A heartfelt journey back to a time when exam results were announced over the radio and success was celebrated with the scent of burning isband and the taste of sheermal. A look at the Srinagar where joy was a shared currency.
By Syed Majid Gilani
This is the Srinagar I carry within me, a city of memory that stands in stark contrast to the city I inhabit today. Lately, as the results of the 10th and 12th-grade examinations were declared across the valley, the digital landscape was instantly flooded with a torrent of success stories. Every social media platform echoed with a curated happiness, a relentless scroll of joy and excitement as students and parents celebrated together in the virtual sphere. Today, a staggering number of students clear these examinations with remarkably high scores that were once the stuff of urban legend. Many secure marks well above the ninetieth percentile, and a significant number achieve a perfect one hundred percent, resulting in a crowded podium where multiple students share the first, second, and third positions.
Watching this digital parade of perfection, my mind drifted back to my own past, anchoring itself in the year 1992. That was the year I passed my 10th-grade examination, which we simply called the matric. In those days, there was no social media, no television tickers scrolling at the bottom of a screen, and certainly no instant updates pinging on a handheld device. Results were declared through a printed gazette, a document that held the weight of a holy script for anxious students. Sometimes, even before the physical gazette arrived in our neighborhoods, the results were announced over radio sets and transistors. These devices were tuned with surgical precision, eagerly listened to by families and neighbors alike, as static-filled voices read out roll numbers that decided our immediate fate.
I still remember the visceral anxiety of the night before the result. Sleep refused to come as I lay in my bed, eyes tracing the grain of the wooden planks on the ceiling of my room, counting them over and over until the numbers blurred. Early the next morning, I rose with the sun and, by around ten o’clock, accompanied my father in search of the result gazette. This document was commonly available in almost every locality, usually held by a local shopkeeper or a prominent resident. In a nearby mohalla, I saw a man holding the thick booklet, surrounded by a swarm of students and parents, all patiently waiting for their turn to have their fate read aloud. It was a transaction of hope. Those who passed would willingly give the reader twenty or thirty rupees, a significant sum then, while those who secured a distinction or first division happily gave more in a fit of relief and pride.
The moment a student was declared successful, the news traveled faster than any fiber optic cable could manage today. Neighbors, relatives, and friends would arrive instantly at the student’s home to congratulate the family. There were no formal invitations, no saved dates, and no planned gatherings. The doors were simply open. One ritual, however, was essential and quintessential to our culture. This was the burning of isband, the wild rue seeds that crackled on hot coals, releasing a fragrant, spiritual smoke believed to ward off the evil eye. Along with this aromatic blessing came the showering of almonds and candies on the successful student and family members, a physical manifestation of sweetness raining down upon the household.
The focus was always on joy, a pure and collective joy that belonged to the street as much as the home. Laughter filled the air, hearts remained open, and there was absolutely no place for material display or one-upmanship. Serving kehwa with sheermal was a graceful and cherished tradition, a simple menu that carried the weight of heritage. Celebrations often continued not just for a day but for an entire week, resembling a small festival where the hierarchy of grades mattered little. Whether a student passed in the first division or the third division was a secondary detail. The act of passing itself was celebrated, and the effort was respected as much as the achievement.
Today, much of that tactile connection has changed, evaporating along with many other beautiful elements of Srinagar’s rich cultural heritage. The declaration of results, the passing of examinations, and even the achieving of distinctions are now often celebrated behind closed doors, confined within four walls and the glow of screens. At best, a small and selected circle of relatives or neighbors may be present, but the warmth of collective celebration has faded into a polite formality. The simplicity of kehwa and sheermal has given way to pomp, extravagance, and unnecessary show. Heavy snacks, elaborate teas, and even kanti kebab may still be served, yet hearts often remain closed. The genuine warmth, the openness, and the unbridled excitement that once defined such occasions seem increasingly absent. We have traded sincerity for presentation.
Like many other aspects of life in my Srinagar, which once felt like a shared home, relationships have undergone a quiet transformation. In those days, people truly belonged to one another. Festivals and celebrations were never personal affairs because they belonged to the entire neighborhood. Joy and sorrow, happiness and grief, were shared collectively and never owned by one family alone. Visiting neighbors and relatives was not a social duty to be checked off a list, but simply a way of life, as natural as breathing.
Srinagar, especially the old city, lived and breathed around its wooden bridges. Zero Bridge, Budshah Kadal, Amira Kadal, Habba Kadal, Fateh Kadal, Zaina Kadal, Nawa Kadal, Aali Kadal, and Safa Kadal were not merely infrastructure crossing the Jhelum; they were the arteries of our social life. Life moved slowly and gently, with simplicity, dignity, and very little pretense. If there was happiness, everyone joined in, and if there was sorrow, everyone stood together. This is the Srinagar I was born into and the city I remember, a place where distances were measured in footsteps rather than vehicles, where bridges connected hearts rather than just localities, and where culture was not performed for an audience but lived sincerely, with dignity and togetherness.
The views expressed in this article are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the opinions or views of this newspaper
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