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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.”
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?
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.
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.
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 Rechordspossesses 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.
ForgettingR. 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.
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.
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.
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 Timeson 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.
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
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.
As All India Radio marks ninety years of its journey, the occasion ought to have been one of celebration, reflection and renewed commitment to national service. For decades, AIR was not merely a broadcaster; it was the voice of India’s conscience, culture and sovereignty. From war bulletins during 1965 and 1971 to educational programming, patriotic music and grassroots outreach, AIR once served as a strategic bridge between the Indian State and its people, especially in sensitive border regions.
Yet, at a time when Information Warfare has become one of the most potent tools in modern conflict, a disturbing reality stares the Nation in the face: India’s own public broadcaster appears to have systematically weakened itself in the very regions where its presence was most crucial.
The tragedy is not merely administrative decline. It is the collapse of strategic vision.
The Vacuum Along the Borders
Over the past several years, major relay centres and transmission units of AIR in border areas have either been shut down, weakened or rendered ineffective. Many stations that once served remote and strategically sensitive populations in Jammu and Kashmir, Punjab, North-East or Western border gradually lost manpower, local programming capacity and institutional importance.
This retreat has occurred precisely when hostile propaganda machinery across the border has intensified.
The map tells a disturbing story: Pakistani radio stations spread extensively across PoK.
Pakistan, understanding the continuing relevance of radio in mountainous and border terrains, has aggressively expanded its broadcasting footprint in areas, particularly facing Jammu and Kashmir. Reports and monitoring by listeners in frontier belts indicate that more than twenty FM and medium-wave stations are actively functioning across the border, relentlessly transmitting anti-India narratives, communal rhetoric, psychological warfare content and political propaganda directed at Indian listeners.
These broadcasts frequently target India’s democratic institutions, security forces, and leadership, including Prime Minister Narendra Modi. The intent is unmistakable: influence minds, create alienation and sustain psychological pressure in sensitive regions. On the other hand, India has just two radio Stations at Poonch and Kathua, with no Programme Staff to counter enemy propaganda!
The alarming question is: where is India’s counter-voice?
Silence from the Indian Side
There was a time when AIR’s border stations acted as a cultural and psychological shield. Through local languages, regional music, development-oriented discussions, patriotic programming and credible news bulletins, AIR countered misinformation organically and effectively.
Today, many of these stations function without even permanent content staff. In all border areas, skeletal staffing patterns have reduced stations to mere transmission units rather than vibrant public communication centres. Ironically, there is either a single or not a single Content Creator posted in Stations falling in border areas of Jammu and Kashmir, Punjab, Rajasthan and India’s North-East.
AIR Poonch’s fading signboard symbolises the slow erosion of public broadcasting in a sensitive border region.AIR Jalandhar — a legacy station surviving on skeletal staffing and mounting institutional neglect.
This institutional hollowing-out has created a dangerous vacuum.
``In strategic communication, silence is never neutral. When one side withdraws, the other side occupies the space”.
The result is visible in border belts where foreign broadcasts are often received more clearly and more consistently than Indian public broadcasting. This is not merely a broadcasting failure; it is a national security concern.
AIR@90: Caps, Banners, T-Shirts Instead of Content!
Ironically, at a time when the institution should have been introspecting over its shrinking reach and declining strategic relevance, the focus appears to have shifted towards optics and ceremonial branding.
Instead of debating how to restore transmission strength in border regions, revive local programming, recruit permanent programme staff, or counter hostile propaganda, enormous energy is visibly being spent on anniversary symbolism — caps, T-shirts, banners, logos, slogans, stage-managed events and publicity exercises under the AIR@90 banner.
The contradiction is glaring.
A broadcaster facing perhaps the gravest credibility and relevance crisis in its history appears more occupied with merchandise than mission.
The tragedy is not that AIR is celebrating ninety years; it deserves to. The tragedy is that the celebrations appear disconnected from the existential challenges confronting public broadcasting in India.
For listeners in border belts who can hear hostile broadcasts more clearly than India’s own national voice, commemorative banners offer little reassurance.
For understaffed stations struggling without content creators, producers, or field correspondents, anniversary caps cannot substitute institutional revival.
And for citizens concerned about narrative warfare against India, symbolic branding exercises without strategic broadcasting reforms appear painfully hollow.
