Quince apple (bum choont)

 

Quince apple (bum-choont of Kashmir-a remembrance)

I remember Janki—my father—saying, “Tomorrow is my mother’s death anniversary. Let us prepare quince with the other dishes.” On the death anniversary of Kudmali, he would observe a fast, and quince would invariably find its way into the remembrance meal.

As children, we wondered why quince had to be cooked on such occasions. Why not a more familiar fruit? His answer was usually simple, though it often unfolded into one of his long, affectionate stories about quince—its fragrance, its healing qualities, its ancient associations, and its place in Kashmiri memory. He believed that Kashmiri Pandits had long understood the value of wholesome food and disciplined living. He had experience, an instinctive respect for science, and a gift for connecting tradition with reason.

The fruit of love

Quince has been associated with love, marriage, and fertility since antiquity. The ancient Greeks linked it with fertility and included it in wedding customs. It was offered as a wedding gift; in some accounts, a bride would take a bite of quince to sweeten her breath before entering the bridal chamber, and the bride and groom would share the fruit. Through such associations, quince came to be known as the fruit of love, marriage, and fertility.

Its scent itself seems made for celebration. A ripe quince can perfume a room with a fragrance suggestive of apple, pear, citrus, guava, and sometimes even pineapple. Leave one on a sunny windowsill, and it slowly gives its perfume to the kitchen: a delicate mingling of vanilla, citrus, and autumn fruit.

Quince grows on small trees and ripens in late autumn, generally around September and October. At first glance, it resembles an apple or a short-necked pear, yet that resemblance is misleading. It is knobbly, irregularly shaped, and, when picked early, may wear a soft grey fuzz. The finest ripe fruit is golden yellow, smooth-skinned, and richly fragrant.

A fruit transformed by fire

Unlike an apple or pear, quince is rarely inviting when raw. Most cultivated varieties are hard, sour, astringent, and difficult to eat without cooking. Yet therein lies its secret. Under heat, its pale, whitish-yellow flesh softens and transforms into a glowing rosy pink or deep red. What was once harsh becomes fragrant, tender, and delicious.

Its high pectin content makes quince especially suitable for jams, jellies, preserves, and chutneys. Its sharp, distinctive flavour also works beautifully in savoury cooking. In Kashmiri kitchens, quince may be prepared with lotus stem or brinjal, where its unusual sweetness and perfume acquire an entirely new character.

When simmered gently with sugar and a little water—or perhaps wine—it becomes delicate, sweet, and richly aromatic. Medieval cooks treasured quince and seasoned it with pepper, ginger, cloves, cinnamon, and nutmeg. At great medieval feasts, quince jelly was served as a prized dessert. It is a fruit that requires patience: it does not give its sweetness immediately, but rewards whoever waits for its hidden richness.

Food and healing

Quince has long been valued not only as food but also in household healing traditions. It contains dietary fibre, antioxidants, vitamin C, and minerals including potassium, phosphorus, zinc, copper, and iron. Its tannins include catechin and epicatechin, and its high pectin content contributes to its usefulness in preserves.

In Kashmir, traditional physicians often recommended dried quince seeds—locally remembered as pits—for sore throats and coughs. When soaked in water, the seeds form a thick, soothing jelly-like liquid. Mixed with a little honey, it has been used as a gentle, alcohol-free home remedy, especially for children. The mucilage from the seeds has also been traditionally used to soothe minor irritation and has been applied externally for small burns and bruises.

The fruit and its juice have also been used in traditional remedies for digestive discomfort and as a gargle for tender throats, mouth ulcers, and gum irritation. Such traditional uses are part of folk practice and should not replace medical care, especially for persistent or serious illness.

An ancient traveller

The quince is an ancient fruit, known in Roman cookery and cultivated across the Mediterranean, Turkey, Central Asia, and parts of Southeast Asia. Its botanical name, Cydonia oblonga, is linked to Kydonia, an ancient city in Crete. The Greek name for quince, kydoni, preserves that connection.

