Hassan Cooks Halwa

The chinar trees were dotted with snow, glistening like crystals. The whooshing winds signalled winter was here. It was a Sunday and usually, the children would have been running, chasing each other through the maze of the narrow streets of Srinagar. But Sundays had been deserted for more than three months in this city.

Hassan came and plopped himself on the soft carpet. The school was shut and Hassan missed his friends.

He looks at the clock and wonders if it’s time for lunch. He can hear marching sounds coming from the street. These sounds startled him but before he could react, he heard the sound of pots and pans coming from the kitchen.

He grins and pats his belly and tiptoes to peep in.

Though there had been rationing of potatoes for the last month and a half, because markets had been shut, yet Ammi had been able to cook his favourite dum aloo, this Sunday.

When he peers in, Hassan is surprised to see Abba not Ammi in the kitchen.

“Hassan, have you finished the lesson for the day?” asks Abba as he turns around with a ladle full of dum aloo in his hand. Abba and Ammi have been taking turns at homeschooling Hassan.

“Yes, Abba. But, where’s Ammi?” he asked.

Abba used to ferry tourists on the Dal Lake in his beautiful shikara during the summers and used the boat to transport flowers during the winters. But there had been no tourists for the past three months, forcing him to lock the shikara and help Ammi to weave shawls.

“Where is Ammi and why are you cooking?” Hassan asked suspiciously. While he has seen Abba cook before, he always associated cooking with Ammi.

“It’s my cooking Sunday, beta. Ammi has gone to find some work. Shall I set the table for lunch?” Abba asks and smiles.

“Yes Abba. But what’s for dessert?” Hassan looks at Abba and asks, impatient to hear his answer.

“Ammi didn’t have time to cook dessert and I didn’t cook one,” Abba says, sadly.

Hassan could feel his heart drooping like an autumn flower. Sundays were always about dum aloo and halwa.

Abba pats Hassan’s head, “Do you think we can make some halwa, together?”

“Yes, Abba,” he said, his face lighting up.

“Okay. Which halwa would you like me to make? How about apple halwa?” said Abba and pointed to the huge sack of apples lying in the corner of the kitchen.

Amir chacha had gifted them two sacks of apples a few days ago and Abba had accepted one. Hassan was used to fresh apples from the market in the autumn and winter seasons, but markets had been shut and he was glad to receive the gift.

He remembered the expression on chacha’s face when he had come home. Walking on roads was forbidden, crowds were forbidden, schools and colleges were closed, playing on the roads were not allowed and Hassan barely remembered the ring of a mobile phone.

And then there was a curfew at odd times. He hadn’t experienced silence like this, ever before.

“Abba, why did Amir chacha give us a sack full of apples?” he asked.

“Amir chacha is trying to distribute all his apples because the markets have been shut and he doesn’t want the apples to rot. He sells apples to earn money.”

“But why are the markets shut every day, Abba?” Hassan asks the same question for the nth time.

Abba turns around and looks at Hassan, his eyes bleak, “There have been some huge changes in our lives. It will all be back to normal soon, beta. Let’s make some apple halwa.”

“What changes, Abba?” Hassan asks again.

Abba sighs and responds, “There has been a major constitutional change
in our state, the state of Jammu and Kashmir.”

“What constitutional change, Abba?” Hassan tries to remember if he was taught the meaning of the Constitution at school.

“There was an Article 370, which was specially made for our state of Jammu and Kashmir that has been revoked.”

“What’s revoke, Abba?”

“The meaning of revoke is to cancel, Hassan.”

“Why was the Article cancelled, Abba?”

“Because the Indian government felt that was the right thing to do.”

“What does this ‘revoking’ change mean?”

“Hassan, in simple words, there was a law, which provided Jammu and Kashmir with a special status and a separate set of laws. That has been cancelled.”

“Does that mean we are not special anymore?” Hassan’s asked with his eyes open wide.

Abba says nothing.

“Abba, I miss school. I miss my friends,” says Hassan, his eyes welling up and
he sniffles.

Abba envelops Hassan in a tight hug and wipes his eyes. “Shall we make some halwa, beta?

“How can I help?” Hassan nods vigorously as he wipes his face on his sleeves.

Abba picks up some apples and slices them. “Can you get me some sugar?”

Hassan looks at the colourful jars and sees sugar and lifts his arm and pulls down the small tin.

“Now, we let the apples boil and soften and then add some ghee,” Abba picks some orange strands from a small metal tin.

“What’s that, Abba?” Hassan asks as he pulls the ghee bottle from the counter.
“This is saffron. It’s not only tasty but also very good for digestion. So are apples, they are very healthy,” Abba replies.

“I will have two bowls of halwa today.” Hassan grins back at Abba.

