Nazir Jahangir
In my hands, I hold a “Tikka Waawij”. In Kashmiri, Tikk means “run,” and Waawij refers to a handheld fan.
I am racing through the streets and alleys of downtown, gripping a “Tikka Waawij” in my hand. This vibrant, thick-paper toy fills me with immense joy. In Kashmiri, it is called Tikka Waawij—a pinwheel that spins as one runs. In Urdu, it is known as Phiriri or Phirki, while in some regions, it is called Charkh or Charkha. In my childhood, this was a beloved traditional toy, whirling in the wind’s embrace as we dashed through open spaces.
The Tikka Waawij was crafted from thick, colorful paper. A square sheet, its four corners folded toward the center, was fastened with a pin or needle. This pin was then inserted into a slender bamboo stick, allowing it to spin freely with the breeze. Some children would tweak the design, slightly bending the edges to control its speed. Others would fasten the Tikka Waawij to their caps, letting it twirl just inches above their foreheads as they ran, creating a spectacle of color and motion.
For me, the Tikka Waawij is not just a toy—it is a cherished fragment of childhood, a creative delight that introduced us to the invisible forces of nature. We would fashion them in various hues and patterns, mesmerized by the swirling shapes they painted in the air. In those simpler days, untouched by modern technology, such small wonders held boundless joy. Watching the Phiriri spin in the wind was like witnessing the great wheel of time itself—turning, fleeting, yet forever etched in memory.
What Was the Waawij or Handheld Fan?
Back then, electric fans were rare, and households relied on hand-operated fans, known in Kashmiri as Waawij. These fans were crafted with a thin wooden handle attached to a broad strip woven from stiff grass, reinforced with a fine wire frame. For decorative purposes, a fabric trim—Frill—was often added to the edges.
Over time, the Waawij evolved. The palm grass was replaced with thick, woven threads, often adorned with tiny glass beads known as Mokhta. Some were tailor-made, while others were handcrafted by women at home, each fan a blend of artistry and utility.
Handheld fans were a staple during the scorching summer months, found not only in homes but also in offices. In government buildings, a long curtain-like fabric would hang from the ceiling, affixed to a wooden rod. A rope was tied to one end, and a peon would pull it rhythmically, generating a gentle breeze to cool the space.
Thousands of memories have drifted into the boundless ocean of my subconscious, swallowed by time’s relentless tide. Yet, some moments—vivid with excitement and wonder—refuse to fade. No matter how many years pass or how many seasons change, they remain untouched, fluttering in my mind like the spinning blades of a Tikka Waawij, forever carrying the whispers of my childhood.
Scattering its treasure of crimson and gold upon the drifting white fragments of clouds rushing toward the West, the sun finally slipped beyond my sight. And so, darkness unfurled its vast cloak over the universe—or perhaps, the Multiverse. On this boundless canvas of the sky, stars began to shimmer like scattered pearls, as if nature itself was in the mood to unveil its marvelous mysteries!
I sat alone in my courtyard, beneath the shade of a tree, upon the emerald embrace of the grass, gathering the scattered pieces of my being into a quiet solitude.
My gaze drifted into the darkness—
But why?
Even I did not know.
There are moments when one acts without forethought, without understanding the reason behind it. And yet, the force that compels such actions surely knows—that even an unthinking step can sometimes lead to something unexpected, something astonishing.
Once more, my eyes fixed upon the glimmering stars. Memories, long buried in the mist of time, began to surface—some rising, some sinking—like a lone diver plunging into the ocean’s depths, vanishing into its abyss before breaking through the waves again.
Casting aside the weight of old age like a garment left upon the shore, I plunged into the deep waters of recollection. Drifting beneath the tides of time, I finally emerged on a distant bank—the untouched shore of my youth.
I lingered for a while on the shores of youth, lost in delicate memories. From beneath the thick layers of remembrance, certain sorrows surfaced, shaking me just as they had once before. I plunged once more into the vast ocean of memories, swimming beneath the surface, and when I finally emerged for breath, I found myself washed ashore in the days of my adolescence. My heart fluttered like a stranded trout.
The same songs played again—the melodies woven into the corridors of my youth, where moments of joy entwined with tempests of pain, suffering, and deprivation. I stood there for a while, smiling—at first lightly, then lingering—until the smile dissolved into tears. Droplets welled up unbidden in my eyes, my lips grew parched, and I envisioned myself in a haggard form.
Once more, I dived into the waters of the subconscious, groping for the cherished fragments of love I had once known. This time, when I touched the shore, I found myself standing in the realm of my childhood.
I had long left behind the phases of old age, youth, and adolescence. And now, on this shore, I wandered alongside my pure, untainted childhood.
Today, the sun shines brightly. It is mid-February, yet it radiates a warmth that belongs to May. It feels like May’s sunshine—believe me, when the sun glows in May, I sense a peculiar fragrance in its light. Should I not call it a mysterious fragrance? It lifts me onto the flying saucer of imagination and carries me toward paradise.