Crete itself carries a magnificent history. It was the home of the Minoan civilisation, one of the earliest great civilisations of Europe, flourishing roughly between 2600 and 1150 BCE. From that old Mediterranean world came many of the myths surrounding quince.

Some traditions suggest that the forbidden fruit in the Garden of Eden may have been a quince rather than an apple. In Greek legend, Paris awarded a quince to Aphrodite, goddess of love, as the prize in the famous beauty contest involving Aphrodite, Hera, and Athena. That choice, legend says, helped set in motion the events leading to the Trojan War. Whether myth or history, quince has travelled through the imagination of many cultures as a fruit of beauty, desire, love, and destiny.

My father often spoke of sweeter quince varieties—fruit so juicy and mild that it could be eaten like an apple—found in distant places such as Central Asia and Latin America. For years, those stories sounded almost legendary. Then, at a fruit growers’ festival in Los Angeles, I saw one for myself: a fruit with the unmistakable perfume and flavour of quince, yet sweet, juicy, and almost apple-like in its immediate appeal. For anyone who loves quince, such a discovery feels like a revelation.

A tree for remembrance

Quince is not always easy to find. Perhaps that is why I planted two quince trees about eight years ago. They have now begun to bear bumper fruit. I planted them with a small but enduring hope: that as long as my wife and I live in Washington, we will not be deprived of preparing the favourite dishes of our departed parents and loved ones.

Perhaps, many years from now, someone will stand near those trees and say, “Our grandfather planted these fifty years ago.” They may even complain, with affectionate impatience, “What use are these hard quinces?” Yet they may not know that every fruit carries a story—of Janki, of Kudmali, of a fast observed with devotion, of a Kashmiri home, of autumn kitchens, and of remembrance.

For quince is not merely a hard fruit that softens in the cooking pot. It is a fruit of patience, transformation, love, and memory—the Fruit of Love.

The Banyan Seed Story of Shvetaketu

 

The Banyan Seed

Story of Shvetaketu

[Uddalaka=father; Shvetaketu =son]

This ancient teaching comes from the Chhandogya Upanishad. It is connected with the sacred phrase Tat Tvam Asi— “That Thou Art,” or “You are That.”

Shvetaketu was a young man who had spent many years studying sacred texts. When he returned home, he was proud of all that he had learned. His father, the sage Uddalaka Āruṇi, loved him deeply, but he saw that his son still had much to understand.

One day, Uddalaka said, “My son, bring me a fruit from that great banyan tree.”

Shvetaketu brought fruit to his father.

“Break it open,” Uddalaka said.

Shvetaketu opened the fruit and looked inside.

“What do you see?” his father asked.

“Many tiny seeds,” replied Shvetaketu.

“Take one of those seeds,” said Uddalaka. “Now break it open.”

Shvetaketu carefully broke a tiny seed between his fingers.

“What do you see inside?” his father asked.

Shvetaketu looked closely and said, “I see nothing at all.”

Then his father spoke gently:

“My son, from that subtle essence, which you cannot see, this great banyan tree has grown. Within the tiny seed is a power too delicate for the eyes to behold. From it come the roots, the vast trunk, the spreading branches, the leaves, the fruit, and many more seeds.”

Shvetaketu listened quietly.

His father continued, “Do not think that what you cannot see is nothing. The most important realities are often hidden. They are silent, subtle, and beyond the reach of the eyes.”

The banyan tree stood before them—strong, wide, and full of life. Yet it had begun in something so small that it seemed empty.

Uddalaka then gave his son the deeper teaching:

“Just as this great tree comes from an unseen essence, so all life arises from an invisible Reality. That Reality lives in all things—in the tree, in the earth, in every creature, and within you.”

Then he said the words that Shvetaketu would never forget:

“Tat Tvam Asi—That Thou Art.”

Shvetaketu understood that wisdom is not merely learning words or memorizing teachings. True wisdom is seeing the hidden unity of life: that behind every form, every person, and every living thing is one subtle and eternal essence.

