Nilosree BiswasAs the Fajr dawn call to prayer drifts across sleeping cities like a sacred breeze, an irresistible aroma begins to stir the bylanes of Srinagar—bread rising in wood-fired ovens.
In Indian-administered Kashmir, where time itself seems to begin with the scent of freshly baked bread, the day starts with a visit to the neighbourhood bakeries, or kandurwaans.
Their first offering of the day, kandur czot, also called girda, is pulled hot from the oven walls. Crisp at the edges, soft in the centre, this round flatbread is the heartbeat of breakfast tables across the valley.
But the czot is just the beginning.
Throughout the day, the bakers bake a menu of breads, from the wafer-thin lavasa to crumbly layered kulchas freckled with poppy seeds, sesame-speckled tschowors, celebratory golden sweet sheermals, and buttery, flaky katlams. Each has its own character, but all share the same story of flour, flame, and the skilled hands that baked them.
These traditional bakeries are unlike any others. Usually tucked into narrow lanes, they often form an extension of the baker’s home itself. A wooden-framed window or door opens directly onto the street, where customers are served. Inside, space is carefully divided—a raised platform houses the tandoor oven, still fuelled by firewood.
Each kandurwaan typically serves around 200 households in its neighbourhood, with zero waste—breads are baked to order, ensuring nothing is left over. The entire act of baking remains open, tactile, elemental.
Such spaces are more than places of commerce—they’re intimate community landmarks, and every kandur is known not by signage, but by name.
“Aam Kandur was Ghulam Mohammad the baker,” says Iftikhar Ahmed, a handicraft entrepreneur from Batmaloo. “Then there was Lass Kandur—that meant Ghulam Rasool the baker.”
“I remember how we siblings would beehive around Aam Kandur’s humble bakery as kids. Later, he turned it into a modern cake shop and added biscuits and shortbreads—we loved those too.”
For many, the connection is personal.
“Every Kashmiri has their own favourite mohallah kandur,” recalls Imran Nabi, an English teacher from Kathi Darwaza. “Ours was Khaj Maase—short for Aunt Khadija. Every morning, no matter how cold, we fetched fresh czot from her tandoor. She’s one of the few women bakers I’ve seen.”
A loaf through history
How did this baking tradition root so deeply in Indian-administered Kashmir’s culinary identity, earning Srinagar the unofficial title of India’s bakery capital? Who were the hands that shaped it—and who keeps it alive today?
The origins of kandurwaans remain half-veiled in lore. One prevailing theory traces it back to ancient trade routes that connected Indian-administered Kashmir to the grand kitchens of Central Asia—via the Hindukush, the Pamir Mountains, and the great caravanserais of Iran and Türkiye. Tellingly, the word ‘tandoor’ is derived from the Persian word ‘tanur’ meaning oven.
Yet it is not Iran, nor India, to whom Kashmiri bread bears its strongest resemblance—but the Stans of Central Asia. This similarity points to a more complex origin story: a tale of cultural diffusion, carried by traders, mystics and migrants.
Some say bread culture may have arrived with Mir Syed Hamadani, a 14th-century Persian Sufi preacher of the Kubrawiya order. His travels between Kashmir and Tajikistan helped spread Islam across the valley—and perhaps, alongside faith and philosophy, the art of breadmaking.
In downtown Srinagar, outside Shah-e-Hamdan—Indian-administered Kashmir’s oldest mosque named after the saint—a stall still sells hot parathas: large, deep-fried flatbreads weighing close to a kilo, typically served with sweet semolina halwa after prayers. Similar stalls outside shrines across Indian-administered Kashmir bear witness to this enduring link between food, ritual, and community.
This intertwine of food and faith is no coincidence. As India’s only Muslim-majority region, the Valley’s culinary traditions may have evolved around centuries of Sufi influence and the rhythms of prayer, fasting, and celebration.
From the pre-dawn meals of Ramadan to the sweets of Eid, the breads of Kashmir speak a language that is both spiritual and sensory.
The absence of pork, the use of saffron, ghee, dry fruits, and the breads themselves carry the imprint of a collective religious identity.
Kashmir, nestled in the lap of the Himalayas, has been a disputed territory since 1947, when India and Pakistan both laid claim to it after independence from British rule—its beauty shadowed by a persistent and often painful political strife.
