Melody in the Air

Chandhara, which has earned the sobriquet zafran khod (saffron well) for producing quality crop, traditionally does not allow any other crop activity. No matter how difficult it gets, villagers grow only saffron. Beginning September, Mohammad Subhan Ganie, 65, his three sons and seven womenfolk, trudge two km uphill everyday from Chandhara, to tend to their 100 kanal field.

Over steaming cups of kehwa poured from the samavar (traditional Kashmiri kettle on glowing embers), they are joined by dozens of villagers to churn the field. ‘‘No tractors or oxen are allowed in our fields as they will uproot the sensitive seeds and ruin the soil forever,’’ says Ganie. ‘‘It’s all manual. Our people are skilled in dressing the field.’’

Ganie patiently explains the fine procedure of preparing the soil. ‘‘The land is first dug in May, then skillfully repeated in August and October, to ensure the humus of the soil is not disturbed.’’ Adds Parvez Ahmad, a proud young man, who claims to have achieved the maximum yield in the village this season, ‘‘Liberal precipitation in April, May and June, followed by sprinkles in the later months, enhances the produce. Thankfully, the rain gods were benevolent this year.’’ Ahmad informs me that the last four years saw very low precipitation and hence the annual yield dwindled to a mere 4,000 kg from 40,000 kg earlier.

Chandhara is the capital of the saffron-producing belt in the Valley, surrounded by a dozen other small neighbouring saffron hamlets like Lethpora, Samboora, Ladhu, Hatwara, Patabagh, Aloochi- bagh, Kroncu, Dossu and Gondbal. Even though Chandhara do-minates, the others insist their produce is the best in the world. Says Mohammad Ashraf, a grower from Samboora, stiffly, ‘‘They brag about their saffron. But we are second to none.’’

A little descent into the village takes me to a muddy hamlet with its granary and livestock. Samboora’s womenfolk keep a strict vigil over the saffron ‘‘treasure’’ during the sunning process of the plucked flowers. Haleema and her little daughter, with sticks in their hand, shoo away hens, ducks and dogs from the sunning mats. ‘‘Out of bounds,’’ she scolds anyone within hearing distance. Saffron is the costliest spice in world.

As I walk along the narrow pathway in the swaying golden fields, where sunbeams bounce off jauntily into the air, I wonder if the sprawling bald patches in the horizon will ever be lush again. Ahmad wipes away my anxiety when he explains it is important to ‘rest’ a part of your cultivable land for 5-6 years, to allow it to regain its yield potential.

The seed-sowing procedure is not an annual feature. In fact, once sown, it yields a crop for at least 12 years. Experience suggests a quintal of seeds is required for every kanal of land. I now understand why it is so important to keep the land moist all the time — to keep the seeds alive.

‘‘A kanal of land can produce one tola (10 gm) in the first year, four in the second, 6-10 tolas in the third and 20 tolas after five years, depending on favourable soil and weather conditions,’’ says Subhan Ganie.

A tola of saffron costs Rs 350-400 in the market. ‘‘One tola of dried saffron is procured from 1,300 flowers. We need two days to produce a tola of saffron, not too many work hours,’’ says Ganie.

Once dried, the saffron is carefully packaged in small polythene bags, sealed and kept ready for the market. ‘‘We are easy prey to the middlemen, henchmen and touts who exploit us,’’ moans Ahmad. ‘‘They decide the rates which goes lower ever year. A tola of saffron got us Rs 500 last year, this time, they have set the rate at Rs 350.’’

Market forces apart, it is the saffron farmers who have kept alive all the peculiarities of rural Kashmir. The Pampore villages are the last outpost of traditional Kashmiri culture. ‘‘The saffron farmer, from the day of sowing, to tending the plants, to harvesting, to sunning and packaging, is still accompanied by antiquated songs of Kashmiri folklore. Each stage has its own song which denote companionship and the charm of togetherness. Melodious numbers from Habba Khatoon, romanticist Rusul Mir and a host of legendary folk poets are sung by men and women,’’ says a villager.

Now that the saffron chores are almost over, the people are busy preparing to face the harsh three-month winter. Dry twigs from gigantic poplars are heaped in a central place, lit gradually and ground to make charcoal. The coal will also find its way into the kangri (the firepot Kashmiris slip under their garments to keep warm).

It is also time for them to look around and see their surroundings — potholed roads, badly-illuminated schools, lack of electricity, children’s education and medicare. They can only wait for the next saffron season.