#rizan

Anthony Fineran (B 1981), 'Rizan Sausage', 2025

He’s on a journey to calling it that, at least.

The drive to Kullun took less time than anticipated. We drove north out of the city and wound our way into the mountains. Exhausted from the morning's trip to the floating markets, we rested after checking into the hotel. The day was surprisingly hot; we waited until the sun was about to set before taking a walk through the nearby villages. Headed north we ran into Shakiel. We invited him to join us and soon we were in the middle of the next village, Rizan. The sound of women singing to a drum accompaniment came from a nearby house and I was invited to listen and watch. Women clasped hands and spun in circles as they sang. Shakiel explained that the lyrics were Sufi. He told me they were celebrating a wedding. The groom would appear soon and then proceed to a village some 40km away to being his bride back to his home. The women were singing in celebration. He motioned me onwards. Tini, Aria, and Ed had trailed behind. Leaving the village, the road turned to the left over a bridge. A dirt road lead ahead and Shakiel lead me upon the latter. A gypsy tent village stood on the slope of the mountain and we started to climb. Shakiel wanted to show me a gypsy house and so we cut across the slope, past a group of children playing cricket, and across a steam over which tree logs were placed to create a makeshift bridge. He lead me to a stone house standing alone and showed me the small stable where the cows were kept beside the main living quarters. Inside, a large room was split in two, with a small kitchen fire burning on the hearth over which a pot stewed. It was surprisingly warm inside and I asked Shakiel how many slept in the house. About ten, he told me. Outside a woman offered us tea; we politely refused. Shakiel lead me further up the slope to point out a small cave opening we didn't end up walking to. Inside he said there were birds. A woman came down the slope, a large bunch of wood upon her head. He told me the women go up into the mountains twice a day to collect wood for their fires. We walked back to the small tent village and Shakiel fell into conversation with a man smoking a hookah. He told the man he should drink more water; his face was looking sallow. In Rizan the groom had arrived. The crowds had grown, the singing was louder. As we passed the house from which the singing had emanated, the groom emerged into the street. A videographer and photographers preceded him, crowds of women followed voices raised in song. A man lit fireworks in the street, the bright sparks raining down on us all. The groom walked down to the edge of the village and prayed along with his friends then walked back to the village. Women locked arms and spun in circles as they sang and beat drums. Shakiel told me the groom would bring back his bride later in the evening and the party would continue. He told me I was lucky to have stumbled upon this scene; I agreed. As we walked back to the hotel he asked me how I like Kashmir. I told him I loved it; I loved the lakes in Srinagar and the Mughal gardens, and I loved the mountains and their traditions. He had told me earlier that the views would only get better, and I reminded him of this. He nodded and I said that if this is just the beginning, then I can't imagine how much more amazing the rest of this trip will be.