The Closure of the National Channel
Among the most controversial decisions was the shutting down of AIR’s iconic National Channel — once a powerful nighttime service that connected distant parts of India through news, culture, music and national integration programming.
The National Channel had immense strategic value. Its long-range transmission reached border populations, remote villages, truck drivers, soldiers and listeners in areas where private FM networks had little or no presence. It carried the emotional and cultural pulse of India into regions vulnerable to external propaganda.
Its closure raised serious questions among broadcasting veterans and observers.
Not less than an ”anti-national” act: Once vibrant National Channel of All India Radio `Akashvani’
At a time when adversarial nations are investing heavily in narrative warfare, dismantling one of India’s strongest audio platforms appeared not merely shortsighted but deeply self-defeating. Critics argue that the decision reflected a dangerous disconnect between bureaucratic management and geopolitical realities.
Many former AIR professionals believe the National Channel could have been modernized, digitized and strategically repurposed instead of being discontinued.
Public Broadcasting Reduced to Corporate Logic
The deeper problem lies in the transformation of public broadcasting philosophy itself.
AIR was never meant to function solely through commercial metrics or urban entertainment standards. Its mandate was national service. Border broadcasting, rural outreach, linguistic diversity and strategic communication were not profit-making exercises; they were investments in national cohesion.
However, under increasingly centralized and corporatized management structures within Prasar Bharati, decisions often appeared driven by cost-cutting calculations rather than long-term strategic necessity.
Transmission infrastructure was viewed as expenditure rather than strategic capital.
Experienced staff retired without replacement. Contractualization replaced institutional continuity. Local content creation weakened. Regional expertise diminished. Ground realities were ignored.
The consequences are now unfolding in silence across frontier regions.
Radio Still Matters
One of the greatest misconceptions of modern policymakers is the belief that radio has become irrelevant in the digital age.
Border realities prove otherwise.
In difficult terrains, during bad weather, power disruptions, communication blackouts and emergency situations, radio remains the most resilient and accessible medium. Unlike internet-based platforms, radio crosses mountains, reaches isolated communities and functions during crises.
That is precisely why countries engaged in geopolitical conflicts continue to invest heavily in international and border broadcasting.
Pakistan understands this. China understands this!Even global powers continue to maintain strategic radio infrastructure.
Ironically, India, despite having one of the world’s richest public broadcasting legacies, appears to be retreating from this space.
A Question of Accountability
The decline of AIR’s strategic role cannot simply be dismissed as modernization or restructuring. It raises uncomfortable questions about institutional accountability and policy intent.
Why were strategically important services weakened without adequate alternatives?
Why were border stations allowed to become extremely understaffed?
Why was institutional expertise neglected?
Why was the National Channel discontinued despite its unique reach and relevance?
Why are resources being visibly spent on ceremonial branding while core broadcasting infrastructure continues to erode?
And most importantly, who benefits when India voluntarily surrenders its communication space in sensitive regions?
These questions deserve parliamentary scrutiny, national debate and independent review.
The Need for Revival
AIR at 90 should not merely celebrate its glorious past. It must confront its troubled present. India urgently needs a revival plan for strategic public broadcasting, particularly in border and conflict-sensitive areas.The battle for territory today is also a battle for narratives.
A Nation that loses its voice along the borders risks losing much more than frequencies.
Ninety years of AIR represent a monumental chapter in India’s democratic and cultural journey. But anniversaries become meaningful only when institutions possess the courage for introspection.
The real tribute to AIR’s legacy would not be ceremonial slogans, printed caps, promotional T-shirts or oversized banners. It would be the restoration of its original mission: to serve as the authentic voice of India — especially where that voice is needed the most.
For when India’s own airwaves fall silent along the borders, hostile voices do not wait. They take over!.
In a significant intellectual and cultural development, the landmark sociological work Social Change in Modern Indiaby noted Indian sociologist M. N. Srinivas has been translated into Kashmiri for the first time by senior journalist and author Dr Rajesh Bhat under the National Translation Mission of the Central Institute of Indian Languages.
Widely regarded as one of the most influential books on Indian society, the work introduced seminal concepts such as Sanskritization, Westernisation and Social Mobility, fundamentally shaping the understanding of social change in modern India.
