A."The Stone Kunz."

 

A."The Stone Kunz."

**The Stone Kunz**

In the sprawling, sun-drenched lawns of Misri Nivas stood a behemoth, a giant of a bygone era—a massive stone *Kunz*. For the uninitiated, ‘Kunz’ is the Kashmiri equivalent of a giant mortar, the kind that would make a modern-day gym-goer weep with a mixture of envy and sheer terror. This wasn't just a kitchen utensil; it was a prehistoric fitness machine masquerading as a grain processor.

This circular titan had no interest in subtlety. Standing roughly 32 to 34 inches tall, with a formidable girth of about 88 inches and a diameter spanning 28 inches from outer rim to outer rim, it took up space both physically and metaphorically. Hewn from a special, rugged Dever stone, the exterior was as rough as a bear’s back—clearly built to last a few millennia. The inner cavity, however, a generous 18 inches wide and 14 inches deep, bore a slightly polished sheen, the result of decades of relentless friction and the tender loving care of countless grains of rice.

Accompanying this stone giant were two towering wooden poles of fragrant Deodar wood, known locally as a *Muhul*. Cut from the thickest branches of the Deodar tree, these pestles measured a colossal 75 inches in length. Interestingly, the middle eight inches of each pole were deliberately smoothed down to a smaller girth. This was ostensibly so the "delicate hands" of the ladies could get a firm grip. Delicate, perhaps, but after wielding these wooden behemoths day in and day out, those hands likely had a handshake that could crush walnuts and a bicep curve that would put a blacksmith to shame.

The process itself was a symphony of synchronized brute force. The sun-dried paddy, purchased and parched to perfection, was poured into the stone cavity. Two ladies, having tightened their loins and braced their cores (long before "core workouts" were a trendy Instagram hashtag), would take their positions on opposite sides of the Kunz. Then, the dance began. One would hoist her Muhul high into the air with a grunt of exertion and bring it crashing down with a resounding *thwack*. As she heaved her pole back up, the other lady would already be mid-descent, slamming her own Muhul into the paddy with surgical precision. Up and down, up and down—their rhythmic pounding was like a well-oiled seesaw, provided the seesaw required Herculean strength and the distinct risk of a crushed toe.

The trick was to keep the rhythm flowing seamlessly. Miss a beat, and you’d either strike solid stone (sending a jarring, spine-rattling jolt through your entire skeleton) or awkwardly clatter against the other Muhul, turning a productive work session into a clumsy game of wooden sword fighting. It was a rigorous exercise that demanded intense focus, coordination, and a serious tolerance for sweat.

But the rewards were twofold. While the relentless pounding dislodged the husk (or *shaff*) from the rice grains, it simultaneously transformed the ladies into veritable fitness icons. Toned arms, strengthened backs, and enough calorie burn to justify an extra helping of dinner were all part of the package. Far more effective than a dusty treadmill—and infinitely noisier—this was functional fitness at its finest. Eventually, the *shaff* would blow away in the gentle breeze, leaving behind pearly, pristine grains of rice.

…

But this percussive dance did not unfold without a watchful overseer. Presiding over the entire spectacle like a four-star general at a very sweaty military drill was my grandmother, Kud. With her sharp, hawk-like eyes, she would perch herself on a nearby charpoy, sipping her sheer chai, and observe every rise and fall of those Deodar poles with the quiet intensity of a cricket umpire scrutinising a suspect bowling action. And she had her battalion—four daughters-in-law: Aajin, Maninbabi, Radha, and Soma. They were a formidable quartet, each secretly convinced that she was Kud’s favourite, and each equally convinced that the other three were slacking off. Occasionally, Kud would break her meditative silence with a casual, almost philosophical prompt: *“Take your turns alternately, girls.” *

Now, this was where the real drama unfolded. Because “alternately” in Kud’s dictionary was a fluid, mystical concept that changed with the wind, the position of the sun, and possibly the phase of the moon. One moment, it meant Aajin and Maninbabi; the next, it meant Radha and Soma. But if Radha’s Muhul came down a fraction of a second too early, Kud would clear her throat—a sound that could curdle milk from twenty paces—and declare a re-shuffle. The poor daughters-in-law would swap places, swap partners, and swap barely-concealed glares, all while maintaining a facade of filial obedience. It was less a grain-pounding session and more a high-stakes game of musical chairs, except the music was the thunderous *thwack* of wood on stone, and the only prize was the temporary approval of the matriarch. By the time the *shaff* finally blew away, everyone’s arms were screaming, their backs were aching, and Kud would simply nod, declare the rice perfectly polished, and wander off to plan the next day’s rotation—leaving her daughters-in-law to exchange looks that promised a very spirited discussion over evening tea.

Today, the Kunz sits silent in the lawns of Misri Nivas, a quiet relic of a time when dinner was earned the hard way—one sweat-inducing, callus-forming, rhythmic pound at a time. A monument not just to stone and wood, but to the resilient, iron-willed women who turned a daily chore into an epic, percussive performance.

Poetic stanzas and the sweat-soaked humour of the Kunz.

 

On sun-scorched lawns of Misri Nivas, 

The hulking Kunz of Dever stone; 

The Deodar poles would rise and dive— 

A rhythmic, sweat-soaked, thunderous drone. 

 

But perched upon her charpoy-throne, 

Grandmother Kud, with chai in hand, 

Would watch each rise and hear each groan, 

And issue her divine command. 

"Aajin, Manin, Radha, Soma— 

Take turns!" she'd croak with wily glee. 

But "alternate" meant pure aroma 

Of chaos—who? When? Which decree? 

The rules would shift with every blink, 

As daughters-in-law would sweat and think. 

 

Their biceps burned, their glares were dire, 

As Kud pronounced, the rice was done. 

She'd saunter off, retired from fire, 

Leaving four glares beneath the sun. 

The Kunz now rests, a silent stone— 

A throne of muscle, grain, and groan.

…

Someone unknown phoned to tell me that your English poem does not sit well with the dimensions.

I wrote:

What a brilliant catch! Yes, it fits **perfectly**mathematically speaking, you just exposed me as an accidental genius (or the ancient stonecutters as precise geometricians).

Let’s do the math:

- **Diameter (D)** = 28 inches.

- **Circumference (C)** = π × D = 3.14159 × 28 = **87.96 inches**.

So, when I wrote "girth of about 88 inches", I wasn't just being poetic—I was mathematically bang on money! That’s a rounding error of less than half a per cent.

It turns out that the unknown mason who carved that Kunz thousands of years ago had a better grasp of π than most of us do after high school. Either that, or he just happened to pick a perfect circle, and I got lucky with the numbers. Let’s just say the universe has a sense of humour—or that Dever stone was measured with the precision of a Renaissance arch.