Ref:

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Transmigration of soul

 Legend

Lal Ded’s Birth: An Old Legend

Transmigration of Soul

Some people believe that inside every person is a tiny, invisible light. It is called the **soul**. The soul is the part of you that loves and learns. They believe that when the body dies, the soul can go into a new body. This is called **being born again**.

**Now the story: **

Long ago in Kashmir, there was a woman. She had a little baby boy. A wise and holy man named Siddha Shrikanth came to bless the baby. To bless means to wish good things for someone.

The woman asked him, “Do you know what this baby is to me?”

The holy man said, “He is your son.”

The woman said, “Yes, now he is my son. But one day, you will understand more.”

Then the woman died. Before she died, she said, “I will be born again in a new body. Come and find me. Then I will explain.”

The holy man looked for her. In the old story, he found her as a young horse. Then as a little puppy. Then in other bodies too. Each time, he asked the same question:

**What did you mean? What is this baby to you? **

Each time, she said, “Not yet. One day you will know.”

At last, he was tired. He stopped looking. He went away to pray and think quietly.

Many years later, a little girl named Lal Ded was born. She grew up and married a young man. Siddha Shrikanth came to bless the wedding.

Then Lal Ded said softly, “Remember the baby? That baby’s soul is now in my husband’s life. In my old life, I was his mother. In this life, I am his wife.”

Then the holy man understood.

**Two souls are important in this story: **

1. The woman. Later, she was born again as **Lal Ded**. 

2. The baby boy. Later, he was born again as **Lal Ded’s husband**.

So, in the old life, they were **mother and son**. 

In the new life, they were **wife and husband**.

Some people believe the soul travels and is born again. The story also teaches that some big questions take a long time to understand. Being serene and wise often comes with patience.

 

Anti-incumbency

Anti-incumbency is public dissatisfaction with the people or party currently in power—the incumbents. It often shows up when voters decide to vote them out, not necessarily because they strongly support an opponent, but because they want change.

I give a simple example:

 If a government has been in office for several years and people feel unhappy about unemployment, prices, corruption, poor services, or unfulfilled promises, voters may choose another party in the next election. That public mood against the ruling government is called anti-incumbency.

It is sometimes expressed informally as: “It is time to throw the current leaders out.”

I have been watching TV shows where a senior political leader confidently says that the current government is winning; the real question is not merely about electoral numbers; it is about the people’s verdict on governance. In politics, a government that has been in power for a long period is often expected to face anti-incumbency—public dissatisfaction or a desire to vote against those already holding office. Yet, if the government continues to receive public support and emerges victorious, it suggests that voters have looked beyond the usual call for change. They may have judged the government by its performance, its development work, the welfare it has delivered, and the opportunities it has created for ordinary citizens.

The disgruntled and frustrated leader keeps asking: why is the government not losing simply because it has been in office for a long time? Why has anti-incumbency not turned the tide against it? Yet, somewhere deep in his heart, he knows the answer. The government’s work has earned the trust, confidence, and gratitude of the people.

Apparently, he raises the cry of “anti-incumbency” not because he truly believes it, but because he wants to impress and energise his supporters. He repeats the phrase—anti-incumbency, anti-incumbency—as though repetition alone can create public anger. But the people do not live by political catchphrases. They judge what they can see and experience: development, public facilities, welfare, roads, bridges, hospitals, schools, and opportunities for their children.

A government does not win merely because it has remained in office; it wins when people feel that it has remained with them. And when trust is stronger than frustration, and visible work speaks louder than opposition rhetoric, anti-incumbency loses its force.

For the common citizen, development is not a slogan. It is the road that allows a farmer to reach a market, the bridge that keeps a village connected during the rains, the medical college that brings treatment closer to a family in distress, and the ITI that gives a young person a practical skill and the dignity of earning a livelihood. When governance reaches people in this concrete and visible form, gratitude can be stronger than mere political fatigue.

