My Story of Wazwaan

By Tajamul Hussain. Dated: 9/24/2017 5:22:38 PM

Much has been and shall continue to be talked about the extravaganza of wazwaan. Historically the ruinous expenditure incurred on all the razzamatazz of its showbiz would be criticized for the affliction and sufferings that it causes to a common Kashmiri. Theatrical gestures, cliché ridden double/bubble speaks and shibboleths will be cracked in future too….guest control measures taken, never mind, half-baked, innocent of sincerity and willpower and therefore short-lived. Symbolic of celebrating the orgy of destruction of resources and wastage of money, criticasters would pooh-pooh wazwaan as a vulgar/ostentatious display of status /wealth. But as it's always, when it comes to their turn, they'd shrug off, and get going with their kind of things.
That fateful day, in September 1984, the Srinagar city bustled with thousands of marriages. The elder brother's marriage was the first of its kind in our family. Restricted movements caused due to the famous Gul-curfew bouts, had pitched us all headlong into despair. While most of the chores connected with the marriage were complete just in time (JIT) but then somewhere we seemed to have erred. On the much awaited morning of yenivoul the air was abuzz with a cacophonic excitement. Men, women and children, dressed colorful, frolicked here and there. In a corner of colorful shamiana erected alongside our house, ladies swung into singing wanwun, the song of welcome. A fifty something lady seated behind a copper samovar, that emitted the aroma of boiled tea, poured the sweet smelling kahawa into the cups and handed them over to the bevy of jubilant ladies who bobbed up and down to serve them to the guests.
Someone that visited Wazza pur in the morning wormed his way through the crowd to confide the yezman (host) about some problem with our family Wazza. The latter was supposed to have reported early in the morning. As if it were a bolt from blue, the panic-stricken host took along a few people to call in on the wazza's residence. Nobody was there to divulge the wazza's whereabouts. It wasn't long before several brigades of elders and youngsters set on in different directions to explore alternate arrangements. Serving feast of Vathal without Wazza and that too at such a short notice was beyond imagination.
Among the most distraught was the bridegroom. There was none to spruce him up for the barat. It was a pretty kettle of fish. Within hours, the wazwaan fiasco made us the laughing stock of neighbors, friends and relatives. It was very difficult to face people (most of them our close relatives) who got an opportunity to label us as nincompoops, jerk offs and blunder-heads. For backstabbers, green eyed monsters and volcanoes this was the day of piss and vinegar. Like the undercover assassins, they're out to get us. As if holding knives (figurative) with our names on them they lost no time to machinate, scheme, and dish the dirt about our family. Targeted straight at our credibility it was aimed at to mince meat of our-every-thing that mattered.
Late in the night when the bridegroom returned along with his bride, the arrangements of Wazza were still not in the making. During the past 16 hours our disaster management teams trekked miles in search of Wazza, but without success. In this specter of chaos and disappointment, eyes suddenly gleamed with a ray of hope. Someone, a real Godsend, gave the heartwarming news that the Mughal Durbar restaurant, opposite: Polo view, had kindly agreed to prepare some mutton preparations plus biryani subject however, to the condition that his cooks reported to the restaurant (as it was Sunday).
Cliffhanging all through the wakey night, broaching over the risks and uncertainties, none of us slept a wink. At cock's crow, there was a sudden commotion therein the drawing room. A whole lot of nears and dears had assembled to offer prayers for our success. The team of us youngsters riding on a couple of motorbikes was bid a weeping farewell. Fingers crossed, as we whiled away the desolated restaurant, to our surprise and disbelief the owner agreed to serve dishes like Biryani, ristas and roghan josh. We paid him some advance. We also shopped for a whole lot of kebabs from half a dozen restaurants in the city. A restaurant in the close by, agreed to cook korma and goushatabas. Back at home ladies rustled up to roast chicken and the cheese that we had already procured for the function.
The news of the botch-up spread like wild fire. In absence of any smoke billowing from the hearth (vur), guests were hesitant to stomach the assurance that the feast would be served on Vathal. While as dare-devils reported for lunch, the pessimists simply decided to abstain. In the specter of chaos, the flock of sheep that the butcher had driven to our house to cut it for mutton, had all the leisure time on earth to devour every bit of verdure of our lawn and kitchen garden. The greedy lot of naked ape (that included some of our well-off relatives) sneaked away with the unused (procured for wazwaan) onions, garlic, spices and other eatables that they could lay a hand on.
The feast was served at 2.00 PM sharp. In the history of Kashmir, perhaps a rarest of rarity that the Vathal feast was served on plates (in singles) and not in tra'ami (in fours). The guests, awe stricken at our efforts, were enticed into promising to implement the newly worked out arrangements for their marriage ceremonies. But then hardly anyone did it. After braving a day long torture, taunts and jibes, God had been kind enough to help us sweep aside all obstacles to solemnize walima, courtesy our well wishers. For the next several months, the tragedy became the talk of the town.
(hoosyn50@gmail.com)

 

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