Abba ladles ghee into the pot of stewing apple. The kitchen smells of fresh sweetness and Hassan takes a deep breath. Abba adds sugar and stirs again.

Stirring, stirring, stirring. Hassan looks at the way Abba moves the ladle around. Abba cuts some pistachios and almonds and sprinkles them along with the saffron on the top of the cooked halwa. He scoops up some and gives it to Hassan. Hasan tastes the freshness of saffron, the crunch of pistachios and the sweet deliciousness and feels he is in food paradise.

“Do you like it, Hassan?” Abba asks as he lays out the table for lunch.

“I love it, Abba.” Hassan hugs Abba around his waist and looks up at him.

There’s laughter and chatter as they eat lunch. Later, taking a big bowl of halwa, Hassan holds Abba’s hand and walks up to Amir chacha’s house. Ringing the bell, Hassan waits impatiently.

Amir chacha opens the door and smiles looking at Hassan.

“Chacha, we made halwa from the apples you gave.” Hassan jumps up and down with excitement as he gifts the bowl to Amir chacha who invites them in.

As Hassan walks into the courtyard and looks at the piles of apple bundles lying in an adjacent room, sacks bursting at the seams.

“Chacha, there are so many apples. What are you going to do with them?” Hassan bursts out, unexpectedly.

Amir chacha attempts to cover the look of dejection on his face. “I don’t know, beta. I really don’t know.” Abba places his hand on chacha’s shoulder.

Hassan and Abba return home. With two bowls of halwa, they sit down as the crows’ caw. Hassan bites into the almonds with a loud crunch.

“Do you know about the goodness of pistachios and almonds?” Abba asks Hassan. Hassan shakes his head.

“Almonds are full of vitamins and pistachios have minerals.”

“What do vitamins and minerals do, Abba?”

“They will make you a strong boy, Hassan.”

Hassan grins and gives a generous scoop of his halwa to a beady-eyed crow.

“Do we need vitamins and minerals to become a good person, Abba?”

Abba looks adoringly at little Hassan.

“You just need a good and kind heart for that, Hassan.”

“Abba, I just made up a poem. Would you like to listen?” Hassan bursts into a song before Abba could say anything.

Halwa, yummy and hot, Apples, stewed and soft, Almonds, sprinkle a bunch, Pistas, for that crunch, Saffron’s orange to greet, Halwa, oh so sweet!

The house echoes with their sound while dusk slowly sets in and all is silent again. The sound of marching feet faintly fills up the void.

The Boy Who Hopes

The cold breeze envelops the sleepy valley of Srinagar. The pine trees with mountain peaks in the background look picture perfect. Hassan sits at his window, staring at the stillness.

The calendar flutters on the wall and Hassan looks at the date. It’s August 15. This is going to be the second year that Hassan hasn’t stepped out to celebrate Independence Day at school. In fact, he can’t remember the last time he stepped outside. Everywhere he turns, he hears the words lockdown and coronavirus.

Over the past year, he has also learnt that lockdowns in Kashmir aren’t new. When the lockdown was announced all over India because of the virus, Kashmir had already been under one for months.

Sneaking out to meet Ali and Imran was strictly not allowed by Abba and Ammi. Ammi’s phone had rung only once or twice over the past couple of months and then there was silence again. The internet connection started and stopped without any notice.

He thinks of the last time he had halwa, yummy delicious halwa. Everything was rationed. This Ramzan, he didn’t get any new clothes, but Hassan understands that clothes are not important. Things were changing; he was growing up.

“Hassan, I am headed to Rukhsar aunty’s home.” Ammi’s warm voice reaches him from the kitchen.

Ammi, I want to go with you.” Hassan pleads. He hasn’t been to the bazaar or anywhere in a long time.

Ammi looks at Hassan and lets out a deep sigh. She, too, only went to the market, following rules and ensuring everyone’s safety, but looking at Hassan’s face she said, “Okay, go put on your mask and wear the full-sleeved shirt.”

Hassan throws his arms around his lovely Ammi who is frail, thinner than before.

Hassan skips along Dal Lake as he looks around. During summers, Dal Lake usually had the world-renowned floating market, with shikaras floating on the lake carrying flowers, vegetables and people. This year, Dal Lake is deserted. He wonders if this was how Srinagar would always be.

Hassan breathes in the cool mountain air and feels his lungs opening. “Ammi, why are we going to Rukhsar aunty’s?” he asked.

“She offered to give us some vegetables from her garden, Hassan,” replied Ammi.

Hassan looks around and spots a makeshift stall full of bright, red and juicy tomatoes. He tugs at Ammi’s sleeves. Ammi shakes her head and leads him on.

Hassan looks at Ammi and questions, “Why have Abba and you been eating less?”

