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The Swami Who Promised Lahore: The Mystical Grip on Maharaja Hari Singh!

Kashmir Rechords
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The Swami Who Promised Lahore: The Mystical Grip on Maharaja Hari Singh!
How Swami Sant Dev, once banished by Maharaja Hari Singh, returned to inspire dreams of ruling up to Lahore before Kashmir’s accession to India.
(Kashmir Rechords Exclusive)

History often remembers wars, treaties and signatures.
But sometimes, history turns on whispers.

In the turbulent years before Jammu and Kashmir acceded to India, a mysterious priest — Rajguru Swami Sant Dev — re-entered the life of Maharaja Hari Singh and altered the psychological landscape of a kingdom standing at the edge of destiny.

What makes the story compelling is not merely influence — but rejection, disappearance and an astonishing return.

The First Fall: Banished by a Sceptic King

Swami Sant Dev had risen to prominence during the reign of Maharaja Pratap Singh. Pratap Singh, deeply inclined toward mysticism, kept astrologers and swamis close. Sant Dev became Rajguru and was treated with full state protocol — cars sent to receive him, elaborate arrangements for his comfort, official communications addressed to him as Swami Sant Dev Ji Maharaj.

Then came 1925.

Pratap Singh died. Hari Singh ascended the throne.

Unlike his uncle, Hari Singh was modern, disciplined and in the words of his own son, “far from being a religious man.” One of his early acts was decisive — he banished the Swamis and Gurus who had flourished under the previous regime. Sant Dev was sent away.

It seemed the curtain had fallen.

The Vanishing Act — And the Return

For nearly two decades, Sant Dev faded into obscurity. No one knew his origins. No one knew his true age. Some claimed he was over a hundred. Some even whispered he was a British plant. Nothing was proven.

Then, in 1944, he reappeared.

By 1946, he had not merely returned — he had re-established himself as Rajguru to the very ruler who had once expelled him.

From May 1946 until October 1947, he lived within palace compounds in Srinagar. He was given the beautiful Chashma Shahi guest house and a residence in Jammu. The Maharaja who once banished him now offered him silk robes, a car and royal hospitality.

The transformation stunned the court.

Hari Singh used to now sit on the ground before him for long hours. He would not smoke in his presence. He became, in effect, a disciple.

Even his son, Karan Singh, watched in disbelief.  Dr Karan Singh later expressed bewilderment in his autobiography Heir Apparent  (Hindi edition: Yuvraj: Badalte Kashmir Ki Kahani).

The Prophecy of Lahore

What changed?

According to Dr. Karan Singh’s widely read autobiography, Heir Apparent, Sant Dev convinced the Maharaja that destiny held extraordinary promise.

He writes:

“The Swami had convinced my father that luck was smiling on him and that he would become the sovereign of an extended kingdom sweeping down to Lahore.”
(Heir Apparent: An Autobiography, Oxford, 1989, p. 37)

In the Hindi edition, Yuvraj: Badalte Kashmir Ki Kahani, the sentiment carries similar weight — the Swami assuring the Maharaja that his fate was grand, that he was destined to rule a vast and expanded realm.

For a ruler standing at the crossroads of 1947 — when British paramountcy was ending and princely states were to choose between India, Pakistan, or independence — such words were intoxicating.

Independence was no longer merely a political option. It became a vision. A destiny. A promise of Lahore.

The greener pastures were not metaphorical — they were geographical.

Rasputin in the Palace

Tall, pink-complexioned, and commanding even in advanced age, Sant Dev cultivated an aura of mystique. He was rumoured to possess occult powers. He loved luxury, the company of women and was said to consume opium.

In whispered comparisons, he became Kashmir’s version of Grigori Rasputin — the Russian faith-healer whose influence over Tsar Nicholas II was blamed for imperial catastrophe.

And like Rasputin, Sant Dev’s power was psychological.

He did not command armies.
He commanded imagination.

Pages from Yuvraj: Badalte Kashmir Ki Kahani

The Dream Collapses

But destiny did not follow prophecy.

In October 1947, tribal raiders from Pakistan invaded Kashmir. The fragile dream of an independent kingdom “sweeping down to Lahore” shattered under the weight of invasion and urgency.

Hari Singh signed the Instrument of Accession to India.

The greener pastures faded into the smoke of war.

Gradually, as events overtook aspiration, the Maharaja is believed to have realised that Sant Dev’s claims were exaggerated. The aura dimmed. The influence waned.

Once again, the Swami receded into obscurity — as mysteriously as he had appeared and reappeared.

The Irony of Power

The irony is profound.Hari Singh — the rational ruler who had banished mystics — later became deeply influenced by one who offered him a vision of imperial expansion. The sceptic became a believer. The exile became Rajguru.

And in that arc of rejection, disappearance and return lies one of the most fascinating psychological subplots of Kashmir’s accession.

History records the signature on the Instrument of Accession.

But behind that signature was a ruler who, for a fleeting moment, believed he might rule all the way to Lahore.

And behind that belief stood a mysterious Swami — who appeared, disappeared and reappeared — leaving behind a legend that still lingers in the annals of Kashmir’s past.

A Question That Lingers

Was Sant Dev a mystic, a manipulator, or merely a man who understood the psychology of kings?

Did his whispered promises of sovereignty shape Kashmir’s hesitation at a decisive moment in subcontinental history?

Or was he simply a dramatic footnote in a much larger tragedy?

The Spy Who Came Back Forgotten: Kashmir’s Real Dhurandhar

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The Spy Who Came Back Forgotten: Kashmir’s Real Dhurandhar
Roshan Lal Jalla, a Kashmiri intelligence operative, spent 15 years in Pakistani prisons after being captured in 1972. Tortured, disowned, and denied rehabilitation upon his return, his story was documented by The Illustrated Weekly of India and preserved by Kashmir Rechords.
(Kashmir Rechords Exclusive)

Cinema loves its spies—silent men slipping across borders, bruised but unbroken, returning home to gratitude and glory. Films like Dhurrandhar remind audiences that espionage is a game of shadows, courage and sacrifice. But long before the camera found such stories, Kashmir had already lived one—raw, unresolved and devastatingly real Dhurandhar.

In the late 1960s, Roshan Lal Jalla, a young man from Kashmir, crossed into Pakistan on a mission that was never meant to be acknowledged. He went once in 1969, again in 1970 and once more during the 1971 war. Each time, he returned quietly, having done exactly what the Nation had asked of him. There were no medals, no citations—only fresh instructions and an unspoken assurance that the country stood behind him.