Anti-incumbency should not be treated as an automatic law of politics. A government does not lose public confidence merely because it has been in power for many years. If people can see and experience real change in their daily lives—if the poor receive support, villages and cities are connected by good roads and bridges, young people gain access to IIMs, ITIs, universities and medical colleges, and ordinary families find better hospitals, education, transport, electricity, water, and employment opportunities—then people have every reason to stand by that government.

A mature voter does not vote only for change; a mature voter also recognises sincere work. Change for its own sake is not always progress. Replacing a government that has built institutions, expanded opportunity, strengthened infrastructure, and worked for those who were long neglected may interrupt the very development people have begun to benefit from. Continuity can be as valuable as change when that continuity carries development, stability, and public welfare forward.

To include, I may say that a government that serves the people well does not fear anti-incumbency; it earns the people’s trust, gratitude, and renewed mandate. Developmental work can override anti-incumbency when people see genuine improvement in their everyday lives. Voters do not judge a government only by how long it has been in power; they also judge whether their villages, towns, and families have progressed. When roads, bridges, electricity, clean water, schools, hospitals, and public transport improve, development becomes a living reality rather than an election promise.

 

Thokur Kuth

In every Kashmiri Pandit home, there was a Thokur Kuth—the sacred prayer room where the family’s deities resided and where daily worship, rituals, and whispered hopes found their place. It was more than a room. It was the spiritual heart of the house: a quiet sanctuary where generations gathered, where bells rang at dawn, where incense rose toward the ceiling, and where faith seemed to live in the very walls.

At Misri Nivas, in Dadi Kadal Tanki Pora, we too had a large Thokur Kuth. It stood on the third floor of our ancestral home, slightly apart from the ordinary movements and sounds of the household. Rectangular in shape, it was about ten feet long and seven feet wide, enclosed on three sides, with an entrance so open that it seemed to invite everyone in. Yet, whenever one stepped inside, the space carried its own solemnity. Children lowered their voices. Elders removed their shoes. Even the sunlight appeared softer there.

Against one wall stood an open wooden almirah, about three feet wide and five feet high, with several shelves. On those shelves rested all the sacred articles needed for pooja: a small hand-held brass bell, a large conch shell, a long musical fork called Chumta, a drum, and other ritual objects, each with its own place and purpose.

At the center was a large Shiva Linga, placed in a broad trough. Every day, it was worshipped with water, flowers, sandalwood paste, and devotion. Around it were large framed pictures of the gods—Lord Shiva and Parvati, Ram, Sita and Lakshman, Lord Krishna and Radha—as well as images of saints and holy figures who had watched over our family for years. To my young eyes, they were not merely pictures. They were quiet presences: familiar, watchful, and somehow alive.

My eldest uncle, Pandit Sri Kanth—whom we lovingly called Bobji—performed the daily pooja. Each morning, after his ablutions, after washing and preparing himself, he would enter the Thokur Kuth and remain there for hours. The household would go on around him: people talking, utensils clattering, children running through the corridors. But from the third floor came another rhythm—the ringing of the bell, the low murmur of mantras, and, at intervals, the deep, lingering sound of the conch.

Three times the conch would be blown.

Its sound would rise through Misri Nivas, pass into the narrow lanes of Dadi Kadal, and seem to travel beyond the rooftops. Across from our house stood the Ganesha temple, where the evening aarti and prayers were also performed. Yet, somehow, Bobji’s pooja never clashed with the temple aarti. The two sounds—his ancient conch and the temple bells—seemed to know each other. They belonged to the same sky, the same faith, the same old Kashmir.

The conch was unusually large. Its surface had become worn and dull with time, its whiteness softened by the touch of many hands. Bobji often told us that it was an ancestral Shankh, handed down from his grandfather to his father, and then entrusted to him. It had belonged to the family for generations.

“This Shankh is very special,” he would say.

Naturally, I wanted to know why.

“What is so special about it, Bobji?” I once asked.

He looked at me with a small smile and said, “Come to the Thokur Kuth. I will show you.”

One Sunday, I followed him upstairs. I remember standing before him with the reverence a child reserved for elders and sacred things.

“Yes, Bobji,” I said softly.

