Standing by the banks of the Jhelum, where its waters divide and embrace the town of Baramulla, one cannot help but reflect on the stories that have shaped this place. Baramulla, once known as Varāhamūla, is more than a town of bridges, markets, and old streets; it is a tapestry where myth and history are woven together — where legends endure in memory and where every stone and bend in the river whispers a part of its identity.
The geography of Baramulla is deeply symbolic. The Jhelum River, sometimes calm and at times fierce, mirrors the town’s people: resilient, adaptable, and quietly steadfast. The bridges that span the Jhelum do more than connect two sides; they bind together Baramulla’s social, cultural, and economic life into a living whole. The surrounding hills stand guard like ancient sentinels, and the winds sweeping through its lanes remind us of the delicate balance between nature and civilization — a balance gifted by time, belief, and memory.
Among local sayings, there is a phrase often repeated half-seriously, half-playfully: “People from Baramulla have twelve faces.” Over generations, it has come to mean that Baramulla’s residents are diplomatic, quick-witted, and highly adaptive — traits honed by centuries of living at Kashmir’s historic gateway. Merchants, travelers, saints, and rulers passed through here, and the people learned to navigate many worlds, balancing openness with caution.
One folk story links the town’s name to bara (twelve) and mulla (Muslim scholars) — suggesting that twelve revered scholars once settled here. Though beloved locally, this explanation reflects oral tradition and cultural pride more than historical fact.
Linguistically and historically, the truth runs deeper. The original name, Varāhamūla, is rooted in Sanskrit: Varaha (boar), an incarnation of Lord Vishnu, and mūla (root or foundation). According to Hindu mythology, Kashmir Valley was once a vast lake called Satisar — the lake of Parvati. The demon Jalodbhava held dominion over it until Lord Vishnu, assuming the form of a boar, struck a mountain and created an outlet for the water to drain. This act is believed to have occurred at the site later named Varahmuel. The “molar” — a deeply rooted grinding tooth — became symbolic of this action. Thus, the name Varahmuel may imply a town with deep roots, both literally and metaphorically. Vishnu’s act, as savior and sustainer, becomes a grand allegory of ecological balance and the emergence of human habitation in Kashmir.
The story carries powerful symbolism: the boar’s tusk or molar as a metaphor for strength, rootedness, and transformation. Beyond mythology, it reflects an ancient understanding of the land’s ecological significance — draining the waters so that life could flourish.
Over centuries, the name softened in local speech: Varāhamūla became Varahmuel, and eventually Baramulla. The shift from ‘V’ to ‘B’ might have been a natural linguistic evolution or a response to cultural sensibilities, particularly among the growing Muslim population, for whom the boar held uncomfortable symbolism. Yet, through all transformations, the muel — the root — remained, anchoring the town to its deeper identity.
In Kashmiri, many vowel sounds soften or disappear, and the letter ‘V’ often blends into a ‘B’. Just as someone named Waseem might affectionately be called Baseem, Varahmuel gradually transformed into Baramulla.
The suffix muel — meaning “root” — is key. Whether Varahmuel or Baramulla, the essence lies in rootedness: in myth, in language, in memory. In Sanskrit, Varahmuel literally translates to “boar’s molar” — a deeply embedded tooth capable of enacting a great change, a wonder that gave rise to a settlement.
As Professor Abdul Ghani Butt reflects in his autobiographical sketch Beyond Me:
“How was it that Varahmuel changed—into Baramulla? Why was it that the ‘V’ was changed into ‘B’? Phonetics is beyond me. No amateurish treatment is either intended. It is fundamentally wrong to write in ignorance. Ignorance blocks a passage to get at the bottom.
The letters ‘V’ and ‘B’ sound phonetically similar, though they differ in meaning — as in vile and bile, valance and balance. One explanation could be phonetic shift. Yet, another may lie in a cultural discomfort: Varaha — boar — may have been repugnant to the collective Muslim psyche, prompting the change. Still, the muel, the root, remains intact, preserving the link to both mythology and history.”
He adds:
“Mythology, say the masters, comprises unverified narratives, stories, and allegories explaining life in shades, riddles, and fables. Historicity, in contrast, treats of events — their genuineness and actuality. Yet mythology and historicity together determine the path of humanity.
Baramulla is no exception. While we may not have seen Lord Vishnu bore the opening, people worshipped his act — an act of transformation, of saving, of balancing ecology. Mythology in this sense becomes a metaphor, echoing deeper truths, even if not literal.”
In this fusion of myth and fact lies the soul of Baramulla. Myth provides meaning and memory; history gives facts and form. Together, they offer a narrative far richer than either alone. Baramulla becomes both a place and a parable — a testament to adaptation, resilience, and continuity.
Throughout history, Baramulla has seen saints, sages, scholars, merchants, and conquerors. Early settlers like the Nagas and Passach tribes left imprints alongside the shrines, bazaars, and mosques that followed. Faith, trade, learning, and even conflict — all passed through this ancient gateway to Kashmir.
As a cultural activist and citizen historian from Narvaw Baramulla, I do not see my role as choosing between myth and history but in listening to both. The saying about “twelve faces” reminds us that people can hold multitudes — be cautious yet open, traditional yet evolving. The Sanskrit root reminds us that what truly endures lies deeper than surface appearances.
Baramulla’s most enduring lesson is this: stories keep us alive. Whether whispered in folktales or shared in everyday speech, they remind us of where we come from and why we endure. Names may change; pronunciations may soften. But the muel — the root — remains, holding us fast to our identity.
In the end, Baramulla is not merely a place on the map. It is a living embodiment of balance: between myth and memory, between history and hope, between the past and the present. And through remembering and retelling these stories, we keep that balance alive.
About the Columnist
Dr. Manzoor Ahmad Rather popularly known as Narvaw Walla, is a Kashmiri academic, researcher, and cultural activist from Baramulla. He founded the Narvaw Literary Society in 2020 and actively works to preserve Kashmiri literature, oral histories, and cultural heritage. His research focuses on Kashmir, oral narratives. He Was associated With The Partition Museum Amritsar, India.
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