When the first flakes of snow fall over the Kashmir Valley and the roads begin to vanish under a white hush, the kitchens of this Himalayan land start to lean on a centuries-old tradition — the art of drying vegetables. Known locally as hokh syun or hoggaad, this practice of preserving vegetables and greens for winter is not just a culinary technique; it is a story of survival, ingenuity, and belonging.
For generations, Kashmir has lived with long, severe winters. The valley, surrounded by the Pir Panjal and Zabarwan ranges, remains cut off from much of the world for weeks at a time during the heaviest snowfall. Historically, this isolation meant that fresh vegetables were scarce once the autumn harvest was over.
Old-timers recall how roads to Jammu or Sopore markets would close, and nothing fresh could enter the valley. “Those days, we had to live off what we had dried, stored, or pickled,” says 78-year-old Haji Abdul Rashid from Bandipora, his voice carrying both nostalgia and pride. “Dry vegetables were not a choice — they were a lifeline.”
Before electricity, refrigeration, and cold chains, the women of Kashmiri households prepared for winter like seasoned strategists. From early September, homes across the valley would turn into makeshift preservation factories. Courtyards, verandas, and rooftops would be covered with sliced turnips, aubergines, bottle gourds, spinach, and even fish — all laid under the late summer sun to dry. The sight was as common as the scent of wood smoke curling through the autumn air.
Drying food is one of humanity’s oldest preservation techniques, but in Kashmir it evolved into a finely honed cultural ritual. The idea was simple: remove moisture, and you remove the chance for decay. Yet the execution was delicate — each vegetable had to be blanched, sliced, and dried in specific ways to retain its taste through the long, cold months.
Eggplants (vangan hachh), turnips (gogji hachh), tomatoes (rumann hachh), bottle gourds (al’h hachh), and even green leafy vegetables like haakh were strung on jute threads or spread over woven mats to dry slowly in the crisp autumn air. The cool breeze and low humidity of the valley were ideal for dehydration, and within days the vegetables would shrink, wrinkle, and darken — their transformation as complete as it was miraculous.
Once dried, they were stored in airtight earthen jars or cloth bags, ready to be rehydrated later by soaking in warm water before cooking. These vegetables would then be simmered in the comforting gravies that define Kashmiri winter cuisine — flavored with dried fish (hokh gad), red chilies, mustard oil, and the earthy fragrance of sun-cured produce.
The geography of Kashmir is what made hokh syun inevitable. For almost half the year, temperatures drop below freezing, and snow covers fields that in summer burst with green. This stark shift between abundance and scarcity created a food system that depended on intelligent storage.
“Kashmiris developed one of the most climate-adaptive cuisines in South Asia,” says Dr. Shaheena Andrabi, a food anthropologist at the University of Kashmir. “The practice of drying vegetables shows how people engineered resilience into their everyday life. It is science, culture, and identity intertwined.”
Beyond necessity, however, the practice became a marker of community rhythm. Every household — regardless of wealth — took part in drying. It was a social activity, where women chatted and shared stories while slicing gourds and arranging them on reed mats. Children were assigned small tasks: turning pieces over, guarding them from birds, and bringing them in before evening dew could spoil them.
A Taste of Memory
The taste of hokh syun is unmistakable — smoky, intense, and deeply nostalgic. Dried tomatoes bring tang; aubergines lend a mellow sweetness; and dried turnips, when cooked with fish or mutton, create a flavor that tastes of both earth and time.
To many Kashmiris, especially those living away from home, these dishes are edible memories. “Every time I cook vangan hachh in Delhi, it feels like winter in my mother’s kitchen,” says journalist Shazia Mir, who carries packets of sun-dried vegetables each time she returns from Srinagar. “The taste connects me to home in a way nothing else can.”
In the traditional Kashmiri kitchen, winter menus still revolve around these preserved ingredients: hak hachh with nadru (lotus stem), al’h hachh cooked in mustard oil, or gogji hachh paired with dry fish. Each dish, though born of necessity, carries sophistication — a proof of how resourcefulness and flavor coexist in Kashmiri cooking.
The origin of the drying tradition may also have older roots tied to Kashmir’s position on ancient trade routes. Historians suggest that traders traveling along the Silk Route carried sun-dried foods that could endure long journeys across mountains. Kashmir, a node in that network, may have absorbed and refined these preservation methods over centuries.
Travel accounts from the 16th and 17th centuries, including those of Mughal chroniclers, mention the Kashmiri penchant for storing and drying food. Abul Fazl, in the Ain-i-Akbari, describes “preserved roots and herbs” prepared in the valley for winter consumption. It shows that by the Mughal era, the art of hokh syun was already well-established — a hallmark of self-sufficiency in a land that endured months of snow-bound isolation.
In the post-1990s decades, as markets modernized and supply chains expanded, the practice of drying vegetables declined. Imported produce, greenhouse cultivation, and modern preservation techniques made hokh syun less necessary. Younger generations began to see it as old-fashioned, even laborious.
But in recent years, there has been a revival — driven by nostalgia, environmental consciousness, and a growing interest in traditional foods. Local entrepreneurs and women’s cooperatives have started packaging and selling dried vegetables commercially, targeting both local consumers and Kashmiri diaspora abroad.
“It’s not just about selling food,” says Saima Bhat, who runs a small enterprise in Pulwama that sun-dries and markets vegetables. “We are preserving a heritage. When people taste hokh syun, they taste centuries of Kashmiri resilience.”
At its heart, the story of Kashmiri dry vegetables is not merely culinary — it’s philosophical. It speaks of a community’s understanding of nature’s rhythm, its humility before the seasons, and its quiet genius in turning scarcity into abundance.
In a world driven by convenience, where food often travels farther than people, hokh syun reminds Kashmiris of an older wisdom: that survival can be an art, and preservation, a form of love. Every dried slice of aubergine or strand of haakh hanging from a kitchen beam tells of patience — a lesson taught by generations who knew that snow always returns, and so must preparation.
As snow begins to fall again over the Dal and the Chinars stand bare, Kashmiri kitchens simmer once more with the aroma of rehydrated turnips and chilies. The tradition continues — quiet, fragrant, and enduring — like the valley itself.