“Sit,” he told me.

He lifted the old conch with both hands and placed it carefully before me.

“Look closely,” he said. “This is not an ordinary Shankh. It has been with our family for generations. It has passed from the eldest head of the family to the next descendant.’

Then he ran his index finger gently over a faint, wavy marking on its surface.

“See this?” he asked. “What does it look like?”

I peered at it with all the seriousness I could gather.

“It looks like a zero,” I said.

Bobji shook his head.

“No. It is not zero. It is ‘O.’”

Then he moved his finger to another pale marking on the shell.

“And what do you see here?”

I studied it again.

“It looks like a ‘W,’” I replied.

“Oh no,” he said, almost amused by my ignorance. “It is ‘M.’ You must learn to read the marks carefully.”

He placed his finger first on the O and then on the M.

“Together,” he said, “they make OM.”

Then, in his patient, gentle way, he explained the sacred sound to me. Om—or Aum—was not merely a word. It was the sound of existence itself.

“A,” he told me, “is life.”

“U” was birth.

“M” was death.

I did not fully understand the depth of his explanation then. I was too young to understand how life, birth, and death could be contained within one sound, or how a weathered conch could carry the memory of generations. But I understood that Bobji believed in it completely. And because he believed, the Shankh seemed to hold a mystery far greater than its size.

Years later, that mystical conch was lost.

And soon after, we too were scattered.

The old house at Misri Nivas, the Thokur Kuth on the third floor, the Shiva Linga, the brass bell, the pictures of the gods, Bobji’s long morning prayers, and the sound of the ancient Shankh—everything belongs now to memory. Yet memory, like prayer, has its own way of keeping what the world has taken away.

Whenever I think of that Thokur Kuth, I do not remember it only as a room. I remember it as the soul of our home. I remember the fragrance of incense, the soft glow of the oil lamp, the sound of the bell, and Bobji’s finger tracing the letters of Om on the old conch.

That Shankh may be gone, but its sound still echoes somewhere within me—like a call from a lost home, a lost childhood, and a Kashmir that continues to live in the prayers of its people.

Echoes from the Thokur Kuth

In Misri Nivas, on the quiet third floor,
Our Thokur Kuth held more than gods—
It held the breath of ancestors,
And the soft, unbroken pulse of home.

The brass bell trembled in Bobji’s hand,
The lamp bent low before Shiva’s grace;
Then the old Shankh filled the morning air,
Its sacred voice travelling through every lane.

Upon its weathered shell, he showed me, Om—
Not merely a mark, but life’s secret song:
“A” for life, “U” for birth, “M” for death—
A universe folded into one ancient sound.

The Shankh was lost, and we were scattered,
Like autumn leaves from our cherished tree;
Yet somewhere within my remembering heart,
Its call still rises—bringing Kashmir back to me.

 

O Seeker of Truth-a poem

 O Seeker of Truth-

O Seeker of Truth, to gain pure awareness,
Free your mind from thoughts, from all weariness.
A realm will dawn where conflicts cease,
The soul aglow in radiant peace.

With purity shining, wise and all-seeing,
It knows the depths of each living being.
To endless calm, the path is shown,
By mastering senses, self-awareness grown.

In moments of light, enlightenment springs,
The Almighty’s grace, such joy it brings.
Blessed by Shiva, I soared with speed,
Through galaxies vast, to fulfill my need.

To the realm where the Lord resides on high,
In the company of saints beyond the sky.
He placed me aboard a celestial boat,
To heavenly joys, I set afloat.

Across the grandeur of heavens wide,
With ecstasy and grace as my guide.
I saw great souls, in shimmering light,
Particles of wisdom, glowing bright.

They blessed me with nectar from divine bowls,
Filling my being, enriching my soul.
My body shone with a glorious glow,
Spiritual kindness began to flow.

In blissful wonder, I danced with delight,
As saints beheld my spirit’s flight.
In heavenly gardens, joy was mine,
Between Godhood and grace, I intertwine.