Perhaps not everyone would understand my words—unless they are mystics, monks lost in intuition, souls steeped in insight, composing poetry. Perhaps only those blessed with profound imagination could grasp my meaning, could even hear the music woven into my words.
Believe this too—words sing. They carry melodies within them, they hold Soz and Saaz, laden with the passions and pathos of the writer’s soul. Perhaps the rhythm of my memories might awaken their thoughts, setting them dancing, allowing them to relish the melodies of my childhood.
During my childhood, cars were a rarity in the city. People mostly relied on horse-drawn carriages, known as tangas in Kashmir, or traveled along the river routes in boats. Only the wealthy—referred to as Khoja in Kashmiri—could afford private tangas, hiring tanga bans (coachmen) to drive them.
Among Kashmiri Pandits, there were more affluent and educated individuals, and many of the city’s doctors came from their community. Naturally, private tangas were more commonly found in Kashmiri Pandit households. Yet, interestingly, their tanga bans were almost always Muslim. It was considered unusual, even improper, for a Kashmiri Pandit to drive a tanga.
Motor cars were nearly nonexistent, and anyone who owned one was regarded as a person of great importance. My maternal uncle was one of those few privileged individuals. He had a car, a small, boxy vehicle that everyone called “Kandhak Dabi”—meaning “matchbox”—because of its striking resemblance to one. But starting the car was an ordeal. It took the strength of several men, cranking its engine furiously for thirty to forty minutes before it roared to life. And if it stalled along the way, there was no choice but to push it for a long stretch before it would start again.
Yet, in those days, pushing a stalled car was not seen as a burden—it was almost an honor! (Smiling). Whenever a car broke down, people would rush forward with enthusiasm, as if they were taking part in a grand event rather than performing an act of labor. It was a moment of collective effort, a pastime filled with laughter, shared struggle, and, perhaps, an unspoken sense of pride. (Smiling)
What an era it was! When I think of those times now, I find myself both amused and overwhelmed by nostalgia. I can’t even count how many cars I helped push, wandering far from home, only to return exhausted. Looking back, it seems as if, in my childhood, this was a favorite pastime for many—perhaps born out of idleness, poverty, an inferiority complex, or simply the innocence and simplicity of that time!
One day, I watched a Hollywood film about World War II, where Hitler was shown traveling in a Kandhak Dubbi-style car. For a moment, I was convinced it was my uncle—the resemblance was uncanny, especially his mustache, which was almost identical to Hitler’s. But after watching the film multiple times, my suspicion faded. I realized it was just an actor playing Hitler, not my uncle. (Haha). Of course, my uncle did sport a Hitler-style mustache, but unlike the Führer in the film, who spoke in flawless British-accented English, my uncle’s English had the distinct inflection of our Boatmen community.
I went into such detail about vehicles because, in those days, they were a rare sight. There were no Tata or Mazda buses, and while a few taxis might have existed, poverty was so widespread that even well-off people found them unaffordable. As a result, during wedding ceremonies, the groom was sent to his in-laws’ house on a rented horse. A horseman led the way at a slow, ceremonial pace, while the wedding procession followed on foot, talking, laughing and celebrating as they made their way to the bride’s home. After the wedding feast, everyone—including the groom—returned on foot, carrying with them the joy of the occasion and the exhaustion of the long journey. The bride would be brought in a Dholi, a large, box-like structure decorated with colorful paper pasted on its walls. It was carried by four laborers.
These wedding feasts always started in the evening but often stretched so late that dinner turned into a pre-dawn meal, concluding around the time of the Fajr prayer. To this day, I cannot understand whether poverty makes a nation indifferent to order and discipline or whether it is indifference to order and discipline that traps a nation in poverty.
At the front, several hired laborers carried burning gas lamps mounted on bamboo poles. Behind them rode the groom on a horse, with the horseman holding its reins, followed by the wedding procession. At the very end were the “Mashali”—torchbearers who walked behind the procession, carrying long bamboo poles.
These torchbearers were hired laborers, and each family would rent as many as they could afford. At the top of their long bamboo poles were lit lanterns fueled by kerosene, illuminating the path. To make these poles more decorative, they were adorned from top to bottom with dozens of colorful paper ornaments, resembling spinning pinwheels.
We children had our own mischief. We would sprint forward with great speed and skillfully snatch those vibrant paper ornaments from the poles while jumping above the hight of the torchbearer (Mashallali) and whisk away the paper ornament from the bamboo pole. The laborers would hurl all sort of invectives and curses at us, and at times, enraged, they would chase us with their torches still in hand. But catching us was no easy task! We were less interested in the paper toys themselves and more thrilled by the daring act of snatching them, reveling in our own courage and audacity.
Oh, those days! Oh, that childhood! Oh, those memories!
Alas, this old age and helplessness!
Truly, the remembrance of the past is a torment, O Lord!
This memory, as if, rips apart every fiber of my being…!!
Nazir Jahangir is a columnist and journalist
