Opening any social media platform these days, one is struck by disturbing stories of rotten meat being dumped and sold in Kashmir. The public has grown increasingly alert to the risks of consuming spoiled food — not only for health but also for the financial burden it brings. But Kashmir’s culinary tradition wasn’t always like this.

Last week’s meat scandal took me down memory lane — to a time when cooking, especially non-vegetarian dishes, wasn’t just about feeding stomachs. It was about hospitality, honouring guests, preserving relationships, and showcasing culinary skill.
Be it Eid celebrations, family gatherings, engagements, or welcoming a newborn, preparing food at home was a cherished tradition. According to my grandfather, now 76, he had never bought meat that wasn’t freshly slaughtered before his eyes. The meat was cleaned and cooked with great care. The traditional "daan" (mud stove) would burn slowly, and the crackling fire added a flavour no modern induction or gas stove could replicate.
My grandmother, like many Kashmiri women of her generation, would perform ablution before entering the kitchen. Cooking was a sacred act — slow, deliberate, and filled with love. Women of the household, joined by neighbours, would gather to prepare grand meals: grinding spices by hand, shaping goshtabas, and expertly managing rice in copper utensils. It was as much a social event as it was culinary.
Newlywed brides learned the art of proportion, seasoning, and patience in these kitchens. That culture is now fading. Today, even for one guest, families prefer ordering food — from rice to even a cup of tea — everything comes packed in plastic, with little emotional value.
This over-reliance on ready-made meals is not just about convenience; it's a slow erasure of our rich culinary identity. We tell ourselves that time is money and justify shortcuts as efficiency. But the cost? Health, connection, tradition — all sacrificed at the altar of speed and comfort.
Consumers now barely question where their meat came from, how long it’s been stored, or whether it’s fit for consumption. The recent uproar over rotten meat has jolted many, but the deeper question remains: when did we lose confidence in our own hands, in our ability to cook with care and conscience?
Hospitality in Kashmir was once a sacred value — now, it has turned into a matter of showmanship. How many kilos of wazwan were ordered? How large were the kebabs? How many bags were sent? Even the ill in hospitals now receive broths from restaurants — delivered, not prepared.
We can't blame only modernity. The truth is, we’ve grown lazy. We’ve stopped teaching the next generation how to cook or even appreciate fresh, home-made meals. And while we shouldn’t reject progress, we must find a balance — a middle path that preserves tradition while embracing modern life.
This isn’t just about wazwan. It’s about school tiffins, evening snacks, and the everyday meals we used to make with love. Reclaiming that culture takes time, patience, and willingness — but it’s worth the effort.
Let’s not wait for another rotten meat scandal. Let’s make conscious decisions, revive old recipes, and reintroduce the joy of cooking to our homes. The best meals aren’t those with the most spice or colour — but those made with care, emotion, and love.
In a world where profit drives restaurant menus, let home remain a space where food is made for health, for happiness, and for each other. Because when the story of the kitchen fades, so does the identity of the people within.

Email:----------------muskanshafimalik@gmail.com