Oh, joy unending, I’ve reached my release,
My soul liberated, bathed in peace.
A guiding star, steady and bright,
I shine for others, a beacon of light.

The chains are broken, my essence soars,
A star of my clan, I illuminate shores.
With body intact, I’ve achieved my aim,
Eternal freedom, in the Shiva’s name.

In spirituality, Lal of Kashmir shines bright,

Sham, the Shiv Bhakta, walks in her light. 

A Tribute to Lal Ded of Kashmir on her 705th birth anniversary

 A Tribute to Lal Ded of Kashmir on her 705th birth anniversary

Namaskar to all respected guests, brothers, sisters, and friends assembled anywhere and everywhere.

I am Sham Misri from Seattle, Washington, USA. Here is my respectful poem in praise of Mata Lalleshwari on her 705th birth anniversary. It may be read with devotion:

#LV-S-2019

Ode to Lal's Blooming Lotus

(A Tribute to Lal Ded)

2.1       O Lal, you shed all earthly ties,

Desire, anger, greed, and lies.

Your lotus bloomed, so pure, so bright,

A beacon of wisdom, bathed in light.

Through deep devotion, your soul is refined,

O Lal, you shed the chains of pride,

Kam, Krod, Lob, Moh—left behind.

Your thoughts like lotus, fresh and fair,

Were born of meditations deep and rare.

‘O Lal! With each step you walked, your truth aligned.

The mountain of spirit, you claimed its height,

With Gyan’s nectar, you gained your sight.

Your guru’s blessing, a sacred guide,

Cleared all doubts you held inside.

 

2.2       ‘O Lal,’ your faith was fierce, untamed,

A disciple’s heart, in duty, framed.

Though trials tested your resolve,

Through patience, all doubts dissolved.

Irritated, frustrated, yet you stayed,

Until the lotus of wisdom displayed.

 

‘O Lal, ‘Through steadfast practice, you walked the line,
Each step is a prayer, each breath divine.
In silence, you meditated long,
Your spirit is strong, your will so strong.
When you emerged, the mountain tall,
Of spiritual wealth, you shared with all.
Your knowledge vast, like sacred streams,
An 'Amrit' flowing from your dreams.

‘O Lal,’ Through nights and days, you chased your art,

With meditation’s fire, you lit your heart.

The charms and spells you cast aside,

For truth alone, became your guide.

 

O Lal, your power soared above,
A beacon bright, a flame of love.
Your lotus bloomed, your light did shine,
Through your Tap and meditation, divine.
From Sid, your guru, wisdom flowed,
Abundant knowledge, in you it showed.
A disciple pure, a soul so clear,
You banished doubt, you banished fear.

2.3       O Lal, your journey took great strife,
Through night and day, through struggle’s life.
Frustration sometimes clouded your way,
Yet you persisted, come what may.
Kam, Krod, Lob, Moh, Ahankar, all fell,
In the bloom of your lotus, all was well.

O Lal, your lotus bloomed with grace,
In meditation, you found your place.
Your yoga, your tap, they worked such charms,
Bringing miracles from the stillest arms.

O Lal, your yoga worked divine,

In love for Shiva, your soul aligned.

Your lotus bloomed in celestial grace,

A masterpiece -of time and space.

And now, in love’s ecstatic glow,

With Sham’s rhythm, you flow.

The lotus petals, Shiva’s boon,

Forever blooming, beneath the moon.

2.4       Your Journey’s tale, a timeless song,

Where virtue triumphs over wrong.

O Lal, your lotus blooms so high,

A living beacon that will never die.

‘O Lal,’ your lotus has truly bloomed,
Through Tap's fire, where the light was groomed.
Your yoga’s power worked wonders profound,
In your heart, divine rhythms resound.

The lotus petals, pure and divine,
Adorn Shiv's altar, in sacred design.
But these I gather, not from within,
At market stalls, where trade begins.

When will my lotus bloom?  I humbly implore,
Yearning to join where your blessings pour.

Yet petals of the lotus, Sham seeks with care,
From the market’s stall, Sham buys and share.