In this Kashmiri folktale, a child and his caretaker find themselves lost in a forest where spirits speak from the trees, and the only way out is by telling stories. Three stories must be told, rooted in love and pain. What follows are tales of saints, scandalous kings, and famine-borne scars that form a fable steeped in Kashmir’s cultural memory.

Written by Onaiza Drabu and originally collected by Speaking Tiger Books,“Soda Boyr, Boda Boyr” holds at its heart the metaphor that stories guide the lost – a message both timeless and timely. The child’s curiosity, the spirits’ demands, the songs carried through the trees all weave a story that remembers it was once told aloud.

–Raaza Jamshed for Guernica Global Spotlights

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Not a long time ago, a child and his kakh, Salam, were out in the woods and got lost. The sun was setting and they had not a clue of where they were. The child was tired and wanted his bed. He also wanted to relieve himself, but the kakh was careful. He could not possibly urinate anywhere in the forest, said Salam. Had he not heard? There were spirits all around who could be awakened and offended. Salam Kakh found a spot beside a bush and made sure the boy tapped the ground beneath with his foot thrice and called, ‘Hosh, hosh, hosh,’ before answering nature’s call. 

Suddenly, from the trees above, they heard voices. 

‘Brother Soda, it seems some people are here who had gone to the grocer’s but arrived at the baker’s.’

‘What do you mean, Boda?’

‘I mean, these people are lost. They are lost in a forest they don’t know, Soda!’

‘That is very sad. How will they get out?’

‘You know as well as I do, this forest opens its passages to those who tell stories. Stories, after all, show the way, don’t they? It is said: a tale lives on only if it is told. Alas! Now so many stories are lost in the annals of time. If someone were to tell us a tale, we might guide him or her.’

‘Aah. That is a good idea. But I say they need to know stories from the history of Kashmir.’

The kakh had heard of Soda Byor and Boda Byor in stories. He had not, in the tallest of his tales, imagined them as part of his own story—but here they were. Just like in all the stories he had heard, they said they would show them the way if he and the child listened. Salam was excited at this prospect and spoke aloud to the child. ‘My dear, have you heard the story of Lal Ded?’

‘No, but I know she was a poet,’ said the child. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Not just a poet! She was also a saint. Well, she was like we are today. Ayih wanis gayi kandris. She came to the grocer’s but arrived at the baker’s. You say this when someone misses the mark. Do you want to hear the story behind this saying? Well, you might as well.’ The servant winked, trying to signal to the child what he was trying to do.

‘Lal Ded was a very holy woman. She is known to have been so lost in worship and praise of the Lord that she often wandered naked for days, forgetting the conventions and possessions that come with this world. Dapaan, one day, Shah e Hamdan, another great saint of the valley—who came from Persia—happened to be walking in the same neighbourhood. There were murmurs of his presence and Lal Ded, too, got word of it. Now you must know that very few such men existed in the world—men whose presence made Lal Ded nonplussed. Shah e Hamdan was one of them. As she started running, seeking refuge, Shah e Hamdan is said to have seen Lal Ded and called out to her. At once, she was overcome by shame and she ran straight into a grocer’s shop. The grocer, not knowing who she was, threw her out, thinking she was a mad person. She ran again, wildly and this time into the baker’s shop, and in a swift jump, landed right into the oven—a fully heated oven, mind you—ready to bring out fresh bread. The baker started screaming, knowing who she was and knowing that for her to die in his bakery would not bode well for him. Legend has it that the baker need not have feared, as Lal Ded emerged fully clad in gold and ready to meet Shah e Hamdan. Now, this story may be more colourful than the saying itself, but isn’t that how it is?’

‘What an interesting story!’ said the child. ‘And here all I knew of her was her poetry, and that I was born in a hospital named after her.’

‘Aah, they are getting it, Boda. They are realizing that telling stories is the only way out. We need stories to show us the way.’

‘How many stories do they need to tell, you think?’

‘Three stories—two stories of love and a story of pain. Don’t they say that where there is love, there is pain? And isn’t Kashmir always the land of love and the land of pain?’

The kakh thought hard. 

‘I have a story of love, child, I have it! Have you heard of the king who fell in with his sister-in-law? They sing a song about it to this day. “Bhumbro, Bhumbro!”’ The animated Salam Kakh broke into a song. His delight at being a part of the stories he used to tell could be heard in his verse and seen in his eyes.

