Our first journey to Srinagar began, as perhaps all first journeys there should, on the waters of Dal Lake.
We woke before dawn, while the city still seemed undecided between sleep and morning.
The mountains stood as dark silhouettes against a sky only beginning to surrender to light.
There was a delicious chill in the air that carried the scent of wet wood, willow trees and distant snow.
Our shikara glided away from the ghat almost without a sound.
The first rays of the infant sun slipped over the Zabarwan hills, painting the still waters with molten gold. Every ripple became liquid light. The reflections of the mountains were so perfect that the world above and the world below seemed indistinguishable.
Dal Lake was not merely a lake.
It was an entire civilisation floating upon water.
Small wooden boats emerged silently from the morning mist, each carrying impossibly fresh vegetables stacked into careful pyramids.
Emerald spinach.
Tender knol knol with its leafy crowns still attached.
Lotus stems pulled from the lake only hours earlier.
Bright radishes.
Crimson carrots.
Fragrant bundles of herbs.
The floating market had already begun its day.
There were no raised voices.
Only gentle bargaining, quiet laughter and the rhythmic knock of wooden boats brushing against one another.
Elsewhere, flower sellers drifted past carrying marigolds and lotus blooms.
Children in tiny boats waved enthusiastically before disappearing between broad lotus leaves and drifting clusters of water hyacinth, their lavender flowers floating like scattered brushstrokes across the emerald water.
Houseboats stood in dignified silence, their carved walnut balconies reflected perfectly beneath them.
Beyond them, magnificent chinar trees stretched over the shoreline, silent sentinels that had watched generations come and go upon the lake.
Some houseboats looked impossibly grand, carrying memories of another era when emperors, poets and British officers had all surrendered to the romance of the lake.
A tea seller paddled alongside us, balancing a gleaming samovar.
The aroma of saffron and kahwa drifted through the crisp morning air.
As we stepped ashore, I realised the morning had altered something within us.
The lake had slowed the world down.
Or perhaps it had simply slowed us down enough to notice it.
Back at our hotel overlooking Dal Lake, lunch unfolded with that same quiet grace.
Among the dishes was a bowl of fish curry.
The server smiled gently.
“This is how we cook fish at home.”
The curry looked deceptively simple.
No riot of spices.
No elaborate garnish.
Just generous pieces of freshwater fish nestled beside tender knol knol in a golden broth.
Then came the aroma.
Mustard oil, mellowed by patient cooking.
A fleeting whisper of hing.
And the warm, unmistakable perfume of ver masala—the quiet soul of so many Kashmiri kitchens.
The fish flaked at the gentlest touch.
The knol knol still carried a delicate sweetness of its own.
The broth was astonishingly light.
Every spoonful felt clear.
Honest. Quietly nourishing—as though the valley itself had somehow found its way into the bowl.
It was a curry utterly secure in itself.
Nothing clamoured for attention.
Nothing sought to impress.
Every ingredient seemed content simply to be itself.
And perhaps that is what I remember most vividly all these years later.
Not merely its flavour.
Its quiet confidence.
As we travel across India, we often celebrate complexity.
Yet Kashmir reminded me that sophistication sometimes lies in knowing exactly what to leave out.
The finest dishes know when to stop.
They leave room for every ingredient to remember what it is.
For the fish to taste unmistakably of fish.
For the knol knol to retain its gentle sweetness.
For mustard oil, hing and ver masala not to compete, but to converse.
Long after the shikara had slipped from sight, long after the mountains had disappeared beyond the aircraft window, long after we had left the valley behind, that quiet bowl of Kashmiri Gaad Monj has continued to travel with me.
Perhaps that is what good food does.
It travels with us—across years, across cities, across lives—waiting patiently for the day a familiar aroma returns us, if only for a moment, to a quiet morning on Dal Lake.
Kashmiri Gaad Monj
Ingredients
Method
- Wash the fish and season with the turmeric powder and a little salt. Leave aside for 15–20 minutes.
- Heat the mustard oil until it just reaches smoking point, then reduce the heat. Fry the fish until lightly golden on both sides. Remove and set aside.
- In the same oil, fry the knol khol until lightly golden. Remove.
- Add the clove in the oil , then stir in the asafoetida, red chilli powder, ginger powder, fennel powder and salt. Immediately pour in 1 cup hot water and bring to a boil.
- Add the fried fish and knol khol. Cover and simmer over medium-low heat for 15–20 minutes, or until the knol khol is tender and the fish is cooked through. The gravy should reduce slightly and lightly coat the fish.
- Sprinkle the Ver masala over the curry and simmer for 1 minute. Serve hot with steamed rice.
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