That illusion collapsed in 1972

While attempting to return to India, Jalla was captured near the India–Pakistan border. What followed were fifteen years of disappearance—years swallowed by Pakistani prisons, interrogation cells and a system designed not just to extract information, but to erase the human being who possessed it. He was beaten, subjected to electric shocks, stabbed while unconscious, his right arm twisted and broken. The scars never healed, and neither did the damage to his mind. Yet through it all, Jalla did not betray his mission.

Roshan Lal Jalla, showing his broken and twisted right arm

Back home, life unravelled in parallel. His wife Santosh died waiting. His father, Jia Lal Jalla, passed away without knowing whether his son would ever return. His three year son Rajesh grew up without stability or proper education. Only his mother, Roopawati Jalla, living in Kralyar, Rainawari in Srinagar, continued to knock on doors that rarely opened. A letter dated July 14, 1985—from the Indian Embassy in Pakistan—acknowledged that officials were in touch with her while efforts were being made for her son’s release. It was proof, quietly filed away, that the State knew exactly who Roshan Lal Jalla was.

When he was finally released in 1987 as part of an exchange of prisoners, Jalla expected little—but not what awaited him. There was no rehabilitation, no official recognition, no pension. The very agency that had sent him across hostile territory multiple times refused to acknowledge him. He had returned from fifteen years of torture only to discover that, in the eyes of his own country, he no longer existed.

His story might have vanished entirely if it were not documented by The Illustrated Weekly of India, which published a haunting profile titled “The Spy Who Came In From the Cold.” Veteran journalist S. N. M. Abidi, after a five-hour interview, described Jalla as a “hapless victim” of an intelligence syndicate—used when useful, discarded when inconvenient. The article recorded not just his words, but his wounds: knife marks on his back, a broken arm, prematurely grey hair and a haunted stare that spoke of years spent between hope and despair. It also cited testimonies from human rights organisations in Pakistan describing systematic physical torture in jails—details chillingly mirrored on Jalla’s body. The article identifies the agency and the person who used to be in touch with Jalla and later the same very officer disowned him. The article also mentions a particular code jalla was assigned and how he had possessed an Identity Card of Pakistani Rangers designed himself as ‘Sub Inspector” under a Muslim name.

“I gave the best years of my life to the nation,” Jalla told the magazine. He did not ask for honours or compensation. All he pleaded for was survival—medical treatment in a military hospital, a modest pension to live with dignity. He wrote to the Home Ministry. He petitioned even the President of India. Nothing came.

It is here that Kashmir Rechords steps in—not as a narrator, but as a custodian of truth. By retrieving, preserving, and placing in the public domain the rare scanned issue of The Illustrated Weekly of India, Kashmir Rechords has restored visibility to a man whom history had pushed into the margins. The archive does not embellish Jalla’s suffering; it simply allows his own words, scars and silences to speak again—decades later, to a generation that never knew such a spy existed.

Roshan Lal Jalla narrating his story of torture and neglect to S N M Abdi.

After the mass exodus of Kashmiri Pandits, Jalla drifted away from the Valley he had once served so fiercely. According to Ravinder Pandita, President of the All India Kashmiri Samaj and a fellow Rainawarian, Jalla spent his final years somewhere near Bhimtal, battling illness, obscurity and disillusionment. In August 2021, he died quietly—without recognition, without closure.

Kashmir Rechords, by preserving and reproducing some portion of this rare issue of The Illustrated Weekly of India, does more than archive history—it restores dignity to a man the Nation then forgot.

If Bollywood celebrates fictional spies, Roshan Lal Jalla reminds us of the cost borne by real ones—men who returned not to applause, but to abandonment.

Some heroes don’t die on the battlefield.
They die waiting to be remembered. And sometimes, remembering them is the least a Nation can do.

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The Forgotten Exodus: How 30,000 Kashmiri Pandits Were Forced Out Between 1947 and 1954 !

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The Forgotten Exodus: How 30,000 Kashmiri Pandits Were Forced Out Between 1947 and 1954 !
(Kashmir Rechords Exclusive)

When the tragic mass exodus of Kashmiri Pandits in 1990 is recalled, it is often framed as the first great rupture in the community’s modern history. Some narratives go further back, listing seven migrations across centuries. Yet, buried deep in archives and largely absent from public discourse, lies a crucial, well-documented migration that took place soon after Independence, between 1947 and 1954, when nearly 30,000 Kashmiri Pandits were compelled to leave Kashmir.

This was not a sudden flight triggered by militancy, but a slow, grinding exodus caused by humiliation, neglect, economic strangulation and discriminatory governance in the immediate aftermath of Jammu and Kashmir’s accession to India.

A Migration History That Was Silenced

Ironically, this early post-Partition migration was not documented by a partisan critic of Kashmir’s leadership, but by Prem Nath Bazaz—a figure revered by many Kashmiri Muslims as a secular intellectual and nationalist, yet viewed with suspicion by large sections of the Kashmiri Pandit community for his political positions.

Bazaz, despite being banished from his own homeland by the Sheikh Abdullah–led regime and prohibited from entering the State, emerged as one of the most meticulous chroniclers of the Kashmiri Pandits’ plight during this formative period.

Voice of Kashmir: An Uncomfortable Record

After relocating to Delhi in the early 1950s, Bazaz founded and edited a monthly journal, Voice of Kashmir, published from Karol Bagh, Delhi. The journal, issued on the 15th of every month, became a rare platform documenting Kashmir’s political, social and economic upheavals after 1947.

Priced modestly—twelve annas per copy, with subsidised subscriptions for students and libraries—Voice of Kashmir carried essays that many found deeply inconvenient, particularly those exposing the systematic marginalisation of Kashmiri Pandits under the new dispensation.

The Martand Testimony: Numbers That Cannot Be Ignored

In several articles, Bazaz reproduced reports from The Martand, the official organ of the Kashmiri Pandits Conference. Quoting Martand issues dated November 20 and 23, 1954, Bazaz recorded a stark fact:

Nearly 30,000 Kashmiri Hindus had migrated from the State between 1947 and 1954, primarily in search of livelihood and dignity.

The Martand report warned ominously that if the trend continued, “Kashmir will be vanished of Kashmiri Pandits” within a decade—a prophecy that tragically materialised first during the 1986 Anantnag riots and finally in the 1990 exodus.

Agrarian Reforms and Economic Dispossession

Central to this early migration was the controversial Agrarian Reforms Act, implemented under the regime of Sheikh Abdullah. While projected as a progressive land-to-the-tiller reform, its execution proved devastating for Kashmiri Pandits—particularly village-based agriculturists.

