ZANGTREI FESTIVAL OF KASHMIRI PANDITS

                                           

Zangtrei: A Celebration of Spring, Memory, and Belonging

 

“Yi chhe khoshvun khoshvun natsvun doh,
Yi chhu gindvun doh yi chhu drokvun doh,
Bub maleuen  baiyi maleun pooshin,
Sath malein ch kori mujood roozin,
Kori sakhrith maleun draai lo lo,
Shoobi shabaash ath paramparaai lo lo…”

(This is a joyous, happy day,
a day of playfulness and freedom.
May every parental home live long,
May a daughter’s heart always hold the hope
of a parental home behind her.

Look! Today, daughters are dressed to visit
their parental homes.
How grand this custom,
How elegant it remains !)

So sang Deepali Wattal in the sprawling lawns of Gopinath Ji Ashram Udhaywala today. The air resonated with song and celebration as women gathered beneath an open Shamiyana. The occasion was Zangtrei, marked with joy, music, and a deep sense of cultural belonging.

Once, these songs rose effortlessly in the courtyards of home, carried by laughter, by shared rhythms, by the quiet certainty that a daughter could always return. Zangtrei was never just a festival. It was a feeling of belonging that needed no explanation.

As winter loosened its hold on the valley, Sonth (spring) would arrive like a gentle reassurance. Snow-laden branches would awaken into blossom, almond trees would bloom in soft abundance, and the air would carry the fragrance of renewal. The season began with Thaal Barun in every Kashmiri Pandit household, followed by Navreh, the New Year, days filled with visits to the sacred Sharika Temple, Devi Aangan and Badaamvaari.  With Children in new clothes, their hope quietly stitched into every moment. And then came the third day—Zangtrei.

On this day, a married daughter returned to her parental home. Not as a guest, but as someone who still belonged. She was welcomed with Zang or Shagun with simple offerings like: a packet of salt, a few currency notes, and an Attahur. These were indeed small gestures carrying immeasurable love. The threshold she crossed was not merely of a house, but of memory, identity, and an unbroken bond. If her mother stood waiting, her heart filled with pride. If her father opened the door, a quiet joy settled within her. If a brother now held the home together, even then, she knew she still had a place. Zangtrei renewed what life often stretches, the invisible thread between a daughter and her home.

After Exile: What Remains

Today, that home is often no longer where it once stood. For many Kashmiri Pandit women, exile has reshaped the meaning of return. Homes remain, if at all, in memory: some abandoned, some altered beyond recognition, some lost to time itself. Families are scattered across distant cities, across geographies that cannot recreate what once felt so close. And yet, Zangtrei still arrives. But now, it arrives differently. A daughter may visit another house in another city. The Shamiyana may rise far from the valley, in places where communities gather to rebuild fragments of what was left behind. The rituals continue, the songs are sung, but within them lives a quiet absence. The doorway is remembered more than it is crossed. The embrace is felt more in memory than in presence. What was once effortless has now become deeply precious.

The well-known Kashmiri poet Dina Nath Nadim captured the spirit of that time when Zangtrei was alive with fairs and the simplicity of belonging. A mother and son visit the Zangtrei festivity and return home via Kathi Darwaza.

“Khrakvin phulaya,
Luka arsaata,
Taarav pyeith pyaeith katiji jamaata,
Zanga trei hiinz grakh,
Taafa pholavun,
Kara muth halma,
Zalvun zalvun,
Tikka vaavij kul,
Rang vol samya,
Mausam haavas,
Poora chhivemit,
‘To’t kyaah ba chukh?’
Paa’nsas peepin,
Wuff dith gayi kot,
Me ti gaetchh peepin,
‘To’t kyaah ba chukh?’ ”

 

(Spring’s vibrant bloom,
and thronging crowds,
Swallows on the wires,
Zangtrei in joyous celebration.

Sunshine dances,
Street snacks  enough to savour and share,
A colourful tree of toys,
What a bright spectacle!

Dreams and the season,
Ebullient, alive.

“Son, have you a fever, perhaps?”
A mother distracts her child,
As his cry rises,
“Buy me a whistle for a penny!”

“Where has it gone?” asks the child,
“I want one too!” he says,
his voice in the happy clamour.

“Son, have you a fever, perhaps?”
The mother distracts.

Today, Zangtrei is no longer just a celebration; it is memory, longing, and the fragile act of holding on. It lives quietly within our rituals, in traditions guarded with care, in the silent waiting of mothers, and in the unspoken yearning of daughters to visit their parental home.

For even when homes scatter, fade, or vanish, the feeling of Zangtrei refuses to disappear. It lingers: in songs half-remembered, in stories told again and again, in that tender, persistent hope that somewhere, in some form, the door still remains open.

 ( Avtar Mota )

CHINAR SHADE by Autarmota is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.5 India License.
Based on a work at http:\\autarmota.blogspot.com\.