I remember it correctly. During 1980–90’s, in the heart of Gowhar Pora Chadoora stood Jabbar Chechin Kut-the, an all-wooden double story living-cum-storeroom belonging to the ever-generous Jabbar Chech. Built decades ago with aged cedar beams and wooden planks, it was more than just a place to store grain, dried vegetables, and firewood. It was the soul of the village, the center of all celebrations, where generations gathered, their laughter echoing off its sturdy wooden walls. Every Eid morning, before the first rays of sunlight touched the dewy rooftops, the young ones of the village would assemble outside the Kut-the to leave for Eid prayers together. Everyone would praise everyone’s new dress. Most debated possession used to be the shoes, its brand name, price, and the shop it was purchased from. There was no showroom concept then. While leaving for Eid prayers observed in next locality, the air smelled of the charm that would unfold with theday till Isha prayers. Jabbar Chech, though unmarried and with no children of his own, treated the entire village as his family. His two brothers, Amme Chech and Razak Chech, both bachelors like him, shared in his generosity. Inside the Kut-the, however, was Jabbar Chech’s private space. No one was allowed to enter. It was his sanctuary, a world of his own. But just outside, the space around it would burst into life, becoming the epicenter of festivity. Women in embroidered shawls sang traditional Eid songs, their voices carrying through the air. Laughter and chatter filled the space almost for three days. Children ran barefoot around the storeroom, their excitement bubbling over. Five-year-old Dawood clutched his new pheirhan, its stiff fabric rustling as he skipped around his cousins. Twenty-year-old Bilal, too old to chase after Dawood but too young to sit with the men, leaned against the wooden pillars of the Kut-the, watching the scene unfold. Bachelor boys, full of youthful mischief, would steal glances over the gathering, hoping to spot their love interests. Hidden behind wooden beams or casually pretending to adjust theircaps, they exchanged fleeting glances, their hearts racing in silent anticipation. The festivities weren’t just about food and prayers—they were a time of longing, secret smiles, and the thrill of stolen moments. Yet, not everyone in the village approved of these open gatherings. Some elderly men, well-known for their stern disposition, often frowned upon such displays of joy. They believed celebrations should be more restrained, more dignified. Their presence alone was enough to send shivers down the spines of the young revelers.
“Eid’s now are not the same, and given the fragile social fabric they can’t be same again”.
The moment someone whispered, “Bago, woh aagaye!”—Run, they are coming!—panic would spread like wildfire. Boys would leap behind walls, pressing themselves against the mud-bricked surfaces, while girls would swiftly lower their voices, pretending to adjust their headscarves. Even the elders, who moments before had been recounting grand tales of their youth, would suddenly sit upright, their faces adopting a look of forced seriousness. The younger children, not fully understanding the commotion, would giggle as they dived under the very Kut-theor behind the poplar trees that lined the village paths. The elders, with their hands clasped behind their backs, would scan the area, their sharp eyes looking for any sign of impropriety. Sometimes they would grumble about how things were better in their youth, how Eid should be marked with quiet dignity, not this mela of songs and laughter. But no sooner had they passed, the village would breathe again, and the celebrations would resume with double the fervor, as if reclaiming lost moments. As the days unfolded, the Kut-the transformed into a space of shared joy. The elders spoke of old times, recalling how, as children, they had played in its shadow. The young men swapped stories of their travels beyond the village, and the women’s wanwun echoed through the air. Jabbar Chech passed away in the 1990s, and with his death, an era ended. The very storeroom that had once been the heart of every celebration was dismantled soon after. His brothers, Amme Chech and Razak Chech, followed him in death, leaving behind memories that still lived in the hearts of the villagers. Now a days, when the Kut-the is no more standing, the villagers would often talk about that lively space where Jabbar Chechin Kut-the once stood, remembering the warmth, the laughter, the stolen glances, the playful panic, and the spirit of a man who had made everyone feel like family.
(The author a freelancer is a teacher and a researcher based in Gowhar Pora Chadoora is also Advisor at The Nature University Kashmir. The views, opinions and conclusions expressed in this article are those of the author and aren’t necessarily in accord with the views of “Kashmir Horizon”)
Dr. Ashraf Zainabi
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