Bazaz documented how:

  • Pandit landowners were prevented from tilling their own land
  • Lands were forcibly or selectively transferred to Muslim tenants
  • Legal protections were applied unevenly and politically

Villages such as Sarsa, Murran (Anantnag district) and parts of North Kashmir were specifically cited, where Pandits faced threats, intimidation and eviction, even when court cases were pending.

“Plight of Kashmiri Pandit Agriculturists” (February 1955)

In a February 1955 article titled “Plight of Kashmiri Pandit Agriculturists”, reproduced in Voice of Kashmir, Bazaz highlighted how:

  • Large estates were abolished, but Pandits were denied fair retention limits
  • National Conference cadres allegedly encouraged tenants to illegally occupy Pandit land
  • Laws were enforced selectively, eroding the economic base of the community

A letter from Pandit agriculturists of Murran questioned why the government refused to act against illegal occupants—raising serious concerns about state-sanctioned discrimination.

Education, Representation, and Humiliation

Another disturbing dimension was educational discrimination. Bazaz criticised the policy of bracketing Kashmiri Pandits with Hindus of Jammu while extending separate concessions to Sikhs, arguing that such categorisation undermined national unity and deepened alienation.

The articles describe Pandit villagers as poverty-stricken tillers, struggling for survival in their own homeland, while being treated with institutional indifference and contempt.

“We Shall Be Reduced to Ashes Before You Know”

Perhaps the most chilling warning appeared in a November 1954 Martand article, republished by Bazaz under the title:

“WE SHALL BE REDUCED TO ASHES BEFORE YOU KNOW”

The piece vividly described the wretched and degrading conditions of Kashmiri Hindus and issued a stark caution: blind support to the Indian government’s Kashmir policy and the National Conference would lead the community to ruin.

Bazaz urged Kashmiri Pandits to abandon “sham democracy” and align with genuine democratic principles, warning that otherwise they would be reduced to “begging bowls in their hands like orphans and outcastes.”

A Historian Against His Own Rejection

The irony is painful. Prem Nath Bazaz, though rejected by many Kashmiri Pandits for his ideological differences, preserved their most uncomfortable truths. His journal—though discontinued in 1955 and poorly archived—remains one of the rarest primary sources on the first post-Independence displacement of Kashmiri Pandits.

Institutions like Kashmir Rechords, which have preserved surviving issues of Voice of Kashmir, are therefore safeguarding not just documents, but a suppressed chapter of history.

Reclaiming a Lost Chapter

The migration of 1947–1954 was not incidental—it was foundational. It hollowed out the Pandit presence in rural Kashmir, weakened their economic roots and set the stage for future catastrophes. Ignoring this episode distorts the historical continuum and reduces 1990 to an isolated tragedy rather than the culmination of a long, documented process.

To understand the Kashmiri Pandit question honestly, this first forgotten exodus must be restored to collective memory—not as hearsay, but as history written by those who witnessed it, recorded it, and warned the nation in time.

Farooq Abdullah Controversy: Pandits, Guns & Separatist Echoes

Kashmir Rechords
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Farooq Abdullah Controversy: Pandits, Guns & Separatist Echoes
(Kashmir Rechords Exclusive)

Farooq Abdullah is once again at the centre of a political storm. His recent blunt remark that Kashmiri Pandits are now settled elsewhere and would prefer to visit Kashmir as tourists rather than return permanently for resettlement has triggered sharp reactions from within the displaced community. The statement, seen by many as insensitive and dismissive, has drawn criticism for allegedly playing to the galleries and echoing a tone often associated with separatist narratives—an accusation Abdullah has faced more than once in his long public career.

Controversy, however, is hardly new territory for the National Conference patriarch. Whether as Chief Minister of the erstwhile State of Jammu and Kashmir, a Union Minister, or a political figure out of power, Farooq Abdullah has rarely been out of the headlines. From fleeing to London during turbulent times, to offering a pillion ride to Bollywood actor Shabana Azmi, from the infamous October 1983 India–West Indies One-Day match in Srinagar to being dubbed the “Disco Chief Minister,” Abdullah’s political life has been marked by unpredictability and spectacle.

Critics have long pointed to his alleged early proximity to the banned Jammu and Kashmir Liberation Front (JKLF), the continuation of “family rule,” and his controversial role during the 1987 Assembly elections, widely believed to have been rigged. Yet, Abdullah has repeatedly confounded labels—at times projecting himself as the “most nationalist” of leaders, at others singing Ram bhajans, and often shifting political tones with remarkable ease.

Farooq Abdullah is our former senior Colleague: Azam Inqilabi, Kashmir Times, October 15, 1989.

One lesser-known chapter, however, lies buried in the pre-militancy and early militancy era. In October 1989, separatist leader Azam Inqilabi, a proponent of an “Independent Kashmir,” described Farooq Abdullah as their “senior colleague” in an interview to Kashmir Times. The interview was striking not just for its words, but for its imagery—Inqilabi was photographed holding a gun.

Days later, in a move that stunned many, Farooq Abdullah himself posed with a gun, photographed by the same newspaper and the same photographer. The symbolism was impossible to ignore. What exactly the Chief Minister intended to convey—defiance, ambiguity, or a political message—remained unclear. What was clear, however, was that the act generated intense debate and unease.

Kashmir Times, October 19, 1989.

Kashmir Rechords is now reproducing both archival photographs, bringing into public view images that had remained largely unseen for over three decades—visual testimonies to a deeply complex and volatile period in Kashmir’s history.

The gun episode was not an isolated incident. In July 1988, Abdullah paid tributes to those killed during the Plebiscite Front agitations of 1965 and 1967, another move that landed him in controversy. Observers then questioned whether the gesture was meant to placate those angered by the 1987 elections, or whether it reflected a deeper political calculation.

Today, as his remarks on Kashmiri Pandits reopen old wounds, these forgotten images and episodes acquire renewed relevance. Was there a consistent intent behind these gestures, or were they momentary political manoeuvres? That question, much like Farooq Abdullah himself, remains open to interpretation—left to readers, historians and citizens to ponder.

Drop your comments or contact us for more such interesting analytical and archival stories on kashmirrechords@gmail.com or support@kashmir-rechords.com.

When Snakes, Stones Fell with Snow: Kashmir’s 1912–1914 Mystery

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When Snakes, Stones Fell with Snow: Kashmir’s 1912–1914 Mystery
(Kashmir Rechords Exclusive)

Ever heard of snakes or stones snowing from the sky?
No fairy tale, no folklore spun by firesides—this is a story buried deep in official archives, stamped, signed and preserved as part of Kashmir’s recent past.

More than a century ago, during the reign of Maharaja Pratap Singh, Kashmir witnessed two extraordinary and deeply unsettling phenomena: stones and snakes reportedly descending from the heavens along with snowflakes. These incidents, recorded meticulously by the Princely State’s administration, shook both the Valley and its devout ruler to the core.

