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How Kashmir Was Marketed in 1935 and Revisited in 2026

Kashmir Rechords
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How Kashmir Was Marketed in 1935 and Revisited in 2026
(Kashmir Rechords Exclusive)

Long before social media campaigns, tourism conclaves and heritage tours, Kashmir was already being marketed as a destination of longing, beauty and belonging.

Archival material available with Kashmir Rechords from the mid-1930s reveals how the then North Western Railway launched a special campaign to attract travellers from across undivided India to the Valley. A Hindi pamphlet titled “Kashmir Ki Sair” and an accompanying Urdu advertisement urged people living in cities as far apart as Delhi, Karachi, Lahore, Peshawar, Lucknow, Kanpur, Hyderabad (Sindh), Patna, Calcutta to purchase railway tickets and embark on a summer pilgrimage to Kashmir.

Then and Now: Archival railway advertisements from the 1930s
Vintage 1935 Kashmir tourism advertisement issued by General Manager, North Western Railway, Lahore.

The railway brochure listed concessional fares from major cities and presented Kashmir not merely as a tourist destination but as a dream journey. The message was simple: leave the heat of the plains and discover the cool valleys, lakes and mountains of Kashmir.

One of the advertisements carried a striking appeal:

“Come, spend a month in Kashmir. It is the finest hill station.”

For thousands living across British India, many of whom had never seen the Valley, Kashmir represented a place of romance, spirituality and natural splendour. The Railways were not merely selling tickets; they were selling an emotional connection.

A forgotten 1935 railway campaign promoted Kashmir to travellers across undivided India.
Vintage 1935 Kashmir tour offer advertisement in Urdu issued by General Manager, North Western Railway, Lahore.

Ninety Years Later, Another Journey Begins

Nearly nine decades later, another appeal is being made.

This time, however, the audience is very different.

The Global Kashmiri Pandit Heritage Tour and Conclave 2026 seeks to bring members of the Kashmiri Pandit diaspora back to their ancestral homeland after almost 36 years of displacement following the mass migration of 1990.

The initiative, organised by the Global Kashmiri Pandit Diaspora and allied organisations, has invited Kashmiri Pandits from across India and the world to visit temples, heritage sites and ancestral locations in Kashmir. The stated objective is to reconnect younger generations with their roots, history, culture and civilizational heritage.

The symbolism is difficult to miss.

A promotional poster for the Global Kashmiri Pandit Heritage Tour and Conclave 2026.

In 1935, Railway authorities encouraged Indians to visit Kashmir because they had never experienced it.

In 2026, diaspora organisations are encouraging Kashmiri Pandits to visit Kashmir because an entire generation has grown up away from it.

The destination remains the same. The emotions, however, are profoundly different.

From Tourism to Homecoming

The Railway advertisements of the 1930s appealed to curiosity.

The heritage tour of 2026 appeals to Memory, Renaissance and Return.

For many participants, this is not merely another tourist excursion. It is a return to villages they have never seen, temples they have only heard about from grandparents and landscapes that survive more vividly in family stories than in personal memory.

The campaign reflects a desire to bridge the widening gap between a displaced community and its homeland.

Just as Railway posters once connected distant Indian cities with Kashmir through tracks and timetables, the heritage tour seeks to reconnect a scattered diaspora with Kashmir through culture, faith and shared history.

The Debate Within the Community

Yet the initiative has also sparked debate among Kashmiri Pandits themselves.

Social media discussions reveal a mixed response.

Many have welcomed the effort as a positive step toward cultural revival and reconnection with ancestral roots. They argue that a community cannot preserve its identity if younger generations lose touch with the land that shaped its history.

Others, however, remain deeply sceptical.

Several Kashmiri Pandit organisations, activists and community leaders have publicly questioned the timing and purpose of such visits. Their argument is rooted in the unresolved realities of displacement and security.

For them, heritage tours cannot substitute for what they regard as the larger issue of dignified rehabilitation and a secure environment for permanent return.

Some critics have reiterated a familiar sentiment: “Tourism and terrorism cannot go together.”

They contend that until anti-social and extremist elements responsible for decades of fear are decisively neutralised, symbolic visits and conclaves may amount to little more than emotional exercises. According to this view, occasional tours cannot be mistaken for genuine return.

Supporters of the initiative counter that reconnecting with one’s roots and pursuing justice are not mutually exclusive goals. They see heritage visits as a way of preserving identity while larger political and security questions continue to be debated.

A Tale of Two Eras

The archival advertisements from 1935 and the heritage tour of 2026 together tell a remarkable story.

Both seek to bring people to Kashmir. Both rely on the power of memory, aspiration and belonging. Yet they emerge from entirely different historical realities.

The first invited outsiders to discover paradise. The second invites exiles to rediscover home.

Between those two journeys lies almost a century of history—partition, wars, insurgency, migration and displacement.

As Kashmiri Pandits once again travel towards the Valley, the old Railway advertisements acquire an unexpected new meaning. What was once a leisure trip promoted by Railway officials has, for many, become a deeply personal voyage into memory, identity and loss.

And therein lies the enduring power of Kashmir: a land that has always attracted visitors, but whose greatest challenge today may be helping its own displaced children find their way back.

Readers’ Forum

What do you think? Should more such visits to Kashmir be encouraged to help reconnect displaced Kashmiri Pandits with their roots, or are they an exercise in futility until conditions for a meaningful return are created? We invite readers to share their views at kashmirrechords@gmail.com or support@kashmiri-rechords.com. You may also post your comments in the Comnments Section at the end of this article.

Mystery of Sheikh Abdullah’s Missing X-Ray Films!

Kashmir Rechords
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Mystery of Sheikh Abdullah’s Missing X-Ray Films!
(Kashmir Rechords Exclusive Report)

Few episodes in Kashmir’s political history have generated as much intrigue as the controversy surrounding the alleged exchange of X-ray films belonging to Sheikh Mohammad Abdullah during the final days of his life. Long before the insurgency engulfed the Valley, a Judicial Commission appointed by the government of Ghulam Mohammad Shah reportedly examined startling allegations that the medical records of the “Sher-e-Kashmir” had been tampered with at Srinagar’s Soura Medical Institute.

A newspaper report published in Kashmir Times on January 15, 1986, under the headline “Sheikh’s X-ray films were ‘exchanged'”, brought the controversy into the public domain and revealed details that raised serious questions about one of Kashmir’s most sensitive episodes.

The Final Illness of the Lion of Kashmir

When Sheikh Abdullah passed away on September 8, 1982, Kashmir lost its most influential political figure of the twentieth century. His prolonged illness during the last phase of his life had been closely monitored not only by doctors but also by political associates and family members.

As the years passed, whispers began circulating that something unusual had occurred during his treatment at the Sher-i-Kashmir Institute of Medical Sciences (SKIMS), Soura. The allegations centered on X-ray films that doctors had reportedly relied upon while treating the veteran leader.

The matter gained enough significance that it eventually attracted the attention of a judicial commission.

