SRINAGAR: In the noisy, dusty markets of Kashmir — where voices bounce off corrugated metal stalls and auto-rickshaws jostle for space — a quiet revolution is underway.
The revolution wears faded pherans, carries wicker baskets of lentils, and speaks in the determined tones of women who never expected to run a market stall, but now do so with pride and purpose.
More and more women are selling lentils and pulses — the region’s most basic, beloved staples — in a marketplace long dominated by men. They are not just vendors. They are widows, mothers, wives, and daughters. For many, this isn’t simply work. It’s survival. It’s empowerment. It’s resistance.
Shakeela Begum, 60, has been part of this transformation for decades. She sits cross-legged in Hazratbal, Srinagar, beside a sheet of plastic with neatly arranged baskets of dal. “It was my husband’s work for many years,” she says, sifting through red lentils with calloused fingers. “But he’s been bedridden for five years now. So I came here.”
Her hands move constantly — weighing, measuring, packing — even as her voice breaks. “These lentils… they are our breath,” she says. “We survive on them — financially and physically. Every grain is another day we endure.”
Shakeela often falls ill from the cold ground or swirling dust, but she persists. “This is our rozi-roti, our bread,” she says simply. “If I don’t protect these lentils, who will?”
A few metres away, Saja Begum, 55, carries on a legacy started by her father. “He sold dal for 50 years. After he died, I took over,” she says, wrapping packets of moong dal and rajma in cloth with expert hands.
Her husband earns too little to support the family. Two of her three daughters have completed their master’s degrees but are still unemployed. “People stare at us. Some whisper that women shouldn’t be in the market,” she says, tightening her headscarf. “But should I let my daughters go without clothes or food? Their studies? Their weddings?”
She has been in this trade for 20 years. “I’m tired sometimes,” she admits. “But when I see a customer leave with a smile, carrying food for their family, I feel stronger.”
In Baramulla, 40-year-old Mehmooda sits on a footpath under the blazing sun, wrapped in a worn shawl. A widow and mother of three, she tells Kashmir Times: “No woman wants to leave her children and sit on a dusty road to sell dal. But if your child is hungry, you do what you must.”
Her children sometimes feel embarrassed. “My son once said, ‘I don’t want to study if it means you have to sit here like this.’ It broke my heart,” she says, her voice choking. “But I tell him — study hard. One day I’ll leave this market. I carry this shame now, so you can walk with pride.”
Perception in Public Spaces
It’s not just the presence of women that is changing markets — it’s the perception of their place in public spaces.
Dr Rabinda, a scholar in Gender Studies, believes this shift is deeply symbolic. “When women step into markets selling lentils, they’re not just earning — they’re reclaiming visibility and dignity. These small stalls are sites of transformation.”
“By simply being there every day, these women are dismantling generations of gendered norms,” she says.
Lentils, in this context, are more than nutrition. They are political. In Kashmiri households, wari muth (black masala beans), masoor dal (red lentils), moong dal (yellow lentils), arhar dal (pigeon peas), and rajma (kidney beans) are daily staples. These foods not only nourish but also symbolise resilience — and now, gender equity.
Haleema Begum, 45, describes the long, arduous preparation behind each sale. “We soak the lentils at night, boil them for hours at dawn with salt and spices, then pack them in baskets. From kitchen to market, it’s five to six hours a day,” she explains.
Even after all this, most women earn just ₹500 to ₹600 a day. “But the food is clean, chemical-free, and healthy,” she says. “Not like the junk food sold everywhere now. This dal is safe.”
Lentils also offer health benefits far beyond the marketplace. Rich in protein, fibre, iron, and B vitamins, lentils promote heart health, regulate blood sugar, and improve digestion. According to Healthline and the Cleveland Clinic, polyphenols can reduce inflammation and protect against chronic illnesses.
In Khalida’s case, lentils were a last resort. “After my husband lost his job, someone had to step up,” she says, arranging her stock into tidy mounds. “At first, I was terrified. Men laughed, stared. But now they’re used to me. I’m just another seller.”
She smiles faintly. “That’s how change happens. Slowly, quietly — but it happens.”
The quiet shift reflects a broader transformation in Kashmir’s labour economy. Women are entering public spaces not with protest placards but with baskets of dal. They challenge tradition not through confrontation, but through consistency.
Bilal Ahmad, 30, helps his mother sell lentils on Fridays at Hazratbal’s shrine market. “Today’s youth don’t want to do this. It’s hard. It’s not respected,” he admits. “I admire my mother, but I don’t think I can live like this.”
He also points out how little people understand about the effort involved: “The cleaning, boiling, packing — it’s tough. People see the product, not the process.”
Yet it is that unseen process that powers so many Kashmiri homes.
“These women aren’t just vendors,” says Dr Rabinda. “They are invisible agents of the economy — unrecognised, unpaid in policy, but fundamental in practice.”
Across Kashmir, lentils have also become a sustainable crop for small farmers and home processors. According to AgWeek, lentils are drought-resilient, require little fertiliser, and naturally enrich the soil. Their global popularity is increasing with the rise of plant-based diets and food security efforts.
But for women like Shakeela, the question remains the same each morning. “Will I sell enough today?” she asks. “Will I have money for my husband’s medicine? Will I take home rice for dinner?”
They return to the market regardless — eyes red from dust, legs sore from sitting on cement, hearts full of quiet determination. Their presence, their produce, and their perseverance are changing not just what’s for dinner, but who gets to provide it.
In a world where empowerment is often spoken in boardrooms, Kashmiri women are spelling it out, grain by grain, on pavements and bazaars. And every handful of dal they sell is a reminder: resilience is a dish best served daily.
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