The Government of Jammu and Kashmir, through its Department of Archives, Archaeology and Museums, still holds rare and precious files documenting these events. Titled simply yet ominously—“Fall of Stones” and “Fall of Snakes from Heaven”—the records continue to fascinate researchers and the public alike.

Stones from the Sky, 1912

The first incident dates back to December 1912, when residents of Shopian in South Kashmir reported a chilling sight: stones falling from the sky amid snowfall. Alarmed villagers conveyed the incident to the royal court.

Maharaja Pratap Singh, known for his deep religiosity, was reportedly shaken. Viewing the event as an ominous sign of impending calamity, he immediately summoned the state’s official head priest, Pandit Jagdish Ji, to assess the situation and recommend remedial measures.

The priest advised a yagya to appease the gods—Surya (Sun), Indra, and Chandra (Moon)—along with acts of royal charity. The Maharaja was urged to donate gold, rice and even a white horse to ward off the ill omen.

Acting swiftly, the ruler issued Order No. 1625, dated April 6, 1912, sanctioning Rs 500 from the state exchequer for conducting the rituals through the Dharamarth Trust, the department responsible for religious affairs.

When Snakes Followed, 1914

Barely two years later, Kashmir was confronted with another unsettling episode.

In March 1914, residents of Kulgam tehsil reported that snakes had fallen along with snow—an occurrence even more terrifying than the earlier event. Once again, the Maharaja was alerted. Once again, Pandit Jagdish Ji was consulted.

This time, the priest foresaw a war-like situation looming in the near future. The recommendation was urgent: conduct a Shanti Paath to avert disaster. The ritual, detailed item by item in official notings of the Political Department of the General Chief Secretariat, cost the state Rs 338 and one anna.

History, uncannily, followed close on its heels.

World War I broke out later in 1914. Coincidence—or prophecy fulfilled? The archives leave the question open.

A Stone That Still Speaks

Adding a tangible layer to this eerie history, the Department of Archives is also in possession of one heavy stone believed to have fallen during the 1912 Shopian incident. Today, it rests quietly in the Shri Pratap Museum, Srinagar—a silent witness to a time when heaven itself seemed to send warnings.

Call them omens, coincidences, or curiosities of history—but these documented episodes remind us that Kashmir’s past holds stories stranger than fiction, preserved not in myth, but in official files and museum vaults.

January 19, 1990: The Night Kashmir Forgot, the Day Kashmiri Pandits Remember

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January 19, 1990: The Night Kashmir Forgot, the Day Kashmiri Pandits Remember
(Kashmir Rechords Exclusive)
This is not cinema.This is not propaganda.This is not imagination.This is history—frozen in photographs, printed in newsprint and buried in selective memory.

On the  Friday night of January 19, 1990, Kashmir crossed a line from which there was no easy return. What followed was not a spontaneous migration, not an administrative relocation and certainly not a myth scripted later. It was a forced civilisational rupture, witnessed, recorded and legitimised by the streets themselves.

As darkness fell over the Valley, thousands of local Kashmiri Muslims—men and women alike—poured into the streets. This was no silent protest. Slogans echoed through neighbourhoods, mosque loudspeakers blared incendiary calls and the night throbbed with a fevered euphoria. The anger was directed not merely against the Indian State—but squarely at minorities, especially Kashmiri Pandits and others who believed in the idea of India in Kashmir.

The message did not need translation.“Leave, convert or die.”

It travelled faster than fear, reaching homes where families huddled, listening, counting breaths and deciding—often within hours—that survival meant escape.

Photographs That Refuse to Lie

What makes this story from Kashmir Rechords different—what makes it irrefutable—are the photographs. They come without disclaimers. No “any resemblance is coincidental.”   The photographs are not recreated, not stylised and also not  AI generated.

These are the   real images, clicked during the second and third weeks of January 1990, carried by the then  most widely read and trusted for building narratives by a Jammu-based English newspaper of that era—a paper  that had a full bureau at Srinagar and was adored by common Kashmiri, respected by the intelligentsia writing for it and consumed daily by the very society now struggling with collective amnesia.

The images show:

  • Crowds swelling with militant fervour
  • Streets overtaken by slogans of secession and jihad
  • Men and Women drapped  in shrouds, romanticising militancy, emboldening terror.
  • Shrouds paraded, guns glorified, violence normalised.

These photographs, preserved and now presented by Kashmir Rechords, do not editorialise. They do not accuse. They simply show.

And what they show is devastating.

The Myth of ‘Nothing Happened’

For decades, a convenient narrative has been repeated:

  • Kashmiri Pandits left voluntarily or on official instructions.
  • There was no mass intimidation.
  • Everything was exaggerated later.
  • Films and books manufactured the pain and  created hysteria.
  • Stories of 1990 are exaggerated. Write-ups manufactured victimhood.

These photographs dismantle that lie—frame by frame.

They are a mirror held up to a society that once cheered, once marched, once shouted—and later chose to forget. A mirror in which some may still recognise faces from the crowd. And perhaps, uncomfortably, see the origins of a tragedy their children were never told about.

A Celebration That Became a Curse

What was chased in those days was an illusion—something impossible. In that intoxication, Kashmir sacrificed its plural soul. The immediate casualty was the Kashmiri Pandit community, driven out overnight from homes their ancestors had lived in for centuries. The long-term casualty was Kashmir itself.

The violence that began with slogans did not end with migration. It shattered communal harmony, militarised society, destroyed generations, normalised death and fear and left a Valley searching for peace it once possessed.

Many Kashmiris today quietly admit a shame they cannot undo—ashamed of elders who mistook rage for revolution and guns for glory.

History, Documented—Not Debated

This is not a story told for the first time.
But this is the first time it is told with these pictures—uncensored, unpublished  and undeniable.

A photographer clicked them. A reporter captioned them. Both were beloved by the people of Kashmir at the time.

The Cost of Euphoria

Beyond documenting intimidation, the photographs and the bewsreport indict something deeper.

They capture a society intoxicated by momentary euphoria, unaware that it was laying the foundation for decades of bloodshed, militarisation and loss. The first victims were Kashmiri Pandits—but the eventual casualty was Kashmir’s own future.

Today, many in the Valley quietly admit an inherited shame:

Ashamed of elders who chose violence. Ashamed of crowds that mistook militancy for heroism. Ashamed of the silence that followed

A Mirror for the Past—and the Present

These images are not meant to inflame. They are meant to confront. They stand as a mirror to those who deny the exodus—To those who call it manufactured and to those who dismiss lived trauma as fiction.