The forgotten judicial probe into Sheikh Abdullah's treatment—and the historic Soura residence that would later be reduced to ashes.
Newspaper clipping from Kashmir Times,January 16, 1986.

Shah Govt’s Judicial Commission

According to the newspaper report, preserved by Kashmir Rechords, the one-man Judicial Commission established by the G.M. Shah government in July 1984 investigated claims that Sheikh Abdullah’s X-ray films had been “exchanged” at the Soura medical institute.

The Commission, headed by Sessions Judge, Mr M.A. Riaz, reportedly examined evidence suggesting that the films available to doctors during Sheikh Abdullah’s treatment may not have been the correct ones.

The report stated that doctors who had treated Sheikh Abdullah suspected that the X-rays shown to them were not genuine and that the wrong films had been supplied during a critical stage of treatment.

More significantly, the report stated that doctors treating Sheikh Abdullah believed that the wrong films prevented them from obtaining the desired diagnostic results and that his medical condition deteriorated irreversibly thereafter

If true, such an error would have been far more than a routine administrative lapse. In an era when diagnostic imaging was among the most important tools available to physicians, incorrect X-ray films could potentially affect medical assessment and treatment decisions.

Commission’s Findings

The newspaper account claimed that the Commission’s report was expected to indict a Lady Radiologist and a Technician for what was described as a lapse involving the X-ray films.

More significantly, the report stated that doctors treating Sheikh Abdullah believed that the wrong films prevented them from obtaining the desired diagnostic results and that his medical condition deteriorated irreversibly thereafter.

The allegations were explosive.

The implication was not necessarily that anyone had deliberately sought to harm Sheikh Abdullah, but that a serious breakdown had occurred within the medical system entrusted with the care of Kashmir’s most prominent political leader.Even decades later, the full details of the Commission’s findings remain largely absent from public discourse, leaving historians and political observers with more questions than answers.

The Mysterious Fire at Soura

The controversy did not end with the X-ray films.

The same Judicial Commission also investigated another incident that added further mystery to the affair—a fire at Sheikh Abdullah’s residential house in Soura in June 1984.

According to the report, the Commission, however, concluded that the fire was accidental and that there was no evidence of sabotage or arson. The fire reportedly caused partial damage to the house.

Yet the coincidence of a fire occurring amid growing controversy over Sheikh Abdullah’s medical records inevitably fuelled speculation in political circles.

The Flames of 1990

As the insurgency erupted across Kashmir in 1989–90, violence engulfed institutions, government buildings, private properties and symbols associated with different political traditions.

In that turbulent period, Sheikh Abdullah’s Soura residence itself was burnt by militants on March 14, 1990. Jammu and Kashmir’s another leading newspaper, Daily Excelsior had carried the story. The same has been preserved by Kashmir Rechords and is reproduced here:

How a 1984 judicial inquiry into alleged medical lapses raised troubling questions about the final days of Kashmir's most influential leader—and the historic Soura residence later lost to the fires of insurgency.
Newspaper clipping, Daily Excelsior , dated March 15, 1990

An Unanswered Historical Question

Nearly four decades after the Judicial Commission’s findings were reported, the controversy surrounding Sheikh Abdullah’s X-ray films remains one of the lesser-known mysteries of Kashmir’s political history.

Were the films genuinely exchanged? Was it merely medical negligence? Did the episode materially affect Sheikh Abdullah’s treatment?

Why did the issue fade from public discussion despite the seriousness of the allegations?

The available records leave historians with fragments rather than definitive answers.

What remains undeniable is that the episode reflected the intense political atmosphere of the mid-1980s, when even the medical treatment of Kashmir’s most iconic leader became the subject of judicial scrutiny.

Today, the story survives as a forgotten footnote in the larger narrative of Kashmir—a tale involving medicine, politics, judicial inquiry and a historic house that would later be consumed by the flames of insurgency.

Disclaimer:
This article is based on information published at the time by two prominent newspapers of Jammu and Kashmir and on archival newspaper clippings preserved by Kashmir Rechords. While preparing this historical feature, Kashmir Rechords has relied upon these contemporaneous reports and archival materials in good faith. The article is intended solely for historical documentation, research and public interest purposes. Kashmir Rechords does not independently verify or endorse the findings, conclusions, allegations or opinions contained in the original reports and reproduces them for their archival and historical value.

From Pakistan to Srinagar: The Doctor Who Joined SKIMS in 1986

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From Pakistan to Srinagar: The Doctor Who Joined SKIMS in 1986
(Kashmir Rechords Exclusive)

In February 1986, official appointments and professional credentials were expected to undergo rigorous scrutiny. Yet, a report published by the Kashmir Times that month exposed a case that appeared to defy all standard administrative procedures.

The story revolved around one Manzoor Ahmed, a doctor whose journey from Pakistan to a government medical institution in Srinagar raised serious questions about influence, verification of qualifications and administrative standards.

The report centered on a single, controversial appointment. The newspaper questioned how a  doctor, holding a Pakistani Passport, had managed to secure a position at the Sher-i-Kashmir Institute of Medical Sciences (SKIMS), Soura, Srinagar despite concerns surrounding the recognition of his qualifications and the circumstances of his return to Kashmir

Kashmir Times newspaper clipping from February 19, 1986 regarding SKIMS Soura doctor appointment controversy.
Kashmir Times Newspaper Clipping; February 19, 1986

According to the archival report, preserved by Kashmir Rechords, Manzoor Ahmed belonged to an influential Srinagar family, had migrated to Pakistan in 1967, and Manzoor himself pursued medical education there. After obtaining an MBBS degree from a medical college in Pakistan, he reportedly returned to Srinagar on a Pakistani Passport!

Ordinarily, such circumstances would have invited close scrutiny from authorities. Yet, the report claimed that not only was he allowed to settle in Srinagar, but he also managed to secure employment at the prestigious Sher-i-Kashmir Institute of Medical Sciences (SKIMS), Soura.

Role of Family Influence

The newspaper report attributed this remarkable transition largely to family connections. It noted that Manzoor Ahmed was related to influential figures within the political and administrative establishment. His father’s brother, Sheikh Ghulam Ahmed, was serving as Principal Secretary to the Chief Minister, a position carrying considerable influence within the government.

The report further stated that after completing his medical studies at Nishtar Medical College, Multan, and working  as doctor for some years  in Pakistan and  later in Saudi Arabia ( on Pakistani Passport), Manzoor returned to India on a visa. Soon thereafter, he was appointed at SKIMS, Soura, Srinagar despite concerns reportedly being raised regarding the recognition status of the Pakistani medical qualification he possessed.

The 1986 Kashmir Times report appears less like an isolated controversy and more like an early warning about the dangers of influence overriding institutional vigilance

A Different Standard?

What made the episode controversial was the comparison drawn by the newspaper itself. The report questioned why different standards appeared to have been applied in the case of Manzoor Ahmed while, according to the newspaper, another youth from Jammu, Pervez Ahmed Khan, allegedly faced difficulties despite coming from a modest background and lacking political influence.

