Marriage is meant to be the beginning of a stable life, not the start of a loan
In the Valley, weddings have always been more than a personal milestone. They are social events, community gatherings, and cultural showcases. But over the last two decades, Kashmiri marriages have increasingly turned into extravagant spectacles, with layers of customs, multi-course feasts, and days of ceremonies that stretch both imagination and wallets.
On the surface, the celebration looks beautiful. Long queues of cars outside marriage halls, bright lighting in narrow lanes, photographers and videographers capturing every moment, and guests treated to a seemingly endless series of wazwan dishes. Social media has only added to this, turning every wedding into content: carefully edited reels, drone shots of bride and groom entries, and curated images of jewellery, décor, and outfits.
Behind the glitter, however, lies a more uncomfortable reality. The cost of these lavish marriages has become a burden for many Kashmiri families. In a region marked by political uncertainty, unemployment and economic stress, the pressure to “match” the standard of weddings set by others is intense. Parents of daughters, in particular, often save for years, take loans, or sell land to fund one grand event that they fear society will judge them for if it is anything less than extravagant.
The traditional wazwan itself has turned into a symbol of this excess. What was once a proud expression of hospitality has, in many cases, become a race to offer more trami, more dishes, and more meat than the next family. Guests often complain of food waste, yet the same cycle continues because no one wants to be the first to cut down and appear ‘miserly’.
There is also a quiet but growing resentment among the youth. Many young men and women privately question the logic of spending lakhs on a single day when housing, education and healthcare costs are rising. Some couples would prefer simpler nikah ceremonies and modest receptions, but feel trapped by expectations of elders, neighbours and extended relatives.
The impact is not just financial. Elaborate weddings also deepen social divisions. Those who cannot afford such display feel inferior or excluded. Young men delay marriage because they are expected to arrange grand functions, fully furnished houses and expensive gifts. Families with fewer means look at the weddings of the affluent and feel obliged to copy at least a part of that lifestyle, even if it means debt.
To be fair, there have been attempts at course correction. Religious scholars, civil society groups and even local administration have repeatedly spoken about avoiding extravagance and encouraging simple marriages. Some families have chosen to set an example by hosting small, dignified gatherings with minimal rituals and reasonable menus. When these happen, they are widely appreciated—but they remain the exception rather than the rule.
What Kashmir needs today is a wider cultural shift: a shared understanding that the dignity of a marriage does not depend on how many dishes are served or how much gold is displayed. Simple, thoughtful weddings can preserve tradition without crushing families under financial and social pressure.
Ultimately, a marriage is meant to be the beginning of a stable life, not the start of a loan. As more Kashmiris openly discuss the hidden costs of lavish weddings, there is a chance to redefine what it means to celebrate—less as a competition, and more as a collective commitment to dignity, moderation and genuine joy.
(The Author is social activist working in an international NGO)
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