Some may even recognise familiar faces in the crowd. Others may realise why their parents never told them the full story. The mirror does not lie. Neither do these images.

What happened on January 19, 1990, was not an accident of history. It was a moment of collective collapse—one that forced an entire community into exile and altered Kashmir forever.

This is not about blame alone.
It is about truth.

And truth, once seen, cannot be unseen.

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We request our readers to share this story with friends, families and acquaintances. Not for sensation, not for argument—but because truth deserves circulation.

For far too long, the real story of January 19, 1990 has been blurred, diluted, and dismissed. When facts are questioned, documentation becomes duty. And when history is denied, memory must speak.

The right to know the truth is fundamental. It belongs not only to those who suffered, but also to those who inherited a distorted version of events. This story, supported by real photographs and recorded history, exists so that silence does not triumph over fact.

Born on the Run: Children of January 1990

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Born on the Run: Children of January 1990
(Kashmir Rechords Exclusive)

Amit Bhat (name changed) was born on January 20, 1990—a date that arrived with a cry, but also with a crossing.

The day before, his parents, Sarla and Ashok (names changed), had fled their remote village in Kupwara. The night of January 19 had swallowed the Valley in fear. By dawn, there was no choice left—only movement. A family caravan formed in haste: Ashok’s ageing parents, a younger brother, a sister and Sarla, heavy with child. What they carried was little; what they left behind was everything.

The journey from Kupwara to Jammu stretched through dread. Sopore. Anantnag. Roads that felt longer than maps admit. A day-long passage through volatility, checkpoints, silence punctured by slogans, and the constant fear of being stopped—or worse. Sarla’s labour pains began on the move. There was no turning back.

They reached Jammu exhausted, stunned, unmoored. Chinore—a rented room in a locality they had never seen, in a region they had never known—became refuge by default. There was no hospital admission waiting, no familiar doctor, no neighbour to call. A local woman from a nearby village was found. She became the midwife. In an alien room, among strangers, Sarla delivered a child. They named him Amit.

He entered the world between exile and uncertainty—born not into a home, but into flight.

A Journey That Arrived Too Soon

Sunita (name changed) and Roshan Lal (name changed) from Budgam had married in 1988. By early 1990, they were expecting their first child—due in March, 1990. Plans had been made, names discussed, a room imagined back home.

Militancy tore through those plans.

Seven months pregnant, Sunita climbed into a truck with her family, carrying whatever could be grabbed in minutes. The Srinagar–Jammu highway became a test of endurance—harsh, serpentine, mountainous. Hours turned into pain. Pain turned into complications. The journey triggered a premature birth. A child arrived too early, shaped by the violence of displacement even before drawing breath.

Invisible Mothers, Uncounted Births

The stories of Sarla and Sunita are not exceptions. They are fragments of a larger, unwritten chapter.

Scores of Kashmiri Pandit women—first-time mothers and otherwise—were pregnant when they fled. Some delivered in tents. Some in overcrowded camps. Some in one-room rented accommodations shared by joint families. Some on hospital ward floors already overwhelmed. Children were born in Jammu’s Mishriwalla, Jhiri Muthi Camps, Kathua nd Udhampur’s Batal-Balian and other makeshift shelters—places never meant to cradle new life.

There is no register of these births.
No column in any report records labour pains on highways, or deliveries without doctors, or mothers who crossed districts and destinies while carrying life inside them. No archive counts how many conceived in Kashmir and delivered in exile. No ledger remembers their trauma.

And yet, even conservative demographic estimates suggest that dozens—perhaps over a hundred—such births took place between January and August 1990 alone, in camps and cramped rooms across Jammu region.

What History Forgot to Write Down

These children are now in their thirties. They carry birth certificates stamped with places their parents had never imagined calling home. Their first address was exile. Their first inheritance was loss.

History remembers January 1990 for what it destroyed.
It rarely pauses to ask what was born in its aftermath.

Amit’s first cry did not echo in Kupwara. It rose in a rented room in Chinore—thin, fragile, defiant. It said what his parents could not afford to say aloud then:We are still here.

A Call to Remember

Kashmir Rechords appeals to all parents who faced the trauma of becoming mothers and fathers while in transition, and to all Kashmiri Pandit boys and girls born between January 1990 and August 1990, to share their stories.

Your testimonies will help compile a long-ignored record of pain, resilience and survival—so the world can finally hear what exile did to birth itself.

Real names will not be disclosed if contributors wish anonymity. Contact us at:

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Some histories survive only when those who lived them speak.

When Kashmir Was Seen Through a Stranger’s Soul

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When Kashmir Was Seen Through a Stranger’s Soul
(Kashmir Rechords Exclusive)

Nature has endowed Kashmir with a beauty so profound that it has drawn travellers, artists and chroniclers from distant lands. Many came, admired and left. A few stayed long enough to understand its people. Rarer still were those who quietly documented its life with empathy, sensitivity and artistic honesty. Laxman alias Sudhakar Ganesh Khasgiwale, a painter-cum-photographer from Poona, belonged to that rarest category.

In the summer of 1954, when Kashmir still breathed an unhurried rhythm of life, Khasgiwale arrived in the Valley—not as a tourist, but as a student of nature and humanity.

Trained in painting under Late Shri M.R. Achrekar, one of India’s most celebrated artists, Khasgiwale had already earned recognition and a scholarship from the Art Society of India. Instead of choosing comfort or convention, he chose Kashmir. The scholarship enabled him to live in the Valley for nearly six months, a period that would define his artistic legacy.

At that time, colour photography had not yet reached India. Undeterred, Khasgiwale carried with him an ageing Zeiss Ikon–Ikonta (1936 model) camera and relied on black-and-white film. What he lacked in colour, he compensated with depth, composition and feeling.

Capturing Kashmir Beyond Landscapes

Khasgiwale photographed Kashmir not merely as a scenic paradise but as a living civilisation. His lens moved seamlessly from mountains and rivers to lanes, homes, and faces.

His collection included:

  • Intimate views of old Srinagar, its architecture and winding streets
  • Rare visual documentation of the Kashmiri Pandit community—their social life, religious practices, and sacred shrines
  • Everyday scenes of Hanjis, the boat-people of the Jhelum, engaged in work and family life
  • Markets, riverbanks, houseboats, and moments of quiet dignity

These images today stand as invaluable visual records of a Kashmir that has since changed irrevocably—especially the social and cultural world of Kashmiri Pandits, much of which has been lost or displaced.

An Outsider Who Became an Insider

During his stay, Khasgiwale did not merely observe Kashmir; he lived it. He studied the Valley’s arts and crafts, absorbed its aesthetic traditions and forged bonds with its people. Gradually, he became one with the landscape—its flora, fauna and human presence.