The article suggested that access, connections and family standing may have played a decisive role in enabling Manzoor Ahmed’s absorption into a premier government medical institution.

Questions Left Behind

The Kashmir Times report did not merely narrate the story of one doctor’s appointment. It raised broader concerns about transparency in public recruitment, recognition of foreign medical qualifications and the extent to which influence could shape official decisions.

The report remains a revealing snapshot of the concerns that surrounded governance and institutional accountability in Jammu and Kashmir during the mid-1980s. Within a few years, Kashmir entered the vortex of militancy. As the insurgency expanded after 1989, investigators, journalists and security agencies increasingly examined how various institutions had become vulnerable to ideological, political and militant influence. Hospitals and medical networks did not remain untouched by this transformation.

Over the decades, numerous reports, investigations, and arrests revealed that sections of Kashmir’s medical fraternity had, at different times, become entangled in the wider conflict. Some doctors were accused of aiding militants, some were investigated for ideological links, while others faced allegations relating to recruitment networks, logistics, financing, or providing covert support. At the same time, many medical professionals remained dedicated to their duties, often working under extreme pressure and threat.

The larger concern was never about medicine itself. It was about institutions. The question repeatedly raised was whether political patronage, weak scrutiny and influential networks had gradually eroded safeguards that should have protected public institutions from infiltration of any kind.

Seen against that backdrop, the 1986 Kashmir Times report appears less like an isolated controversy and more like an early warning about the dangers of influence overriding institutional vigilance.

Today, the February 1986 report survives not merely as an account of one doctor’s appointment, but as a historical document reflecting deeper anxieties about governance, accountability and institutional integrity in Kashmir during the years immediately preceding the insurgency

The Tragic Loss of Pushkar Bhan’s Archives

Kashmir Rechords
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The Tragic Loss of Pushkar Bhan’s Archives
(Kashmir Rechords Exclusive)

As Kashmir prepares to celebrate the centenary birth anniversary of Pushkar Bhan in 2026, memories of the legendary broadcaster, playwright, humorist and actor once again echo across the Valley. For generations of Kashmiris, his voice was not merely entertainment — it was an emotion, a social mirror and a living expression of Kashmiri culture itself.

Pushkar Bhan was among the towering cultural figures of modern Kashmir. His satire, wit and unforgettable characters became inseparable from Kashmiri collective memory. Yet amid the tributes, nostalgia and celebratory speeches lies a painful and inconvenient truth — the institution to which he devoted his life has almost nothing preserved from the golden era he created.

The tragedy is not that Kashmir forgot Pushkar Bhan.

“Voices like Pushkar Bhan’s are not manufactured. Once lost, they rarely return.”

The tragedy is that his recordings were allowed to disappear.

Whether it was the legendary Zoon Dab or the immortal Machama, Radio Kashmir Srinagar — now rechristened as All India Radio Srinagar — today possesses little to showcase as an archival treasure from the period when Pushkar Bhan was at the peak of his creative brilliance. Not even the signature tune of Zoon Dab, the serial that once united Kashmiri households for nearly two decades, is available in any accessible institutional archive.

Some scattered recordings may survive in private hands, but most are in shabby condition, damaged by time and neglect, desperately needing restoration and digitisation.

Pushkar Bhan demonstrating analogue sound-effect artistry long before the age of AI and digital editing.
In an era before digital technology, Pushkar Bhan manually created sound effects using everyday objects — a cup and plate in hand, imagination at work inside the studios of Radio Kashmir Srinagar.

During its efforts to trace remnants of this lost era, Kashmir Rechords managed to access some rare sound bytes and  photographs through private individuals. These photographs reveal another fascinating dimension of Pushkar Bhan’s genius. He was not confined merely to drama and satire. He actively participated in children’s programming and possessed an extraordinary creative ability to produce sound effects manually — long before artificial intelligence and digital editing entered broadcasting. What technology now creates through software, Pushkar Bhan produced naturally through analogue ingenuity, imagination and sheer artistic instinct.

Pushkar Bhan engaging with children during a Radio Kashmir programme in Srinagar.]
Pushkar Bhan during a children’s programme at Radio Kashmir Srinagar — revealing a lesser-known side of the legendary broadcaster whose creativity extended far beyond satire and drama.

Born in Srinagar on 15 February 1926, Pushkar Bhan grew up during a period of immense political and social transformation in Kashmir. From an early age, he displayed a remarkable inclination toward theatre and storytelling. After completing his graduation in 1947, he became associated with progressive cultural movements under the influence of noted poet and cultural icon Dina Nath Nadim. That association shaped his understanding of socially conscious theatre and people-centric storytelling.

In 1952, Pushkar Bhan joined Radio Kashmir Srinagar on a modest daily wage. What followed became one of the most remarkable journeys in Kashmiri broadcasting history. Through sheer talent, dedication and innovation, he rose to the position of Producer Emeritus — a recognition reserved for extraordinary contribution to Kashmiri radio drama.

Pushkar Bhan at Zoona Dab set
Pushkar Bhan with Raj kapoor

His serial Zoon Dab created broadcasting history in Kashmir. Running continuously for nearly two decades, it became part of everyday life in Kashmiri homes. Equally iconic was Machama, perhaps the most celebrated satirical character in Kashmiri literature and radio drama. Through humour layered with social criticism, Pushkar Bhan exposed hypocrisy, bureaucracy, greed and the changing moral fabric of society.

His contribution earned him the Padma Shri in 1974, followed by the Sahitya Akademi Award in 1976.

Yet awards alone cannot define Pushkar Bhan’s stature.

He belonged to a generation when Kashmiri broadcasting carried intellectual depth, linguistic elegance and social purpose. Had his works been properly preserved, they would today stand as priceless documentation of authentic Kashmiri speech, humour, idiom and cultural texture during a period when oral traditions were rapidly changing.

Instead, what survives is mostly nostalgia.

Occasionally, one comes across artificial recreations, imitation videos, or digitally assembled tributes attempting to revive his memory. But such efforts only underline a larger institutional failure. The organisations entrusted with preserving this cultural legacy failed to do so.

Particularly after the onset of militancy in 1990, many within the system quietly allowed invaluable archival material to decay. What survived the earlier neglect reportedly perished during the devastating 2014 floods that submerged the Radio Kashmir Srinagar complex. Ironically, while priceless cultural recordings were allegedly destroyed, official service books and administrative records of employees somehow survived intact.

The loss remains immeasurable

Pushkar Bhan’s own life, too, suffered personal tragedy. A fatal accident dealt a severe blow to his artistic energies. Though he survived, those close to him often felt he never regained the same enthusiasm and creative intensity afterward. Following prolonged illness, he finally passed away in New Delhi on 5 October 2008.

His legacy, however, continues to inspire writers, broadcasters and theatre lovers.