Ammi swallows a lump in her throat and turns to Hassan. “We don’t have work right now, beta. We are just saving some money.”

“Will you always have to eat less, Ammi? Is it this virus? Will you never be able to go back to work? Will the bazaar never open again?” Hassan asks questions that have kept him wondering for days now.

 

“The times are a little different, Hassan.” Ammi lovingly touches his face.

“Why are times always different for us?” Hassan almost screams.

He looks around and sees the shops with their shutters down. The tour and ticketing shop run by Uncle Akhil is shut. The photo studio run by his friend Imran’s Abba, where he and his friends went to get their school identity card photograph clicked, is empty. The big building, which had people with heads bent on computers looked haunted by ghosts.

He looks at the small number of people rushing to their destinations, silently. Once upon a time, each one on the street had a mobile and would be talking loudly. Was that just a year ago? Everything feels like a distant memory and that scares Hassan.

“Why don’t we still have proper phone connections, Ammi? Will it always be like this? Will we always stay disconnected? When can I go back to school and write my exams, Ammi?” Hassan’s young voice is pained with his questions.

Hassan can see Ammi’s eyes flood up from behind the mask. Taking a deep breath, she braves the cold wind and turns to Hassan.

“Hassan, we live on hope, on umeed. That’s the only thing that keeps us going. We will continue to believe that one day Kashmir will be back to normalcy and so will this world.”

Hassan hugs his mother tight and both make their way to Rukhsar’s house. The only sound that accompanies the shuffle of their footsteps is the distant sound of the army patrol and the whistle of the wind.

Aunty Rukhsar is Ammi’s close friend. They used to work together with carpet weaving artisans.

“Alia, Hassan. I was waiting for you.” Rukhsar looks at them with eyes full of love but maintains distance. Hassan feels that warm hugs were also exchanged a lifetime ago.

“Here you go. I hope they are enough to get you through the season.” Rukhsar hands over a big bag of green vegetables to Ammi. Hassan sees Cabbages, haak, and green peppers in the overstuffed bag. With quick goodbyes and nods, Ammi and Hassan walk back home.

“What will we have for dinner today, Ammi?” Hassan asks as soon as they step inside their house.

Ammi smiles and adds, “Haak, we will have a yummy, filling and nutritious meal today.”

Once home, Hassan changes into his kurta and pyjamas and puts on a thin woollen pullover. He steps into the warm kitchen where Ammi is picking out the green leaves.

Ammi, what’s special about haak?” Hassan asks, seeing Ammi clean delicate and tender leaves and stalks.

“Haak is a food of respect, most of the leaves used would be thrown out otherwise, but for this dish, we use all of them. It’s called a poor man’s meal. The ones we are using today is Kaatchie Dal Haak.”

Hassan watches as Ammi heats mustard oil in the pan. The sputtering and simmering remind Hassan of firecrackers.

“Are we poor, Ammi?” Hassan asks quietly. He knew the past one year had been the toughest in his ten years.

“Why do you ask, Hassan?”

“We are eating a poor man’s meal, Ammi.”

Ammi smiles at Hassan and adds asafoetida and dried, long red chillies into the pan.

“Hassan, the times are tough and while abbu and I do not have jobs, at the moment, we are still doing better than so many other people around us. So, can we call ourselves poor?”

Hassan thinks of the stories he has been hearing over the months about people dying, both because of the virus and otherwise.

Ammi switches off the flame, adds water, then switches it back on and adds the haak to the boiling mix. The kitchen is filled with a tangy fragrance. Hassan feels his eyes smarting but enjoys the feeling.

Ammi crushes some green chillies and adds them, covering the simmering greens and letting them cook slowly.

“Aatichooo!” Hassan sneezes in response. Both of them burst into laughter.

Ammi switches off the stove and adds some salt. Hassan’s mouth waters. Laughing, Ammi ladles out a huge bowl of rice and puts haak right in the middle.

Handing it over to Hassan, she waits as Hassan tastes the simple Kashmiri haak and rice.

Ammi, this tastes magical,” Hassan grins as he gulps the entire bowl.

Ammi laughs, “See Hassan, we got something nutritious and simple out of what we would have been throwing into the dustbin.”

Ammi, I want to go back to school and lead a normal life. I want to go back to playing with my friends. I want to go back to a year ago.”

Ammi stands speechless as Hassan spells out his wishes and looks out of the window at the starkness of the city, holding his bowl of rice close. He can smell despair and sorrow.

Four seasons have passed but in his little heart, he still hopes for better news. That he will go back to learning lessons, playing games and most of all, living normally like other children of his age are. Hassan hopes that he will again get a chance to celebrate August 15 at school in Kashmir.