His humanistic temperament compelled him to sketch individuals he encountered: boatmen, elders, artisans, children. These pen-and-pencil portraits were not caricatures but character studies—drawn with respect and affection. Many of these sketches later appeared in his Marathi book “Chinarchi Pane”, reflecting his deep emotional connection with Kashmir and its people.

Khasgiwale’s artistic merit was widely acknowledged outside Kashmir. He won first prize and a trophy from Achrekar’s Academy of Art and received numerous awards in exhibitions across India. His one-man exhibitions in Pune, Mumbai, Delhi, Srinagar and Ahmednagar were met with critical acclaim and public admiration.

He later trained in photography and commercial art during his apprenticeship at RK Films, founded by Raj Kapoor, before establishing his own venture, “Khasgiwale Chitrayan”, in Pune. His work in printing, book decoration, advertising, writing and radio further cemented his stature as a multifaceted artist.

Yet, the Kashmir he lovingly documented remained largely unaware of the scale of his contribution.

A Return Through Memory: Kashmir Remembered

Nearly half a century later, in May 2002, Khasgiwale returned to Kashmir—not physically, but through his work. He organised a photography exhibition titled “In the Vicinity of Jhelum”, accompanied by the release of Chinarchi Pane.

For the exiled Kashmiri Pandit community in Pune, the exhibition was deeply moving. It was not merely an art event—it was a visual homecoming. The exhibition was inaugurated by Lt. Gen. Moti Dar (Retd.), while the book was released by noted playwright Shri Pran Kishore, giving the occasion a distinctly Kashmiri resonance.

An Unsung Chronicler of a Vanished World

Laxman alias Sudhakar Ganesh Khasgiwale’s photographs from 1954 today serve as more than artistic expressions. They are:

  • A historical archive of pre-modern Kashmir
  • A sensitive visual testimony of Kashmiri Pandit life and culture
  • A reminder of communal harmony and shared existence along the Jhelum

Despite his yeoman’s contribution, his name remains absent from mainstream narratives of Kashmir’s visual history. Perhaps it is time  to reclaim this quiet chronicler who once captured the Valley and its people not as subjects, but as family.

From the Valley to the Nation’s Rails

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From the Valley to the Nation’s Rails
(Kashmir Rechords News Desk)

For the readers of Kashmir Rechords, who believe that history is not only made in courts and capitals but also in quiet offices and workshops across the country, the conferment of the Ati Vishisht Rail Seva Puraskar – 2025 on Mr Ramesh Kumar Koul is a moment to pause, reflect—and record.

A senior Indian Railway Services officer and a son of the soil, Mr Ramesh Kumar Koul has been honoured for his dedicated, meritorious and selfless service to the Nation’s largest public institution. In doing so, he has also achieved a rare distinction of becoming the first Kashmiri Pandit of his generation to receive this prestigious national honour in Indian Railways.

A National Honour, A Community Milestone

The award was presented at a glittering ceremony in the National capital by Union Minister for Railways Ashwini Vaishnaw, at the Yashobhoomi Convention Centre, on January 9, 2026.

Among hundreds of distinguished railway professionals from across India, the name Ramesh Kumar Koul resonated far beyond the hall—finding echoes in Kashmiri Pandit homes spread across the country and the diaspora. For a community that has endured displacement yet continues to serve the nation with dignity, this recognition carries deep symbolic meaning.

Union Minister for Railways, Mr Ashwini Vaishnaw felicitating Mr Ramesh Kumar Koul

Quiet Excellence at Patiala Locomotive Works

Currently serving as Deputy Chief Materials Manager at Patiala Locomotive Works (PLW), Mr Koul has built his career away from the limelight. His citation recognises professional excellence in Materials Management, a critical but often unseen backbone of railway operations.

Through meticulous planning, transparent systems and innovative practices, his work has significantly strengthened organisational efficiency and helped PLW meet demanding production targets. In an era where efficiency defines success, such contributions quietly power the engines that keep India moving.

A prestigious award in recognition of professional excellence!

The Ati Vishisht Rail Seva Puraskar, among the highest individual honours in Indian Railways, is reserved for officers whose sustained performance reflects integrity, innovation and leadership over years of service—not momentary achievement.

Also present at the ceremony was Mr Rajesh Mohan, Principal Chief Administrative Officer (PCAO), who congratulated Mr Koul and lauded his unwavering dedication and professionalism. His words reflected what colleagues have long known—that Mr Koul’s work ethic exemplifies the best traditions of public service.

Why This Story Matters to Kashmir Rechords

For Kashmir Rechords, this is not merely a report of an award ceremony. It is part of a larger narrative—of Kashmiri Pandits and other Kashmiris who, despite upheavals and exile, continue to contribute silently and steadfastly to nation-building.

Ramesh Kumar Koul’s journey stands as a reminder that excellence does not always seek attention, and that service, when performed with sincerity, ultimately finds recognition. His achievement adds a significant chapter to the contemporary history of Kashmiri Pandits in public service—one that future generations can look back on with pride.

Another J&K based  Officer Honoured

The evening also brought recognition for Mr Uchit Singhal, Senior Divisional Commercial Manager, currently posted in Jammu, who was also conferred the Ati Vishisht Rail Seva Puraskar (AVRSP) – 2025 .

Mr Uchit Singhal, Senior Divisional Commercial Manager, currently posted in Jammu

Mr Singhal’s work in the Jammu Division has led to unprecedented improvements in commercial and passenger services, including contributions to the successful operation of the Udhampur-Srinagar-Baramulla Rail Link (USBRL)—a project of historic importance for connectivity, development and national integration. Upgraded passenger facilities and enhanced revenue generation have revitalised railway services in the region.

The Unsung Kedar Sharma—Munshi Allah Rakha of Vadi Ki Awaz

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The Unsung Kedar Sharma—Munshi Allah Rakha of Vadi Ki Awaz
(Kashmir Rechords Exclusive)

There was a time when a single voice travelling across the airwaves could unsettle hostile propaganda, reassure divided families and speak directly to the conscience of a fractured land. Long before social media, before digital warfare and televised debates, Radio Kashmir stood as the frontline of narrative resistance. Among its most formidable yet forgotten sentinels was Kedar Sharma, also fondly remembered by listeners as Kari Shah—a name that today barely survives outside fading memories and fragile archives.

Kedar Sharma’s name surfaces occasionally in historical lists of Radio Kashmir’s broadcasters and drama artistes, but the sparse references hardly do justice to the scale of his contribution. For over four decades, Kedar Sharma was not merely an artist; he was an institution—one of the voices that defined Radio Kashmir’s moral and political spine during some of its most turbulent years.