Noted broadcaster Pran Kishore devoted some pages to Pushkar Bhan in his writings. Equally significant is the detailed reference to Zoon Dab in the book Radio Kashmir in Times of Peace and War, which documents how later attempts to recreate the magic of Zoon Dab after the 1990 migration failed completely. The institution discovered that talent of Pushkar Bhan’s stature could not simply be reproduced.

And perhaps that is the final truth about Pushkar Bhan.

Voices like his are not manufactured.They belong to a civilisation, a language and a moment in history.

Once lost, they rarely return.

I Am Samay. And I Have to Rehna

Kashmir Rechords
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I Am Samay. And I Have to Rehna

People say my generation has no patience.

Maybe they do not know what it means to inherit memory.

I am Gen Z.

I belong to a world of reels, trends, short attention spans and fast opinions. I know memes before they become old, use the language of today, and understand the rhythm of a changing world.

But there is something I refuse to update.

My roots.

Because I am a Kashmiri Pandit.

Discover a moving story of a Gen Z Kashmiri Pandit exploring migration, resilience, heritage and cultural continuity.

And I have learnt something quietly powerful—

you can uproot a tree many times, but if its memory survives, its roots still know the way home.

My story did not begin with me.

Long before my generation learnt to archive moments on cloud drives, my ancestors learnt to archive civilisation inside memory.

We were rooted to a land.

Then rooted out.

And then we returned.

Again.

And again.

Generations after generations.

History remembers kings and battles.

But communities survive because ordinary people continue doing extraordinary things quietly.

Lighting lamps.

Teaching children.

Carrying books.

Remembering prayers.

Refusing to forget.

People have called us many things over centuries.

Weak.

Silent.

Defeated.

Cowards.

But perhaps those words came from people who never understood what survival demands.

Because leaving and surviving are not the same thing.

And survival is not surrender.

It takes a different kind of courage to lose place without losing self.

My community learnt that courage.

Not once.

Many times.

Our inheritance was never only land.

It was thought.

Learning.

Discipline.

Language.

A civilisational confidence that did not require shouting.

I carry something in my blood that my generation rarely talks about but still lives by—

the quiet inheritance of a Shaivaite worldview.

To see consciousness before labels.

To believe that every person is first a soul.

Not caste.

Not hierarchy.

Not status.

That philosophy travelled farther than our bodies ever did.

And perhaps that is why we survived.

There were times when history says only a handful of homes remained.

Yet the story did not end.

Then came another chapter.

  1.  
  2. For many families—the seventh migration.

Fathers left.

Grandfathers left.

Homes closed.

Doors remained locked.

Keys remained in pockets.

But memory refused to leave.

What moved out physically did not move out spiritually.

People rebuilt.

Destroyed shrines were remembered.

Temples rose again.

Replicas were created.

Faith crossed geography.

Identity crossed generations.

And something remarkable happened—

distance did not become disappearance.

That is what people misunderstand.

Staying is not always physical.

Sometimes staying means carrying forward.

Today I live in modern time.

I study.

I work.

I adapt.

I create.

I scroll.

I archive.

I make playlists.

I know algorithms.

But I also know stories older than the internet.

I can speak the language of now without becoming disconnected from yesterday.

I do not confuse adaptation with amnesia.

My community did not survive because it mastered noise.

It survived because it mastered memory.

Some carried books.

Some carried gods wrapped in cloth.

Some carried silence.

And all carried return.

People compare survival to strength.

I think survival is stranger than strength.

It is rarely dramatic.

Mostly it is stubborn.

Mostly it is ordinary.

Mostly it is waking up one more day and deciding not to disappear.

My grandparents survived one age.

My parents survived another.

My generation inherited something unusual—

not certainty.

Not permanence.

But continuity.

And continuity is powerful.

So yes—

I am Samay.

Time.

And I have to Rehna.

Not in one house.

Not in one city.

Not trapped in one century.

But in values.

In memory.

In continuity.

I will evolve.

I will speak new languages.

I will build new futures.

I will live in new cities.

But I will remain.

Because my story did not begin with me.

And it cannot end with me.

Because some communities do not survive by standing still.

They survive by carrying themselves forward.

And that—

that is what being a Kashmiri Pandit means to me.

Kashmir Rechords Readers’ Note

Do you carry a story that history never fully heard?

Did your grandparents preserve a memory, a migration, a ritual, an object, a photograph, a shrine, a return—or simply a moment that deserves to live?

Kashmir Rechords invites readers to come forward with personal stories, family histories, memories, archival material and human-interest narratives from Kashmir and beyond.

Write to us and help preserve what memory alone should not be forced to carry.

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

Because stories survive when they are told.

Kashmir’s 1984 Drug Warning: From Brown Sugar to Today’s Crisis

Kashmir Rechords
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Kashmir’s 1984 Drug Warning: From Brown Sugar to Today’s Crisis
(Kashmir Rechords Exclusive)

The archival newspaper clipping from 1984 reads today with an uncomfortable familiarity. Long before heroin, synthetic narcotics and cross-border drug networks became regular headlines, the report, published in a leading newspaper of Jammu and Kashmir had already sounded an alarm: brown sugar had entered Kashmir’s social fabric, affecting students, unemployed youth and urban pockets of Srinagar.

At the time, the concern appeared local and limited. Drug abuse was not yet viewed as a strategic challenge, nor was addiction understood as a public health and security issue. The warning remained largely confined to reportage and public concern.

More than four decades later, Jammu and Kashmir has launched one of its most visible anti-drug campaigns in recent memory.Lieutenant Governor Manoj Sinha’s Nasha Mukt Jammu Kashmir Abhiyaan, including public marches in Srinagar, Pulwama and elsewhere, has framed the issue not merely as addiction but as a wider social and security challenge.

Archival 1984 newspaper clipping titled Brown Sugar Curse of Kashmir

But the uncomfortable question remains:

If the signs were visible in 1984, did the region underestimate the scale of what was coming?

Historically, parts of Kashmir’s rural economy had episodic and limited familiarity with cannabis and charas cultivation, often treated as local law-and-order issue rather than a gateway to organised narcotics networks. What appears to have changed in recent decades is not merely consumption—but the nature of supply, trafficking and dependency.

Today’s concern is qualitatively different.

Reports and official statements increasingly speak of heroin abuse, injectable drug use, rising treatment demand and growing concern over organised trafficking networks. Estimates discussed in public policy circles and parliamentary discourse have described substance abuse as a serious social challenge in Jammu and Kashmir.

That evolution is where the term narco-terrorism enters the conversation.

In recent years, security agencies in Jammu and Kashmir have publicly reported operations describing alleged links between narcotics smuggling and terror financing, including seizures and arrests under what authorities termed narco-terror investigations.

That does not mean every case of addiction or every drug user is connected to terrorism. Most addiction cases are public-health and social crises. But the concern expressed by authorities is that trafficking channels can sometimes overlap with criminal and security networks.

Read through that lens, the 1984 clipping becomes more than an archival curiosity.