In the 1990s, an armed insurgency emerged transforming towns and villages into tense frontlines. For decades, cycles of militancy and military suppression have not only changed the political map but deeply impacted the social fabric—altering everything from access to healthcare, education and employment.
In this context, the enduring presence of the kandurwaan is remarkable. These bakeries, tucked away in winding lanes and run by families for generations, have persisted through curfews and communication blackouts.
They have remained places of gathering when public life was otherwise fractured—reminders of a slower, steadier rhythm beneath the turbulence.
Even after Article 370—the constitutional provision that granted Jammu and Kashmir a special autonomous status—was revoked in 2019, dissolving its statehood and altering its political identity, the tandoors have kept burning.
Time in the tandoor
Standing the test of time, the kandurwaans continue their humble handmade making traditions amidst the clamour of sleek cafes and French patisseries.
Breadmaking here is often a generational craft, passed down like a sacred trust. Many kandurs bear the surname Sofi, meaning baker in Kashmiri, and often marry within the community—preserving heritage not just through recipes, but through lineage.
Each baked item has its moment. A girda is paired with noon chai, the buttery, salty pink tea that defines Kashmiri mornings, or a cup of hot Lipton—the catch-all term for milky tea in the Valley.
“This has been our tradition for centuries”, says Ahmed. “Every morning, a family would sit around, enjoying the first bite of the day, while a samovar of noon chai kept the tea flowing.”
There are ghee-laced ghyev czots, golden makai czots made from cornflour, and the rare, almost ethereal aab czot—a pancake made from fermented rice flour.
By afternoon, it’s the tschowors that shine—bagel-like rings dunked in tea or savoured war. The lavasa, a close cousin to Afghan naan, often becomes the wrap for grilled meats or spiced chickpeas—a local delicacy known as masala lavasa.
Some breads are reserved for special occasions. The namkeen kulcha, decorated with poppy seeds and a peanut or almond on top, is typically eaten during Eid. Its sweet variant—known as khatai or kandi kulcha—is slightly larger and best enjoyed with kounge kahwa, a floral Kashmiri tea.
The delicate kahwa itself, made with saffron strands and slivered almonds (but no tea leaves), finds its match in the rich sheermal. The bread, made with saffron and date-flavoured milk, is believed to be the lone Mughal contribution to the Kashmiri boulangerie. The name itself–sheer meaning milk, malidan meaning to rub—echoes its Persian roots.
Other breads, like roath—a celebratory loaf adorned with dry fruits and coconut—are fading from everyday use. They would be served at mubarakbadi or congratulatory events, but are rarely seen today. “With glitzy cafes and cake shops across the city, most prefer cakes than a roath today. It’s hard to even find a roath maker,” shared Ahmed.
The people’s bread
Across the Valley, different regions lay claim to different breads—Pampore is famed for its sheermal, Anantnag for its kulchas, and Baramulla for the iconic bakerkhani, the glossy, layered cousin of Turkish baklava, equally beloved at breakfast tables and weddings.
Even as new European-style cafés appear every month, the old love holds firm.
“There was always a new bakery—even a hundred years ago!” jokes Nabi. “Now it’s just that people chase the Euro-style ones.”
Take Ahdoos, for instance. Established in 1918 by order of Maharaja Hari Singh, the last titular king of Jammu and Kashmir, it introduced Western-style pastries to the region. From cinema legend Raj Kapoor to everyday locals, everyone had a favourite. The walnut and chicken patty remains a legend in its own right.
Take Ahdoos, for instance. Established in 1918 by order of Maharaja Hari Singh, the last titular king of Jammu and Kashmir, it introduced Western-style pastries to the region. From cinema legend Raj Kapoor to everyday locals, everyone had a favourite. The walnut and chicken patty remains a legend in its own right.
The original Ahdoos bakery has been reimagined as Crème by Ahdoos—a nod to contemporary tastes and modern aesthetics—but it’s the kandurwaans, bereft of neon signs and marble counters, who continue their quiet craft just as they always have.
People still queue outside their shops for czots, tschowors, and bakerkhanis—while the Khaj Maases and Aam Kandurs bake their legacy into the bread they shape before the sun has fully risen.
