Luqman Ahmed

Language is more than just a means of communication; it carries history, culture, and identity within it. Growing up in Kashtwar, a region nestled in the Chenab Valley, I spoke Kashmiri in a way that felt natural and familiar. It was only when I moved to Delhi in 2018 for my Bachelor’s degree that I realized how different some of the words I used were from those spoken in the Kashmir Valley. My interactions with Kashmiri students from the Valley revealed something peculiar — many of the words I used were unheard of by them. They often pointed out my vocabulary, questioning whether certain words were even Kashmiri. This puzzled me. Had I been using words that were no longer in common use? These questions led me to dig deeper into the origins of my language. Using old Kashmiri dictionaries, such as those compiled by George Abraham Grierson, I discovered that many words I had thought to be unique to Chenab Valley were, in fact, documented in Kashmiri a century ago. However, the dictionaries themselves do not indicate exactly when these words fell out of regular use in the Kashmir Valley. Over time, these words seem to have faded from common usage in the Valley but remained in circulation in Chenab. Moreover, lexical differences are also evident between North and South Kashmir. For instance, the term for "hand axe" is "Tab’bir" in North Kashmir and "M’akh" in South Kashmir. In Kashtwar, however, both terms coexist: people use "Tab’bir" and "Mak’atcx" for a small axe or hatchet, while "Makh" is reserved for a regularaxe — an accurate usage of these words according to historical dictionaries. For instance, in the Chenab Valley, the word ‘Tyoth’ is used to mean ‘bitter,’ which aligns with its dictionary definition. However, in the Kashmir Valley, ‘Tyoth’ is commonly used to describe something hot or spicy, demonstrating how regional speech patterns have altered its meaning over time. Take, for example, the word “Bokut.” In Kashtwar, it is commonly used to refer to a boy, while in the Kashmir Valley, it means the whelp of a dog. When I used this word, people from the Valley laughed, telling me it wasn’t Kashmiri. Yet, according to historical dictionaries, its primary meaning is indeed “a child (of a human)”, with its secondary meaning referring to the whelp of a dog. This discovery opened a fascinating window into the linguistic divergence between these two neighboring regions. Chenab Valley, with its rugged terrain and prolonged inaccessibility, has always been somewhat isolated from the Kashmir Valley. Until recent years, heavy snowfall would cut off entire regions for four to five months at a time. This isolation meant that linguistic evolution in Chenab followed a different trajectory than in the Valley, leading to the preservation of words and structures that had otherwise become rare elsewhere. It is often misunderstood that the Kashmiri language spoken in Kashtwar is entirely distinct from that of the Kashmir Valley. In reality, while the core language remains the same, certain words and expressions have remained in use in Chenab Valley long after they became uncommon in the Valley. Some people confuse the Kashmiri language spoken in Kashtwar with Kishtwari, which is a main dialect of Kashmiri. Kishtwari is spoken by the Hindus of Kishtwar, while standard Kashmiri is spoken by Muslims. This distinction is often overlooked, leading to further misunderstanding of the linguistic diversity in the region. Chenab Valley is one of the most linguistically diverse regions of Jammu and Kashmir, with more than a dozen languages spoken. Kashmiri, too, evolved in a highly localized manner, with every sub-region and even villages developing their own unique speech patterns. One of the most striking examples of linguistic preservation can be found in the Warwan Valley, a remote and largely inaccessible region of Kashtwar. This valley, surrounded by the Greater Himalayan range with Kargil on one side and Anantnag on the other, remains cut off from the outside world for nearly half the year. Some villages here still lack electricity and have only limited network connectivity, with residents struggling to access even the most basic necessities. The Kashmiri spoken in Warwan is nothing short of a linguistic time capsule, a rare and invaluable remnant of the past that has miraculously survived the tides of time. While reading the book The Meadow, I first came across the fact that Warwan residents still speak a medieval form of Kashmiri. Skeptical but intrigued, I reached out to locals from the area, and what I discovered was nothing short of extraordinary. They still used words I had only encountered in centuries-old Kashmiri poetry, words that had vanished from everyday conversations elsewhere but had found safe refuge in Warwan's linguistic landscape. Unlike the Kashmiri spoken in the Valley, which has absorbed influences from Urdu, Hindi, and English over time, the Kashmiri of Warwan has remained largely unchanged. This linguistic preservation offers a rare glimpse into the past, allowing us to experience the language much as it was spoken centuries ago. For decades, Warwan remained overlooked and underdeveloped, with its residents facing hardships due to a lack of basic infrastructure. Now, as modernity finally reaches Warwan, bringing with it increased road connectivity and amenities, I wonder how much longer this linguistic relic will survive. Language adapts and evolves with time, but there is a difference between evolution and erasure. If these older forms of Kashmiri disappear entirely, we lose a vital link to our history and identity. The government, along with linguistic and cultural preservationists, must take urgent steps to document and protect this unique linguistic heritage. The Kashmiri spoken in Chenab Valley and its sub-regions, including Warwan, is a cultural treasure that deserves recognition and conservation. If we fail to do so, we risk losing not just words, but an entire way of understanding our past.

Luqman Ahmed

The Forgotten Words: Kashmiri Language in Chenab Valley

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