Hashish or Harissa?

We walk down the bund with what I sense is a little bit of discretion. I follow Mudasir-Ali closely like a small child who realizes that there is something both imminent and important one should be silently respectful of. As I try to keep pace along the bund I almost run straight into the lagoon of mud that stretches before us. The way over is remarkably simple, the bricks are set strategically, making me grateful to be in a culture where there men are on average my height. I use the wall to balance myself as we skip along until we hit the second to last brick, or should I say the space where the penultimate brick should lie. Nothing less than genius prompts Muda and I to turn around simultaneously, grab the last brick, hand it up in line, and place it between us and the final step. Prideful and dry we hop to land on the the other side.

Crossing the bridge I watch the women selling fish chatter with each other hovered over their kandris one hand occupied by steaming chai the other gesticulating the merits of her catch. Piles of guts sit between their legs. Every once in awhile they thrust a handful over the edge, explaining why I see the remarkable cloud of eagles circling overhead.

At this point all I know is that we are heading towards food with authority unlike I have ever seen a male muster, especially a Kashmiri male. The boys that I see do nothing day in and day during this season have passed along a secret like a magnolia or a handkerchief given as a clandestine for action to the sercret society below ground.

After a right, a left and another two rights we are down an arbitrary alley with an arbitrary door around which men are clustered to get inside. After a slow trickle leaks some bodies from the space Muda and I slip past. Inside it takes some time for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. Once they do I take in the scene.

An wrinkled slender man sits atop a wide iron platform thrusting its girth across half the room. This leaves a hallway through which to enter and a small wood floored space in the rear that now remains empty. I can't help but confirm that the man sitting cross legged upon his platform is a real life version of the multi-armed fire-tender at the bathhouse in Miyazaki's brilliant creation, Spirited Away. His five-fingered tentacles coordinate themselves with impressive fluidity as they reach for bread above his head, to the side for salt, to the other for a smattering of pig's stomach and below into the pit of his blackened furnace. His outstretched limb disappears into its depth arising with the treasure for which everyone gathers.

Opposite him in the narrow passageway men seem as though they are stuffed into a betting hall or dressed down for the New York Stock Exchange. Each holds a bill, sometimes 2, in his hand waving it at the man with the limber and eloquent armed chef. As the men lick their thin lips, their dark skin fading into the darkness of the room, the assembly finally begins. He sets out copper plates, as many as can fit the platter. A plop of grey glutenous matter retrieved from the bowels of the iron oven slides onto each plate. From a bucket behind he scoops a dollop of sheep's stomach to toss onto the heap. The man now reaches above, dexterously flicking the oil can from above into his hand. He pours the liquid into the pan at his side and flame instantly licks up the side of the pan and wall lighting up the room for an instant. He lifts the wok and pours the iron tinged oil upon each plate. It runs across the meaty pudding forming a glistening transparent blanket reminding me of the smooth drops of oil bespeckling Frasca's Avocado Soup with Rock Shrimp Boulder's summer sunset.

The men, knowing that the preparation has come to a close, toss their ten rupee bills in the plate sitting next to the cheg. They make rapid fire demands of his "sous," a fast-working boy with a pile of dishes to deal with. Dry but sturdy Kashmiri bread gets handed out for scooping the muddy mix. Within moments the dishes are cleared leaving some grumpy hopefuls to await the next round. The lucky resign to the unoccupied corner crouching over their hot plates with lusty pleasure.

Mudasir and I do something few can afford. We get an entire bowl of the madness assembled for us and Muda's family (my offering, as it were). When the compartment returns to my hands, grease trickling down the sides and muttony mush squeezing out the top as if in greeting, I am instructed to put it under my ferhen. I can't believe the boy is serious as I know that his ferhen is kept preciously clean and does not lend well to any sort of mistreatment. He reconfirms that that's where the mess should go, as once we emerge from the dark den "people will start asking."

And so, we head back to Mudasir's teal two-roomed house where we will share this precious preparation of winter celebration. Somehow being trapped in Kashmir, I have discovered via the underground network as if it were booze, hashish or weaponry, the ultimate Kashmiri treasure: Harissa.