“No sugar in my chai, please; there is a sweetness to knowing that all empires crumble,” says Ather Zia, a Kashmiri author and professor of anthropology. A palatable sweetness does not settle well on tongues that are accustomed to the salty richness of memory and the uncompromising identity too familiar with the land it belongs to.

While the shimmering pot of boiling Nun-chai sits on the stove, my father leaves in the early hours of dawn to buy some freshly baked Tchot (Kashmiri bread) from the kandur (baker) in the neighbourhood. The savoury warmth, not immediately apparent from its delicate pink colour, relieves the subtle chill of the fading winter. There is something personal about the savoury taste of nun-chai that refuses to be easier to swallow. With every sip, the taste settles somewhere between comfort and awakening. An awakening of the deeply personal connection to the history that has been whispered through the sips of these cups of nun-chai. Served at every occasion, from weddings to funerals, it holds too much of Kashmir. With a little less milk, or a little too much of tyoth (boiled nun-chai sans milk), it tastes bitter. Or maybe it is meant to have a hint of bitterness—not for the fainthearted.

The nightly Sufi gatherings in Kashmir used to be accompanied by the brewing samovar (copper kettle) of nun chai. But with the insurgency and routine of crackdowns and encounters, such occasions became rare in Kashmir. The tumultuous period of the 1990s was also marked by the inability to perform even the simplest acts, like buying tchot from the neighbourhood baker. Purchasing more bread than usual could raise suspicion, an implication of aiding militants. Under the constant threat of raids and invasions, even drinking tea has become an act of resistance.

The tea leaves used in nun-chai don’t grow in Kashmir. The origin of nun-chai in Kashmir can be traced back to Yarkand, in Turkestan, where the Atkan chai is made with salt, milk, and butter. It is also believed that the 14th-century Sufi saint popularly known as Shah-e-Hamdan brought the nun-chai to Kashmir. The Atkan Chai is quite similar to the one made in the Ladakh region, Gur Gur Chai. Even with contested origins, nun chai has been indigenous to Kashmir and a part of the Kashmiri culture predating the tea culture in India that became famous with British colonialism.

Kashmir’s cultural and linguistic identity, as it exists today, has profound ties to Persia and Central Asia. However, within the South Asian and Western academic discourses, conventional Kashmiri studies have been approached from the position of a more skewed narrative of the bilateral dispute between India and Pakistan. This framing has discernibly positioned the Kashmiri movement for self-determination as a proxy war, an interstate conflict between India and Pakistan, rather than a struggle rooted in Kashmiri history, identity, and agency. The dominant modes of knowledge production on Kashmir adopt a very state-centric geopolitical narrative that seeks to make sense of the region from a statist perspective—whether it be India’s, Pakistan’s, China’s, or the United States’. By confining Kashmiri history and culture to South Asia, there is a blatant erasure of other geographies—such as Central Asia and Persia—that have been cardinal to Kashmir’s cultural, linguistic, and aesthetic legacies. Despite its deep-rooted historical and cultural connections, Kashmiri culture, including its culinary habits, has been too restricted to the South Asian context, while Kashmiris themselves draw meaningful parallels with Central Asian heritage.

The erasure of Kashmir’s distinct identity has also been assisted by the commercialisation and rebranding of its important cultural symbols like Pheran, Pashmina, and nun-chai. The Kashmiris that migrated to Punjab and Pakistan during the 18th century took with them their cultural traditions, including nun-chai. Significantly, the preparation of nun-chai within these regions was altered to cater to a sweeter palate, making it unrecognisable to Kashmiris who know that the essence of Nun Chai lies in its saltiness. Thus emerged the name Sheer Chai, or pink tea. Sheer Chai is what has gained prominence in the Indian subcontinent, but only by stripping the historical and political weight carried by it.

This might not seem significant at first glance, as culinary practices naturally adapt to regional tastes. However, when regions are as politically charged as Kashmir, where every cultural and traditional element becomes a symbol of an identity under threat, these critical narratives become essential. The rebranding of nun chai is not just about tea; it is about the gradual omission of Kashmiri culture and the selective commodification of its culture in a way that estranges it from its history and people.

Image Credits: Youtube

Reeba Khan
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