Wazwan restaurant near Shalimar, guests are welcomed with a Tashna’er even today, giving them a glimpse of what authentic Kashmiri feasting feels like. It’s not simply about washing hands; it’s about setting the tone for a meal that is meant to be shared, celebrated, and remembered.
Copperware in general holds a place of honour in Kashmiri households. The majestic traam, gleaming large plates used for Wazwan, is still a staple during weddings and continues to be gifted during joyous occasions—from moving into a new home to marking academic milestones or celebrating professional achievements. Among all these gifts, the Tashna’er remains especially popular, symbolizing refinement and the continuity of tradition. Its design elements, often featuring chinar leaves, almonds, arches, and floral engravings, mirror Kashmir’s landscape and history.
The artisans behind these pieces—those who shape, tin, polish, and engrave copper by hand—are not simply craftsmen; they are custodians of a cultural language passed down across generations. Many of them say that the decline of the Tashna’er in weddings hasn’t only affected heritage, it has affected livelihoods. Machine-made products and disposable options cost less and require no maintenance, making them an easy choice for families pressed for time or budget. But convenience comes at the cost of a craft that has sustained thousands of families for centuries.
The fading presence of Tashna’er at Kashmiri weddings speaks to the broader push-and-pull between tradition and modernity. No culture survives by staying frozen in time, yet no culture thrives by erasing the symbols that define it. The Valley stands at a crossroads, where environmental concerns, shifting lifestyles, rising costs, and new habits all push the old ways aside. But the question remains: what do Kashmiris lose in the process?
Reviving the Tashna’er is not about nostalgia. It is about preserving an artifact that encapsulates art, community, hospitality, and identity. Kashmir’s rituals have always been more than ceremonies; they are expressions of belonging. If the Valley can find a balance between convenience and heritage, between innovation and preservation, then its traditions can continue to flourish—not as relics, but as living parts of a culture proud of its past and confident in its future.
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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