Born in 1923, Kedar Sharma joined Radio Kashmir in its formative era, when broadcasting was as much about culture as it was about conviction. He rose to national recognition through his unforgettable portrayal of “Munshi Allah Rakha” in the iconic programme Vadi Ki Awaaz, broadcast daily from Radio Kashmir, Srinagar. The programme was no ordinary broadcast. it was a strategic counter-propaganda initiative, aimed directly at listeners in Pakistan and Pakistan-Occupied Kashmir, dismantling hostile narratives while articulating the socio-political aspirations of the people across the divide.

Every broadcast opened with Sharma’s thunderous, unmistakable voice:

“Pakistan aur Pakistani maqbooza Kashmir mein Vadi Ki Awaaz programme sunne walon ko salaam—wale qaum!”

For thousands of listeners, that greeting was not just radio theatre—it was reassurance, resistance and recognition. His sharp exchanges with characters like “Nikki Appa”, delivered with wit, satire and moral clarity, cut through propaganda with a potency few could match. Sharma did not shout slogans; he reasoned, mocked falsehood and exposed contradictions—a masterclass in psychological and narrative warfare.

Yet, history has been unkind to its own architects.

Following the eruption of militancy in 1990, the very ecosystem that had once nurtured such excellence began to fracture. Vadi Ki Awaaz continued in name, but the standards of counter-propaganda programming set by stalwarts like Kedar Sharma were never matched again. What survived was only the shell—the title, the signature tune—while the soul quietly faded away.

Kedar Sharma passed away on August 2, 1990, at PGI Chandigarh, at the age of 67. His body was flown to Jammu the next day. Artists, staff members of Radio Kashmir, and citizens from all walks of life attended his funeral. A condolence meeting at Radio Kashmir, Jammu paid rich tributes to a man whose voice had once crossed borders with fearless clarity. He was a recipient of several Akashvani awards, yet today, his name is largely absent from the digital record.

To add to the confusion of memory, he is often mistakenly conflated with Kidar Nath Sharma, the celebrated Hindi film director and lyricist. The two shared a name—but not a legacy. Kedar Sharma of Radio Kashmir was a broadcaster, a dramatist and above all, a soldier of the airwaves, whose battlefield was the microphone and whose weapon was truth wrapped in performance.

Today, very little authentic information about Kedar Sharma of Radio Kashmir exists online. No readily available photographs. No detailed biographies. No official digital archive to narrate his story. And this is precisely why his rediscovery matters.

It is thanks to the archival efforts of Kashmir Rechords that such authentic material—scattered, endangered and nearly forgotten—has been preserved and contextualised for the present and next generation, many of whom have no inkling of the giants who once shaped Kashmir’s broadcasting history. Kashmir Rechords’ work ensures that voices like Kedar Sharma’s are not reduced to footnotes, but reclaimed as part of Kashmir’s intellectual and cultural inheritance.

Radio Kashmir—now rechristened as All India Radio Srinagar and All India Radio Jammu, was once a vital bridge between the people and the state. Kedar Sharma, Kari Shah, Munshi Allah Rakha—call him by any of his names—was one of the voices that made that bridge speak.

In an age obsessed with visibility, Kedar Sharma remains an unsung hero—not because his contribution was small, but because memory failed to keep pace with merit. It is time the airwaves remember the voice that once made them tremble.

For Further Reading about similar character of Vadi Ki Awaz-— Manohar Prothi, the Aziz Bhai, click Here:

Aziz Bhai: The Voice That Roared Across Borders

DONATE FOR A CAUSE

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DONATE FOR A CAUSE

A Passionate Appeal to Philanthropists and Friends of Heritage

At a time when memory is fragile and history is increasingly reduced to fleeting headlines, Kashmir Rechords Foundation (Regd) stands as a quiet yet determined custodian of Jammu Kashmir’s lived past.

Over the last two years, this non-profit, non-government organisation, duly registered with Government of India has worked with limited resources but unwavering commitment to archive, document and preserve Kashmir’s socio-cultural, intellectual and historical legacy—stories that risk being lost if they are not recorded now. From chronicling overlooked historical episodes and personalities to amplifying voices long relegated to the margins,Kashmir Rechords has steadily emerged as a credible, people-driven archival initiative rooted in integrity, scholarship, and public service.

What has been achieved so far is meaningful—but it is only a beginning.

Much remains to be done. Vast archival material is yet to be accessed, oral histories await documentation and fragile documents, photographs and personal testimonies—often lying unprotected in homes and private collections—need urgent preservation before time erases them forever. This work is meticulous, time-sensitive, and resource-intensive.

We, therefore, make a heartfelt appeal to philanthropists, well-wishers, scholars and all those who believe that heritage, culture, and human dignity matter. As a gesture of transparency and gratitude, Kashmir Rechords Foundation will publish the names of all donors who wish to be acknowledged, recognising them as partners in this collective mission to preserve memory and empower lives.

Your contribution—no matter how little, modest or generous—will directly support:

  • Archiving, digitisation and preservation of rare historical material
  • Research and documentation of underrepresented narratives
  • Cultural activities aimed at sustaining Kashmir’s plural traditions
  • Support for needy and deserving students and individuals, enabling education, research, and cultural engagement

Kashmir Rechords Foundation further solemnly pledges that the major portion of all donations will be utilised for cultural activities and for extending meaningful support to deserving and underprivileged students and individuals, ensuring that heritage preservation goes hand in hand with social responsibility.

Every donation thus becomes not merely a financial contribution, but a moral investment in culture, education and continuity.

History does not survive by chance—it survives because individuals choose to protect it.

Stand with Kashmir Rechords Foundation.
Help safeguard Kashmir’s heritage.
Help nurture those who will carry it forward.

Because what we fail to preserve today may be lost forever.
This is a moment to choose remembrance over amnesia.

Stand with Kashmir Rechords Foundation.
Help preserve a heritage that belongs not just to  Jammu Kashmir, but to all of us.

Because what we fail to record today, we may never recover tomorrow.

