TEXT AND PHOTOGRAPHS BY ASHUTOSH BALIYAN
Meerut, Uttar Pradesh, India
Among the many heirlooms that whisper the memories of generations, there lies a singular, weighty treasure in our home – a Hasla, a bold and masculine counterpart to the delicate Hasli, a neck ornament worn across the Indian subcontinent. Handcrafted from pure silver, which has now oxidised, and weighing over half a kilogram, this Hasla is not just an ornament – it is history moulded into metal.
The Hasla is typically a torque-style necklace, thick and rigid, sitting close to the neck. Part of the traditional jewellery, it is a simple, sturdy necklace, holding deep cultural and sentimental value. While often associated with women, the heavier or more ornate ones were also known to be worn by men during certain ceremonial occasions. But in truth, even in my grandmother’s generation, no one has witnessed a man wearing this piece of jewellery.
This Hasla was probably crafted in a local village workshop using the solid casting technique. In this method, molten metal is poured into a cast to form a rough solid block in the basic shape. Once cooled, the piece is further shaped, cut, hammered, and intricately carved by hand to achieve its final detailed design. Three round textured beads on either side, closely imitate the beadwork seen in other traditional local necklaces like Mala, Kanthi, and Syahu. Each bead is carefully engraved with vertical lines or grain marks. At the center of the Hasla is a solid block, skillfully cut at regular intervals along the edges , adding to its sculptural quality and traditional aesthetic.
It belonged to Ilm Kaur, my maternal great grandmother. According to family lore, she died sometime in the year 1949, succumbing to an unknown illness, leaving behind her two small sons – one an infant, and the other barely two years old. It is believed that Ilm kaur received this Hasla from her mother in law, Licchmi, as a part of her bridal trousseau. In many communities, it is seen as a symbol of prosperity, gifted during weddings or other important rites of passage. Given its aged look, it is estimated to be between 100-150 years old. The Hasla may have even belonged to Licchmi herself, or to earlier generations, passed down from one woman to the next. During its long life, it must have witnessed many weddings, many unions and perhaps many tragedies as well.
Ilm Kaur was a native of Kutba village, located in what was then the Muzzafarnagar district of United Provinces (now Uttar Pradesh), right on the present day border of Haryana and Uttar Pradesh. In the mid-late 1940s, she was married to Puran Singh of Kanjerheri village, just a few miles away. The family belonged to the Jaat community, and were primarily agrarian and landowning.
There are no photographs of the couple – in those days, photos were uncommon in rural areas, so much so that no one today even knows what Ilm Kaur might have looked like. But there is a photograph that is very meaningful to me of two women who would have certainly known and in some way, are the only ones who carry the living memory of her. The photograph was taken in the village of Kanjerheri in 1982, during a wedding ceremony. This is the same village where Ilm Kaur was also married.
The photo features two women – the one on the left is fondly known as Laado—an affectionate form of the name Laad Kaur. In the Jaat communities of Haryana, western Uttar Pradesh, and Punjab, it was common to use the suffix of “Kaur” in women’s names, with shortened, familiar versions such as Laado for Laad Kaur, or Ilmo for Ilm Kaur. The woman on the right is Laado’s husband’s sister. Laado was likely around the same age as Ilm Kaur and was her neighbour. I don’t know the identity of the children in the photo, but they might be relatives who came for the wedding or the grandsons of either woman.
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After Ilm Kaur’s sudden death, sorrow did not leave the family’s side. Her mother in law, Licchmi, heartbroken by the loss of her young daughter in law and overwhelmed by grief, passed away within a few months. Tragedy struck once again when Ilm Kaur’s husband, Puran Singh, was preparing to remarry in an effort to give his sons a caregiver. But fate had its own plans, for he died in the year 1950, just two days before his second wedding, leaving behind two now-orphaned sons.
What followed was a dark episode in family memory. Taking advantage of the chaos, certain members of Puran’s extended family -who had long harboured jealousy – broke into the ancestral home. Driven by greed, they turned the house upside down, even digging up the floors in search of jewellery. But the jewellery remained hidden, eluding their desperate hands.
It was quite common for the rural communities in these areas to hide their jewellery – often the main form of monetary saving – within the earth, or inside the kacchi mud walls. This practice was a way to protect the belongings from dacoits or theft, which were frequent during that time. Added to that was the deep sense of caution and envy amongst the extended relatives, which made secrecy even more necessary. I think it’s possible that after Ilm Kaur’s death, her mother-in-law, Licchmi, may have hidden her jewellery in the ground, perhaps only revealing the hiding spot to Puran and her niece, Bhuro. After both mother and son had died, Bhuro would have been the only one who knew where the treasure – that rightfully belonged to Ilm Kaur and her heirs – was hidden.
Ilm Kaur’s family took the children and the jewellery with them. They raised the boys with love and protected what remained of their sister’s past. Years later, the boys grew into men, got married and when the time was right, the jewellery was returned to them as a part of their mother’s memory and inheritance. Yet, the Hasla was never worn again. From the day Ilm Kaur passed away, it had sat untouched. But times changed. By 2020, the Hasla felt too heavy, too traditional, no longer suited to modern tastes. It hadn’t been worn in decades and the family finally decided to let it go – not out of greed but out of practicality.
I had heard countless times about Ilm Kaur’s jewellery since childhood, and was always intrigued, but never got a chance to see it until the family decided to sell it. The fear that it might one day be melted down at a local jewellery shop — stripped of its history for mere silver — haunted my mother and me. So we chose to reclaim it as guardians of memory. We brought it home from our own relatives, not for its silver, but for its soul. There was at least 10-15 kilograms of silver, out of which we were able to bring back about 3 kilograms. It included this Hasla, Lacche, which are anklets, Gadde, which are a type of foot ornament, and a Baak, another solid foot ornament. The Baak was bought by a friend of my mother’s.
The moment I first saw this Hasla, the feeling was truly inexpressible. It wasn’t just because it was the heaviest and most magnificent piece of jewellery, aged over a century, but also because of its deep artistic and emotional value. I had grown up imagining these very ornaments, picturing the kind of jewellery women used to wear back then, how much the landscape would have impacted its design. I often wondered how many hands this piece had passed through and what it must have witnessed over generations.
To me, this ornament is not just an ornament; it is a silent witness to Ilm Kaur’s life – what she looked like, how she dressed, and perhaps even glimpse into the lives of her ancestors. If this Hasla could speak, I believe it would have told incredible stories.