An archival report from 1984 warned of drug use in Kashmir. Decades later, the issue has returned to the centre of public debate.
A 1984 newspaper report warning of drug abuse in Kashmir gains renewed relevance amid present-day anti-drug campaigns in Jammu and Kashmir.

It begins to look like an early warning.

Back then, the fear was that youth would lose direction.

Today, the fear is broader: that addiction destroys families, drains communities, creates illicit economies and, in the worst cases alleged by investigators, feeds networks far removed from the individual user.

The anti-drug movement underway in Jammu and Kashmir therefore carries a message beyond enforcement:

History’s ignored warnings become tomorrow’s emergencies.

And perhaps that is what makes the old headline feel so contemporary: “Brown Sugar, Curse of Kashmir.”

The Man-Eater of Kargil? A Forgotten 1964 Story

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The Man-Eater of Kargil? A Forgotten 1964 Story
(Kashmir Rechords Exclusive)

There are some stories that belong to history.

And then there are stories that survive only because somebody saved a yellowing newspaper clipping before time erased it.

This is one of them.

In the archives preserved by Kashmir Rechords lies an unusual account published in Daily Excelsior in 2000—a recollection written by D. P. Sharma, who served as Circle Inspector, Kargil in 1964.

What he narrated was not folklore. Not a campfire legend. Not something he had merely heard.

He presented it as an episode from his years in uniform.

And even today, more than six decades later, it raises a question that refuses to settle:

Did Kargil once witness a case so strange that people still hesitate to speak of it openly?

The Dark Story of Kargil’s Forgotten Man-Eater and the Policeman Who Remembered It

Kargil in 1964 was not the Kargil people know today.

Roads vanished in winter. Villages lived in silence for weeks. News travelled by people, not by networks.

For a Police Officer posted there, the work was difficult enough.But then came something harder to explain.

People disappeared.

At first, perhaps it seemed ordinary—someone gone away, someone lost in terrain, someone delayed. Then another. And another.

Files were opened. Questions asked. Answers did not come.

Yet among villagers, a different explanation had already begun to circulate.

They spoke cautiously. Not because they feared the police. Because they feared sounding unbelievable.

Some said the missing had not merely disappeared. Some said someone was taking them.

And what followed those whispers was even more unsettling.

Years later, D. P. Sharma would write that among all the crimes and incidents he had encountered during decades in service, one particular case disturbed him more than any other.

That line alone makes one pause. Police officers see tragedy. They see violence.

But what kind of case remains with a man long after retirement?

What happened in Kharbu that stayed in memory for decades? What caused old missing files to gain new meaning? And what discovery inside an ordinary household reportedly changed everything?

The newspaper account eventually offers answers.

But perhaps not all stories should be read only for their ending.

Sometimes the real story lies elsewhere— in the silence of villages, in the difficulty of investigating in another era and in the uncomfortable possibility that extraordinary events do not always happen in extraordinary places.

Sometimes they happen quietly. In places where mountains keep secrets.

Today, because Kashmir Rechords preserved that old newspaper page, readers can return to it and decide for themselves:

Was this one of Kashmir’s strangest forgotten criminal cases? Or a story that history itself has never fully explained?

The clipping still exists. The questions still remain.

AIR’s Forgotten Martyrs: The Broadcasters India Stopped Remembering

Kashmir Rechords
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AIR’s Forgotten Martyrs: The Broadcasters India Stopped Remembering
(By: Kanwal Krishan Lidhoo*)

As All India Radio marks what it describes as “90 years of broadcasting,” an uncomfortable question lingers beneath the commemorative logos, ceremonial speeches and institutional nostalgia: can a broadcaster truly celebrate its history while forgetting those who died protecting it?

The institution that once prided itself on memory, documentation and voice now appears increasingly detached from some of the darkest and bravest chapters of its own past. In the rush to celebrate anniversaries — many themselves debated in chronology and historical context — an entire generation of broadcaster-martyrs has quietly faded from institutional memory.

There is little serious reflection on those who died in service. Few documentaries revisit their sacrifices. Hardly any structured effort exists to educate younger recruits about the men who kept the microphone alive during years of insurgency, terror, intimidation and war.

Today, many among the younger staff of AIR — and even within the upper echelons of Prasar Bharati — may scarcely recognise the names of M. L. Manchanda, Lassa Kaul or R. K. Talib.

Yet these men belonged to a generation for whom broadcasting was not merely a government assignment. It was a frontline responsibility.

The Murder of M. L. Manchanda

Among the most painful examples is that of M. L. Manchanda, who was abducted and killed in May 1992 during the height of Khalistani militancy in Punjab.

Associated with AIR Patiala, Manchanda was reportedly kidnapped by militants belonging to the Babbar Khalsa group. According to documented accounts, the militants demanded greater prioritisation of Punjabi broadcasts over Hindi programming. When Manchanda did not concede within the deadline allegedly imposed upon him, he was murdered.

While All India Radio celebrates “90 years of broadcasting,” the institution’s forgotten martyrs remain absent from official memory. From M. L. Manchanda’s brutal killing during Punjab militancy to the assassination of Lassa Kaul in Kashmir, this article revisits the sacrifices made by broadcasters who kept India’s airwaves alive during some of the nation’s darkest decades.

His killing shocked India’s broadcasting and journalistic community. He was beheaded — one of the most horrifying attacks ever carried out against an employee of India’s public broadcasting system.

Kashmir Rechords possesses some of the graphic archival photographs linked to the case, including images of Manchanda after the killing, but has consciously refrained from circulating them out of respect for a man who, ironically, now stands largely forgotten by the very institution he served.

The episode remains among the darkest assaults on India’s public broadcasting fraternity during the insurgency years in Punjab. Yet during the ongoing celebrations surrounding AIR’s “90 years,” Manchanda’s sacrifice has scarcely found mention.

Lassa Kaul and the Cost of Defiance

The story of Lassa Kaul is no less tragic.

The former Station Director of AIR Srinagar/DDK Srinagar was assassinated in 1990 because he refused to bend before terrorist diktats during one of Kashmir’s most volatile periods. Kaul symbolised a generation of broadcasters who believed radio was not merely an instrument of information, but a civilisational and cultural lifeline.

For years, his memory survived through institutional recognition, including awards instituted in his honour. But even those markers gradually disappeared. Ironically, the Lassa Kaul Award for National Integration was itself withdrawn in the very era when AIR has intensified its anniversary celebrations.

It is almost as though remembrance itself became inconvenient.

Forgetting R. K. Talib

Then there were quieter figures like R. K. Talib — professionals whose contribution belonged not to glamour, but to endurance.

Broadcasters who nurtured language programming, literary culture and community trust in deeply uncertain times. It was companionship during curfews, reassurance during conflict, and continuity during social fragmentation.

Be it Lufur-ul Rehman, Kabir Ahmad or T. Angmo…the institutions often remember infrastructure more easily than individuals.Transmitters survive in files. Human courage fades in silence.

The tragedy is not that AIR celebrates its history. The tragedy is that it increasingly appears to celebrate a sanitised and selective version of it.