Here’s how you can help:

Donate to Kashmir Rechords Foundation:

Bank Details
KASHMIR RECHORDS FOUNDATION (Regd)
Acct No: 0274010100003893
Jammu and Kashmir Bank.
IFSC: JAKA0CHAWRI

Address:
1. H No 1, Lane-2, Bharat Nagar, Bantalab, Jammu, Jammu and Kashmir (India)-181123
2. C 1/1401, Kendriya Vihar, Greater Noida ( Delhi-NCR)-201315

You can also use our QR Code.
With Regards,

Kashmir Rechords Foundation( Regd)

www.kashmir-rechoprds.com

Email: kashmirrechords@gmail.com / support@kashmir-rechords.com

Phone: +918383909284

Jammu’s Quest for Statehood

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Jammu’s Quest for Statehood

(Kashmir Rechords News Desk)

The demand for a separate Jammu state has been raised intermittently over the years. It notably resurfaced during the 2019 reorganization of the former Jammu and Kashmir state, when Ladakh was granted Union Territory status, fulfilling a long-standing demand of its people. However, the call for a separate Jammu state, much like the Kashmiri Pandits’ demand for a homeland with Union Territory status, went unmet. Concerns about Jammu’s alleged political marginalization particularly since 1979, have been central to this debate. The demand for a separate Jammu state was first voiced by Jan Sangh ideologue Balraj Madhok, who advocated for Union Territory status for border areas such as Teetwal and Uri, alongside the division of Ladakh.

Over time, the issue has periodically emerged as a significant election theme. Various political parties have included the demand for a separate Jammu state in their manifestos, feeling that the region has been consistently sidelined by what they term “Kashmiri leadership.” Yet, even with this being a popular electoral issue, it has not gained widespread traction or acceptance, even within the top leadership of the BJP. For example, in  September 1990, former Prime Minister Atal Bihari Vajpayee, during his visit to Jammu, opposed the idea of a separate Jammu state, though he supported Union Territory status for Ladakh. His stance, as a respected statesman and intellectual, was viewed as a decisive one, likely backed by careful political consideration.

The demand for Jammu statehood has also seen attempts at political mobilization. Prof. Virender Gupta of Jammu University founded the Jammu State Morcha, later renamed the Jammu Mukti Morcha, with the explicit aim of creating a separate Jammu state. Despite his efforts and those of his supporters, the movement struggled to gain electoral success, with Gupta’s party failing to secure a single assembly seat, in contrast to the BJP, which has focused on addressing the issue of discrimination without advocating for full statehood.

Historically, Jammu’s political grievances came to the forefront during the 1966 Jammu Students’ agitation, which also raised the issue of discrimination. However, the demand for a separate Jammu state was suppressed, and the movement eventually lost momentum. Kashmir’s politicians on the other hand have always been telling that there was no discrimination with Jammu as it was merely a poll plank to woo voters and befool people of the region.

In contrast, Ladakh, which was granted Union Territory status in 2019, appears to have resolved some of its historical grievances. However, many Ladakhi leaders in past have stated that their region did not experience the same level of political discrimination as Jammu. Nevertheless, some sections of Ladakh’s population are now reportedly dissatisfied with their Union Territory status, with concerns that extend beyond their prior claims of discrimination.

As the September-October elections of 2024 underscore the deepening political divide, with the BJP consolidating its grip in Jammu, the demand for a separate Jammu state again resurfaced. However, the fact that a statesman of Atal Bihari Vajpayee’s stature publicly opposed the demand in 1990 remains a significant factor. His opposition likely stemmed from strong political and strategic convictions, which continue to influence the BJP’s position on the matter.

The debate surrounding Jammu’s political future continues to be shaped by both historical grievances and present-day electoral dynamics. While calls for statehood persist, they face substantial political and ideological challenges.

Kashmir’s Vintage Cycle Allowance Order of 1943!

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Kashmir’s Vintage Cycle Allowance Order of 1943!
(Kashmir Rechords Exclusive)

In the autumn of 1942, amidst the sweeping changes of colonial India, a curious proposal made its way through the corridors of power in Jammu and Kashmir. Sir N. Gopalaswami Ayyangar, the Prime Minister of the Princely State, was at the helm of the administration, when an intriguing request was placed before him. It concerned the Jamadar, Flower Nursery—an employee responsible for tending to the gardens and parks of Srinagar, who had to travel considerable distances every day.

The proposal? To grant him a Cycle Allowance of just four rupees per month, a modest sum that would assist this hard-working individual with the cost of his daily commute. The Director of Agriculture had initially mooted this idea, and after a review from the Office of the Accountant General in Srinagar, it was found to be free of audit objections. However, it still needed the Prime Minister’s approval and the concurrence of the Finance Department before it could become official.

A Legacy from Kashmir’s Past

In a rather surprising turn of events, the Accountant General, having reviewed the matter, recommended a slight enhancement. Instead of the originally suggested four rupees, the allowance was raised to five rupees per month, an increase that would later be ratified by the Chief Secretary of Jammu and Kashmir, Mr. Haveli Ram, on August 24, 1943. This new allowance was officially sanctioned to the Jamadar with the date of First Bhadon, 1999 Vikram Samvat (August 17, 1942, Gregorian) marked as its effective start.

It was a decision that would surely bring delight to the concerned employee, for in those days, such a sum would have been considered a small fortune for many in the workforce. The Jamadar, whose duties included visiting the sprawling gardens attached to the State Houses, would now be receiving a monthly allowance that reflected the growing importance of bicycles as a mode of transportation for government workers.

Interestingly, the concept of Cycle Allowance was not unique to Jammu and Kashmir. During the 1930s and 1940s, the British colonial administration introduced similar allowances across India to support employees whose roles required long commutes on bicycles. Factory workers, postmen, and other such workers were the primary beneficiaries, as the British government recognized the efficiency bicycles provided in completing work-related travel. This initiative aimed to enhance productivity while simultaneously providing employees with a much-needed subsidy for their transportation.

Even after India’s independence in 1947, the Cycle Allowance persisted, serving as a symbolic link between the colonial past and the newly independent nation. As bicycles remained the most affordable mode of transport for low-wage earners, the allowance became a fixture in government payrolls.

A Relic of Bygone Era

However,  the Cycle Allowance eventually became a relic of a bygone era. The 7th Central Pay Commission, in its efforts to rationalize allowances, abolished the Cycle Allowance. Yet, a few exceptions remained. The Department of Posts and Railways retained the allowance for Postmen and Trackmen, doubling the allowance from ₹90 to ₹180 per month to reflect inflation and changing times.

By the turn of the 21st century, the landscape of public transportation in India had undergone a remarkable transformation. Bus routes, metro systems, and trains became reliable urban connectors, and private vehicles, including two-wheelers and cars, became increasingly accessible to the middle class. With these changes, the Cycle Allowance began to feel more like a remnant of a different time. In today’s era of electric vehicles, ride-sharing, and high-speed metros, the Cycle Allowance is undoubtedly a curious survivor. It serves as a testament to how a simple measure—like a small allowance for cycling—could have an enduring impact on the lives of workers. For some, the Cycle Allowance will always be a symbol of resilience and a quirky piece of history that managed to endure.

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