Whenever Kashmiri food is mentioned, our thoughts immediately run towards wazawan. We imagine the "traem", the fragrance of spices, the warmth of gatherings, the idea of celebration. In Kashmir, food is not merely eaten; it is remembered. It is narrated. It is proudly displayed.

But some villages of north Kashmir also carry another food memory—quiet, bitter, and almost erased from popular consciousness. It is a food that never aimed to please the tongue. It existed only to discipline the self.
This forgotten sustenance is the sun-dried axis of walnut catkins, known in Kashmiri as Donimovur. Bitter beyond measure, coarse in texture, and so uninviting that even cattle avoid it once it falls to the ground. And yet, this was the primary food of Hazrat Haji Bahram Saeb (RA)—one of the most austere mystics Kashmir has known.
Our saints did not preach through speeches. They preached through choices. Hunger over fullness. Simplicity over comfort. Silence over display. Haji Bahram Saeb (RA) belonged to that rare line of mystics whose lives themselves were lessons.
Oral traditions, supported by written records, tell us that he survived largely on Donimovur—dried under the sun, stored carefully, and eaten without complaint. Not as a diet, but as a discipline.
Even today, during the Urs of Hazrat Haji Bahram Saeb (RA), people from some villages around Langate gather fallen walnut catkins. They clean them, dry them, preserve them, and cook them together. No one claims it tastes good. It is cooked only to remember. Eating it is a reminder of restraint.
The shrine of Hazrat Haji Bahram Saeb (RA) stands at Wahipora, Langate, though his life itself was never stationary. Very little is known about his early life. Oral accounts suggest that he belonged to Tengchek Lolab and was from the Najar family. His spiritual inclination is said to have begun at the durbar of Baba Naseeb-ud-Din Ghazi (RA).
Written sources mention that he never married. He chose solitude and worship over domestic life. His brother, a carpenter by profession, looked after him. Even his birth name has been lost to time. People remember him simply as Haji Bahram—a name earned through devotion, not ancestry.
Historian Hassan records that Haji Bahram Saeb (RA) performed one Hajj on foot, wearing traditional wooden footwear known as khraaw. Oral traditions, carefully preserved in the region, go further, suggesting that he may have performed twelve Hajjs on foot, crossing lands with almost nothing, sustained only by faith. This is why the title “Bahram” remained inseparable from his name.
Later in life, he came under the spiritual guidance of Hazrat Sheikh Hamzah Maqdoomi (RA), who instructed him to stay at Bonagam, Langate. There, on the silent banks of Nallah Pohru, he spent long days and nights in meditation.
Haji Bahram Saeb (RA) performed ablution with cold water even during harsh winters. He fasted frequently. His body weakened, his frame grew thin, but his presence carried a strange calm. Written records state that he followed the Suhrawardi order and preached love, humility, harmony, and brotherhood—never from a pulpit, but through living.
He shared a close spiritual bond with Baba Abdullah Guzriyali (RA). Baba Abdullah often sought his counsel. Oral narratives suggest that the first Jamia Masjid built by Baba Abdullah Guzriyali (RA) was designed by Haji Bahram Saeb (RA). It is also believed that when Sheikh Hamzah Maqdoomi (RA) sent Sheikh Ahmad Chogali (RA)—Moh-ud-Din Ibn Arabi Thani—to Chogal, Haji Bahram Saeb (RA) accompanied him.
Despite his growing following, he never accepted money. Historian Hassan narrates an incident where a subedar, Azmat Khan, offered him fifty rupees—a large sum for that time. The saint refused repeatedly and accepted only one rupee, almost reluctantly. A quiet lesson was taught that day: faith cannot be bought.
He is believed to have lived up to the age of ninety, though the year of his demise remains undocumented. Initially buried at Bonagam, his body was later reburied at Wahipora, Langate. Even today, both shrines remain visited by devotees throughout the year.
Very few tabrokats of Haji Bahram Saeb (RA) survived time. Most were lost in a fire that later engulfed the shrine, erasing much of its material memory. What remains is a long, flat stone embedded in the wall of his shrine. An inscription exists on it, but the script has faded beyond recognition. The words are gone. The presence is not.
Before the 1990s, a touching tradition existed. When a bride entered the village for the first time, she was taken to the shrine of Haji Bahram Saeb (RA) to seek blessings. During droughts or unending rains, villagers arranged a bandar at his shrine, praying for balance.
In an age obsessed with excess, the memory of a saint who lived on bitterness feels unsettling—and necessary. Hazrat Haji Bahram Saeb (RA) left behind no books, no wealth. He left behind a way of living. And sometimes, that is enough.

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