The history of Indian broadcasting cannot be reduced to anniversary branding exercises while excluding the blood, fear and courage that sustained the institution through some of independent India’s most turbulent decades.

The real story of AIR lies not merely in transmitters, buildings and timelines. It lies in the anonymous announcers who continued reading bulletins amid bomb scares. It lies in engineers who restored damaged transmitters in conflict zones. It lies in programme staff who preserved languages, folklore and cultural memory long before “content creation” became fashionable jargon.

And it lies in martyrs like Lassa Kaul and forgotten professionals like M. L. Manchanda, whose lives became collateral in the battle to keep public broadcasting alive.

*Kanwal Krishan Lidhoo is a veteran Kashmiri broadcaster, author, translator and media professional associated with All India Radio for over three decades. He served as Senior Producer and Programme Executive at Radio Kashmir Srinagar and Radio Kashmir Jammu.

An accredited translator with Sahitya Akademi, Lidhoo has translated several important Sanskrit, Hindi and Punjabi works into Kashmiri, including Samay Matrika, Samkaleen Hindi Kathayen, Outlines of Indian Philosophy and Nawen Yug De Waaris.

Kanwal Lidhoo is among the founding directors of Kashmir Rechords Foundation, dedicated to preserving Kashmir’s literary, cultural and broadcasting heritage.

How a Maharaja Helped Catholic Missions Flourish in Kashmir!

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How a Maharaja Helped Catholic Missions Flourish in Kashmir!
(Kashmir Rechords Exclusive)

An intriguing historical account in Catholic Churches in Jammu & Kashmir by noted Kashmiri author, educator and social worker Predhuman K. Joseph Dhar, and carried in the book The Great People of Jammu and Kashmir, sheds fascinating light on Christian History in Kashmir and how Catholic missions gradually became part of the social and educational landscape of the region.

The narrative begins not in Srinagar or Jammu, but in the harsh, wind-beaten mountains of Ladakh!

In 1866, the Mill Hill Fathers, inspired by Rev. Father Herbert Vaughan of London, turned their attention towards the Himalayan frontier of Jammu and Kashmir. Their dream was ambitious — to establish a Catholic mission in one of the world’s most inaccessible regions.

According to Joseph Dhar, Father Daniel Kutty had reached Leh in August 1880 and immediately immersed himself in the Ladakhi language and culture. But Ladakh’s unforgiving climate proved deadly. Before the mission could truly take shape, the mountains claimed his life.

Research adapted from Catholic Churches in Jammu & Kashmir by noted Kashmiri author and educator Predhuman K. Joseph Dhar.
Author, Predumen K Joseph Dhar (16-05-1938-12-06-2014)

Yet the effort did not end there.

Joseph Dhar says in 1890, Fathers Henry, Hanlon and Michel Donsen revived the Ladakh mission. They travelled through remote valleys, educated small groups of boys and girls and learned the Ladakhi language to connect with local communities. Their dedication eventually led to the establishment of St. Peter’s Mission in Leh.

The missionaries endured immense hardship. Winters in Ladakh were so severe that many had to temporarily relocate to Kashmir Valley to survive the cold months. Some later moved to distant lands including Uganda and the rainforests of Zaire, carrying with them experiences from the Himalayas.

Turning point in Kashmir

In May 1891, Fathers Winkley and Cunningham arrived in Baramulla accompanied by Monsignor Brouwer. According to Dhar’s account, the missionaries presented the Maharaja of Kashmir with a valuable mosaic sent by Pope Leo XIII.

What happened next would shape the future of Catholic institutions in Kashmir.

In the presence of members of the State Council, the Maharaja reportedly told the missionaries:

“Preach everywhere and tell the people that there is only one God.”

That remarkable gesture of royal encouragement opened the doors for the Catholic Mission in Kashmir.

Soon afterwards, land was purchased in Baramulla, where a chapel and school were established. Under Father C.B. Simons, the institution steadily expanded and by 1911 had developed into a full-fledged high school, emerging as one of the Valley’s important centres of modern education.

A Page from “The Great People of Jammu and Kashmir”

Joseph Dhar’s research paper also reveals little-known episodes from Srinagar’s history.

In 1895, Father Winkley settled in Srinagar and built a simple priest’s residence and chapel at Mulla Mohalla. Despite devastating floods in 1903 and 1905, he continued his work. That modest structure eventually evolved into the Church of the Holy Family on M.A. Road.

The 1930s witnessed another wave of expansion. Burn Hall School was founded in Srinagar, while Presentation Convent institutions widened educational opportunities, especially for girls. St. Joseph’s Hospital in Baramulla emerged as a major healthcare institution serving people from across Kashmir.

Upheaval of 1947

The tribal invasion forced priests and nuns to evacuate temporarily from Kashmir. But within months many returned, resuming educational, medical and social services amid uncertainty and violence.

The post-independence years saw Catholic institutions spread further across Jammu and Kashmir. Schools, churches and hostels appeared in Jammu, Akhnoor, Poonch, Udhampur and Srinagar, while the Catholic community steadily grew in the region.

Predhuman K. Joseph Dhar himself occupies a unique place in Kashmir’s literary and social history. A respected Kashmiri scholar and educator originally from Srinagar, he is widely remembered for pioneering efforts to translate the Holy Bible — a landmark contribution to linguistic and interfaith scholarship.

Today, many of the schools, hospitals and churches established during those early missionary years continue to serve society, though few know the extraordinary story behind their origins.

Kashmir Rechords’ Help to Needy

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Kashmir Rechords’ Help to Needy

Jammu’s Forgotten Victoria Cross Warrior

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Jammu’s Forgotten Victoria Cross Warrior
(Kashmir Rechords Exclusive)

In the dusty archives of old newspapers lies the story of a soldier whose courage once made Jammu proud and whose name deserves remembrance even today — Jemadar Prakash Singh, a decorated warrior of the Jammu and Kashmir State Forces who earned one of the British Empire’s highest gallantry honours, the Victoria Cross.

A rare feature published in Kashmir Times on February 17, 1986, described him as “The Pride of Jammu,” and rightly so. The article, written by Maj Gen Goverdhan  Singh, AVSM (Retd), revisited the extraordinary bravery of a man born in a humble Dogra family but destined to enter military history.

Jemadar Prakash Singh of Jammu earned the Victoria Cross through extraordinary courage during wartime, yet history almost forgot him. His story is not just about bravery — it is about preserving the memory of our unsung heroes.
Rare 1986 newspaper article on Jemadar Prakash Singh of Jammu

A Soldier Forged in the Hills

Prakash Singh hailed from the rugged belt of Jammu province, a region long known for producing hardy soldiers with an instinctive sense of loyalty and sacrifice. Raised amidst difficult terrain and modest means, he joined the Jammu and Kashmir State Forces at a young age, when the Princely State maintained its own military establishment under Maharaja Hari Singh.