‘Raja Bamboor was a Kashmiri ruler who fell madly in love with his cousin’s wife, Loler. What a scandal it caused! They spent many hours together, talking in hushed tones and wandering the palace grounds slowly, and falling ever deeper in love. As it is now, so it was then—society and marital bonds complicated their relationship. She was his sister-in-law, after all. Their union was impossible. The hopelessness of being in love with Loler drove Bamboor mad. He wandered deranged, giving up his home, his kingdom and everything he owned. All he did was wander, like a bombur—a flying bee—from flower to flower, singing songs of longing. He would call out to her, “Lo, Lo,” as he passed forests and brooks. “Lo, Lo,” he would scream as he ran through meadows chasing grazing cattle. 

Poor Bamboor! Have you thought about why to this day we sing songs with a “lo lo” chorus? Because of Bamboor, that is why! When this matter became public and word got to the king, they realized the situation was out of their hands. Both lovers were captured and jailed. Bamboor died in prison and Loler gave up her life soon after. And still, their story is alive till this day.’

‘This is very interesting. I’ve only heard about the other king. The one who married a poetess, I think?’ said the child.

‘Aah, Habba Khatoon and Yusuf Shah Chak. Yes, that is indeed a special story—a sad story. A story with songs.’ 

Lighting up suddenly, he said, ‘And that could be our second story of love!’ 

‘Legend has it that Yusuf Shah was on a tour of his kingdom and found Habba in the fields, singing to herself. Habba was already married to a man she did not love and was greatly troubled by her in-laws. She sang of her troubles in the household and of the beauty of nature—of flowers, streams—and of waiting for a lover. Hearing her sing one day, Yusuf Shah fell in love with the sound of her voice and the beauty of her verse. They say the king had to get her husband killed to be with her. And he did! He sentenced him to death and with great pomp, took Habba home to make her his queen. Her words of love have immortalized their tale. But like all great romances, theirs too was not meant to last. Soon, he was invited by the Mughals to Delhi and tricked into captivity. Poor Habba died longing for him. She spent months and years in waiting—crafting verse after verse, singing to her lost beloved.’ 

‘I want to know more. Do you know any of her verses?’

‘Yes, of course! Let me sing you the verse of how they met. She sang it too in her later years.’ Salam Kakh, it was slowly becoming obvious, had quite a knack for theatrical performances: 

‘Bara kiny vucchnamai

Gara kamy hovnasai

Zara zara thovnamai

Chhu me baale tammana.’ 

He gazed at me through the door

Wonder who showed him where I lived!

And I ached with love in every limb

Forever a young girl, I am in desire.

‘What can be our story of pain, Salam Kakh?’

‘Well, there is love in Kashmir but there is no dearth of stories of pain, is there? Let me tell you one I heard from my grandparents. They often used the proverb, “Drag tsali tah dag na tsalih”—the famine will disappear but the stains will not.’

‘Kashmir had a long history of terrible famines and terrifying rulers, which wasn’t a good mix for poor peasants. During one particularly bad famine, a farmer was suffering from lack of food. Starving, he could not think of any solution but his long-forgotten sister. He knew she might have some food for him and thought to selfishly rekindle ties. 

Now, making his way to his sister’s village was hard, but he was determined. The needs of the stomach can make a man lose all self-respect. When he reached her door, she was cooking some bread. Seeing her abandoned brother at the door, the sister sensed his intentions in paying a visit. Although she was glad to see him, she also needed to preserve her own food. As soon as she saw him, she instinctively lifted the hot bread and hid it under her arm. Her skin got scorched and it left a permanent mark. While eventually she took her brother in, the scar was a reminder of the time of famine when siblings turn on one another for want of food. Misery reminds us that we lose all self-respect, all humanity in situations like these.’ 

The sun had set and the night was dark. Soda and Boda were watching these two and listening to their stories. Their conditions met, they were about to give instructions on how to escape when the child, who had cozily put his feet inside the kakh’s pheran and warming his hands at his kaanger, said, 

‘Kakha, tell me another! We are not in a rush, are we?’

They stayed until dawn and continued telling tales. Soda Byor and Boda Byor were content at having shown them the way. It had been a while since the forest had heard these stories. 

“Soda Boyr, Boda Boyr,” by Onaiza Drabu and originally published in 2019 by Speaking Tiger Books which describes itself as publishing “fiction, non-fiction, poetry and drama from South Asia and the rest of the world, with a strong emphasis on new voices and diversity.” Reprinted with permission.