Shweta Sharma
shwetasharma1253@gmail.com
The first time I visited Chishoti, I was eight years old, when I joined my father and his friends on my maiden yatra to the holy Machail Mata shrine. The picturesque landscape of terraced maize and millets, dotted with sparse walnut trees, remains fresh in my memory. We stopped at a local wooden house that doubled as a small shop and ate a pot of instant noodles, cooked with homegrown vegetables. Nearby was a temple courtyard where we sat on lush green grass and ate heartily.
I still remember my father calling me to see a traditional water-run flour mill-the Ghraat. I stood in awe as grains slipped one by one into the stone mill, powered by flowing water. As we left, I turned back to look at Chishoti once more, ringing the bell hanging from the exit gate. Over the years, I carried this memory with me, often proudly speaking about the Ghraat I had once seen.
Years later, in 2023, I returned-not only as a pilgrim, but as part of my PhD fieldwork, studying millet cultivation in the region. Much had changed in those fifteen years. A new route now led pilgrims closer to Kundail, and cruisers replaced tough, long walks. Concrete structures had taken the place of many wooden homes. We rested at the same spot as before, though the old wooden house was nearly gone. Lunch was eaten in a grassy backyard where a vegetable garden once stood.
Amid these transitions, I felt a quiet sense of relief upon seeing that the Ghraat was still there, in all its glory, continuing to support local livelihoods. I photographed it, unaware that it would soon be gone.
The cloudburst of August 2025 did not simply wash away houses, bridges, and terraced fields; it profoundly disrupted lives. In a matter of hours, people lost loved ones, homes built over generations, and the Jatru-the pilgrims and guests they have been welcoming with open hearts for centuries. Days of fear, pain, and grief followed. A heavy silence settled over the village, echoing what had been destroyed. It was then that I learned the Ghraat too had been swept away.
In the days that followed, people worked side by side-clearing debris, building temporary bridges, rescuing the injured, and comforting those who mourned. Across Kishtwar, communities came together. Food was prepared and sent from neighbouring villages to support rescue teams and affected families.
Rebuilding and restoration continue alongside exhaustion and uncertainty. People speak of rebuilding, but also of waiting-watching the sky more closely than before. In moments like these, I find myself thinking of traditional building practices-shaped by long familiarity with the terrain, utilising wood, stones, mud, and dry stone masonry-as remembered ways of living in harmony with the land. They are not part of present conversations, but remnants of the landscape’s memory.
The paths I remember from childhood are altered now, but they are still walked. Chishoti continues to be lived in, remembered, and watched closely. The Ghraat endures too-etched quietly in memory, including my own. What endures is not certainty, but a shared commitment to remain together in a changed landscape.
(The author is PhD Research Scholar/World Food Forum Youth Representative 2025-26 School of Environmental Sciences Jawaharlal Nehru University New Delhi)
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