The article notes that Prakash Singh was not born into privilege. Like countless Dogra youth of that era, the Army became both his livelihood and his calling. Yet what distinguished him from others was his fearless temperament and his refusal to abandon comrades even in the face of certain death.

Baptism by Fire

During the Second World War, soldiers from Jammu and Kashmir served in some of the harshest battlefields across Asia and Europe. It was in one such theatre of war that Jemadar Prakash Singh displayed the courage that would immortalise him.

According to the account, enemy fire had pinned down troops, casualties were mounting and communication lines had almost collapsed. Amid exploding shells and relentless gunfire, Prakash Singh reportedly led from the front, rallying his men and refusing to retreat.

Though wounded, he continued fighting and reorganising his troops under intense enemy attack. His leadership not only saved lives but helped prevent a collapse of the position.

His actions were described as acts of “conspicuous bravery and devotion to duty” , the kind of battlefield courage that soldiers remember long after wars end.

The Victoria Cross

For his gallantry, Jemadar Prakash Singh was awarded the Victoria Cross, the highest wartime decoration for valour in the British Empire. The honour placed him among an elite fraternity of warriors whose bravery transcended nationality, rank, or background.

For Jammu, it was a moment of immense pride. A son of the soil had earned global recognition through sheer courage.

Yet, as decades passed, his story slowly faded from public memory.

A Hero History Almost Forgot

The 1986 article lamented how younger generations even of that time,knew little about such heroes. While grand narratives of war often focus on famous generals or political leaders, countless soldiers like Prakash Singh quietly disappeared into obscurity despite their immense sacrifices.

The article also carried photographs of surviving family members and associates, attempting to reconnect society with the memory of a forgotten hero.

The Dogra Tradition of Valor

There is a visible sense of urgency — a fear that if such stories were not preserved, an entire chapter of Jammu’s martial heritage might vanish.

Prakash Singh’s life represented more than individual heroism. He symbolised the larger Dogra military tradition — a culture of discipline, endurance  and sacrifice that had shaped the history of Jammu and Kashmir for generations.

Why His Story Still Matters?

Today, when conversations about Jammu and Kashmir often revolve around politics and conflict, stories like that of Jemadar Prakash Singh remind us of another legacy — one of service, honour  and courage.

The old newspaper clipping may have yellowed with age, but its message remains timeless:

Heroes are forgotten only when societies stop telling their stories.

Readers are welcome to provide more inputs about Jemadar Prakash Singh, especially those who knew him personally  or lived in his vicinity. Many such unsung heroes may still remain buried in local memories and forgotten archives around us. It is the collective responsibility of society to remember, document and honour our heroes before their stories disappear forever.

Those having information, photographs, documents or personal recollections may write to: support@kashmir-rechords.com or kashmirrechords@gmail.com

Gold for 10 Rupees? A Rare 1936 Urdu Ad Reveals Delhi’s Vintage Wedding Secrets

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Gold for 10 Rupees? A Rare 1936 Urdu Ad Reveals Delhi’s Vintage Wedding Secrets
(Kashmir Rechords Exclusive)

Long before luxury malls, branded jewellery chains and digital payment counters transformed India’s retail culture, the bazaars of Delhi carried a charm rooted in craftsmanship, tradition and aspiration. A surviving 1936 Urdu advertisement from Delhi’s Darya Ganj market offers a fascinating glimpse into that world — a time when jewellery was marketed not as an investment commodity, but as an essential ornament of celebration, beauty and social prestige.

The advertisement, issued under headline Shadi Ke Liye Behtareen Zevraat Golden Gold by Good Luck Trader Agency Darya Ganj Road near Delhi’s historic Kala Mahal Bazar ( A.K) area, reflects the thriving urban commercial culture of pre-Independence India. Printed in elegant Urdu typography, the notice promises “the finest ornaments for weddings” and displays a variety of jewellery pieces ranging from necklaces and bangles to earrings and decorative bridal ornaments. Prices mentioned in the advertisement — Rs. 2, Rs. 3, Rs. 10 and Rs. 12 per pair — today appear astonishingly modest, yet in 1936 they represented carefully budgeted purchases for middle-class and aspirational families.

The advertisement is significant for another reason: it reveals how Delhi’s jewellery trade functioned nearly ninety years ago. Shops competed through craftsmanship, design and affordability. The emphasis was on “ready-made ornaments,” suggesting the emergence of modern retail culture where customers could walk into a shop and choose from displayed collections rather than relying solely on custom orders from traditional goldsmiths.

From Darya Ganj to Digital India: The Story of Delhi’s 1936 Gold Ornament Market
Rare 1936 Urdu Advertisement Shows Delhi’s Vintage Jewellery Trade and Wedding Culture

Interestingly, many of the ornaments illustrated in the advertisement appear ornate yet lightweight, indicating that imitation, plated or low-gold-content jewellery already had a flourishing market. This is particularly relevant in contemporary India, where Prime Minister Narendra Modi has repeatedly urged citizens to reduce excessive dependence on physical gold purchases. His appeals have often focused on discouraging the hoarding of imported gold, which places pressure on foreign exchange reserves and contributes little to productive economic growth.

Seen through that lens, the 1936 advertisement becomes historically revealing. Even in pre-Independence Delhi, jewellers were not exclusively selling heavy gold assets. They marketed affordability, decorative appeal and fashion-conscious design. Jewellery was closely linked to weddings, cultural identity and aesthetics rather than solely to wealth accumulation.

The Darya Ganj of 1936 was itself an evolving commercial district. Located near the walled city , it had become a bustling centre for traders, printers, publishers and artisans. Urdu newspapers and magazines frequently carried such advertisements aimed at Delhi’s growing educated middle class. The language of the advertisement reflects refinement and persuasion, inviting customers to personally inspect the craftsmanship and “modern styles” available at the establishment.

The visual layout of the advertisement also deserves attention. Every ornament is carefully numbered and priced, almost resembling an early illustrated catalogue. This indicates how rapidly urban retailing techniques were modernising even under colonial rule. In an era without television, radio commercials or social media campaigns, such newspaper advertisements served as powerful tools of aspiration.

Today, when discussions around gold often revolve around investment, inflation hedging and imports, this fragile 1936 advertisement reminds us of an older India — an India where jewellery shops in Delhi’s crowded lanes catered to emotions more than economics; where wedding ornaments symbolised joy, status and artistry; and where Urdu advertising blended poetry, persuasion and commerce into a uniquely subcontinental marketplace culture.

Contrast between 1936 and present-day India

In the Delhi of that era, families visited bazaars personally, examined jewellery under lantern-lit or early electric shops, negotiated prices and relied upon the reputation of neighbourhood craftsmen. Urdu advertisements in newspapers played the role that online marketing algorithms and influencer campaigns play today. The market was intimate, localised and deeply human.

In Digital India, the marketplace has become virtual. Consumers compare gold rates in real time on mobile apps, invest through UPI-linked platforms and purchase certified digital gold without entering a physical market. Wedding jewellery itself is increasingly influenced by online catalogues, AI-generated designs and social media trends.

Yet despite these technological revolutions, one emotional thread remains unchanged across generations: gold still carries symbolic value in Indian society. Whether bought from a small Darya Ganj shop in 1936 or now through a smartphone wallet, gold continues to signify aspiration, security, celebration and social continuity.

The old Urdu advertisement from Darya Ganj therefore represents far more than a commercial notice. It captures a transitional chapter in India’s economic and cultural history — an era when traditional craftsmanship met emerging urban consumerism. Viewed today, it becomes a bridge between two Indias: the bazaar economy of handwritten ledgers and the digital economy of QR codes and online investments.

Readers, historians, jewellery experts and collectors are invited to identify and name the various ornaments illustrated in the 1936 advertisement. Their inputs and observations may be shared with Kashmir Rechords at: support@kashmir-rechords.com or kashmirrechords@gmail.com

Chinar in Exile!

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Chinar in Exile!
(BY: Dr. Rajesh Bhat*)

There is an old Kashmiri expression: “Boni Muhul Tarun” — literally, “to pierce a Chinar tree with a pestle.” In common usage, it refers to attempting the impossible, to undertaking a task so difficult that it defies logic itself.

History, however, has strange ways of turning metaphors into reality.

For the exiled Kashmiri Pandit community living in Jammu after the migration of the 1990s, the impossible became deeply personal. Torn away from their homeland, temples, rivers and memories, many among them carried with them not just pain and nostalgia, but also saplings of the mighty Chinar — the tree that for centuries has symbolised Kashmir’s soul.

And then they did what nature itself seemed unwilling to permit.

Chinar in Exile.... at Jammu
A Chinar Grown in Exile—

They planted Chinars in Jammu.

Not in the cool breeze of Srinagar, nor in the moist landscapes of the Valley where the Chinar rises effortlessly in regal splendour, but in the unforgiving heat of Jammu — amid rocks, boulders, dusty winds and temperatures hostile to the very survival of the tree.

Yet the Chinars survived.

Trees of Memory in Exile

In areas like Bantalab and Anand Nagar Jammu, where displaced Kashmiri Pandits recreated replicas of their ancient shrines and deities, they also planted Chinar saplings brought from Kashmir.

The act was far more than horticulture.It was memory taking root.It was exile refusing to surrender.

In the compounds of temples and community centres, the Chinar became an emotional bridge between the lost homeland and the harsh realities of displacement. Every surviving leaf carried echoes of Kashmir.

Ironically, these fragile Chinars of Jammu began growing at a time when even the mighty Chinars of Kashmir were increasingly facing threats from urbanisation, land encroachment and neglect.

The House Called “3 Chinars”

Among those who nurtured this emotional inheritance is Ravinder Kaul, internationally acclaimed theatre and art critic with deep Kashmiri roots.

Years ago, Kaul brought four Chinar saplings from Kashmir and planted them in his Greater Jammu residence. Only three survived. But survival itself was victory.About the fourth one—perhaps that the Jammu heat was simply too much for it.

The surviving trees now stand tall inside his compound, and Kaul named his residence “3 Chinar” after them.

3 Chinar-- Famous Journalist, Ravinder Kaul's modest House in Jammu
Journalist Ravinder Kaul’s Jammu House— ` 3 Chinars’
Chinar in Exile in Ravinder Kaul's House

Recalling his lifelong association with the tree, Kaul told Kashmir Rechords:

“The first Chinar trees that I saw in Jammu were on the banks of the Ranbir Canal in the late 1970s when I was studying at Jammu University’s old campus. I am not sure whether they survive today. Later, in 2010, when I bought land in Greater Jammu, I brought four saplings from Srinagar and planted them on the four corners of my lawn. Only three survived. I named my home ‘3 Chinars’.”

His story mirrors the larger story of displaced Kashmiri Pandits themselves — survival against hostile odds, though diminished from what once was.

Solitary Sentinels of a Lost Homeland

In the Shiv Temple complex of Bantalab, Jammu, bordering the famous replica shrine of Mata Sharda, stands a solitary Chinar tree planted after migration by displaced Kashmiri Pandits.

A solitary Chinar at Shiv Mandir, Bantalab, Jammu. In the background is famous Sharda Mandir, Bantalab, Jammu, built by Kashmiri Pandits

Another lonely Chinar survives in the compound of Sanjeevani Sharda Kendra in Anand Nagar Bohri,  Jammu, carefully nurtured by members of the community.

These are not ordinary trees. They are living memorials.

A solitary Chinar Tree at Sanjeevani Sharda Kendra, Bohri Jammu.

They carry within their bark the grief of exile and the stubborn refusal to forget Kashmir’s cultural and spiritual landscape.

Former Jammu and Kashmir Bank employee Ashwani Tickoo, now settled in Durga Nagar Jammu after migration from Wadwan in Budgam, Kashmir, recalls seeing Chinars at several places across Jammu region:

“If I remember correctly, I have seen Chinar trees alongside the Canal on Bhagwati Nagar road. I have also seen Chinars in Udhampur and on the roadside while travelling from Rajouri to Shahdara Sharief shrine’’

 Even near Vijaypur, a local hotelier fascinated by the majesty of the Chinar planted four saplings near  famous spot Thandi Khui.  Three survived.

Chinar at Thandi Khui , Vijaypur, Jammu

At University of Jammu too, students recall spotting a few Chinar trees inside the campus.

Like the Exiles Themselves

But the Chinars of Jammu tell another story too.

Unlike the towering Chinars of Kashmir, whose trunks appear immortal and whose canopies dominate landscapes, the Jammu Chinars remain comparatively fragile. Their roots struggle in alien soil. Their trunks are weaker. Their growth is uncertain.

And perhaps that is why they resemble the exiled community that planted them.

Like displaced Kashmiri Pandits, these Chinars survive — but not in the fullness and grandeur they once knew in their natural habitat.

They endure. They resist. They  remain suspended between memory and survival. And perhaps that is the deepest meaning of “Boni Muhul Tarun.”

For in Jammu, the impossible was not merely attempted. It was made to live.

Readers’ Participation Invited

Kashmir Rechords invites readers from Jammu and elsewhere to share information, memories, locations and photographs of surviving Chinar trees in Jammu city, particularly those planted after the migration of Kashmiri Pandits.

The effort aims to document this little-known living heritage and turn it into a collective people’s archive of memory, exile and resilience. Contributors whose information and photographs are used in future updates of the story will be given due credit and acknowledgement.

*Dr Rajesh Bhat is a writer, broadcaster and media professional known for his deeply researched human-interest narratives on Kashmir’s history, culture, heritage and displaced communities. Through archival exploration, oral histories and ground-level documentation, he has consistently highlighted lesser-known facets of Kashmiri civilisational memory, particularly relating to Kashmiri Pandits, cultural institutions, forgotten personalities and endangered heritage. His writings often blend historical depth with emotional storytelling, bringing alive stories of exile, resilience and identity from Jammu and Kashmir.

 

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