The translation assumes particular relevance in contemporary Kashmir, where society continues to negotiate rapid social and cultural transformation. By making this foundational text available in Kashmiri, the effort is expected to benefit students, scholars and civil services aspirants while also strengthening Kashmiri as a language of serious academic discourse.
Dr Rajesh Bhat, who has over 35 years of experience in journalism and research-based writing, is known for his deep engagement with Kashmir’s socio-political landscape. His earlier work, Radio Kashmir in Times of Peace and War, had also received wide appreciation.
Prominently covered by Daily Excelsior.State Times, Jammu, Dated May 6, 2026
Notably, the translation and the achievement have been widely covered by prominent newspapers across Jammu and Kashmir as well as electronic media, underlining the importance of the work in the region’s academic and cultural landscape.
Originally published in the mid-20th century, Social Change in Modern India transformed the study of Indian society. Srinivas moved away from static, textbook descriptions and instead presented India as a dynamic, evolving social organism, shaped by forces such as mobility, power, tradition and modernity.
The task of translating a dense sociological text is no ordinary one. It requires not just linguistic skill, but conceptual clarity and cultural sensitivity.
In translating Srinivas, one finds that Dr. Bhat has ensured that the text remains faithful to its intellectual rigor while becoming accessible to Kashmiri readers.
Understanding Change While Living It
Kashmir today is not just witnessing change—it is negotiating it, questioning it and shaping it. In such times, a book like Social Change in Modern India does not remain confined to classrooms; it becomes a tool for reflection.
Through its Kashmiri translation, that tool is now in the hands of the people it can serve most meaningfully.
And perhaps that is the true achievement of this effort: A classic work on social change has itself become an agent of change—by finding its voice in Kashmiri.
On his death anniversary, Jagmohan remains one of the most contested—and perhaps most misunderstood—figures in Kashmir’s modern history.
What if the story told for decades is only half the truth?
A Governor Once Welcomed by Thousands
In January 1990, as Jagmohan assumed charge on January 19, an unusual spectacle unfolded across the Valley. Contrary to later narratives, thousands of Kashmiri Muslims thronged to meet him, day after day.
Archival records and rare photographs accessed by Kashmir Rechords reveal a striking reality: Jagmohan was not initially seen as an adversary—but as a firm, accessible administrator capable of restoring order amid chaos.
During these early weeks, he even explored employment avenues for Kashmiri youth in defence services, signalling a strategy of integration rather than confrontation.
The Sudden Shift: February 1990
Then, almost abruptly, something changed.
By the last week of February 1990, the perception of Jagmohan among large sections of Kashmiri Muslims underwent a dramatic reversal. The same man who drew crowds now began to be portrayed as the embodiment of repression.
This transformation did not occur in isolation.
Archival accounts point to a period of intense political mobilisation, marked by:
Massive anti-India demonstrations
Organised rallies across towns and villages
Escalating militant influence
A charged atmosphere shaped by cross-border rhetoric
One such moment came on March 1, 1990, when hundreds of thousands marched through Srinagar, raising slogans for secession and gathering outside the United Nations observers’ office after hours-long processions.
The Valley, by then, was no longer in transition—it was in upheaval.
The Vilification Phase
It was during this volatile period that a sustained narrative began to take shape.
Sections of local media and political actors increasingly framed Jagmohan as responsible for the unfolding crisis—including, eventually, the mass migration of Kashmiri Pandits.
Yet, archival reports from the same time tell a more complicated story:
Jagmohan appealed to Pandits not to leave the Valley
He urged those who had left to return
Plans were discussed for relief and security arrangements within Kashmir itself
These actions raise a critical question: Was the man accused of engineering the exodus actually trying to prevent it?
A Tale of Two Legacies
For Kashmiri Pandits, Jagmohan became—and remains—a figure of protection, a Governor who acted when the system appeared paralysed.
For many Kashmiri Muslims, however, he came to symbolise state excess and coercion—a perception that endured long after 1990.
Between these two sharply divided memories lies a contested historical space, where facts, emotions, politics and narratives intersect.
The Four-Month Governor and a 36-Year Debate
Jagmohan’s second tenure lasted just over four months—from January 19 to May 26, 1990.
Yet, more than three decades later, debates around his role continue to dominate discussions, often amplified through partial recollections, political positions, and social media echo chambers. The question persists: How does a man go from being publicly welcomed to permanently vilified within weeks?
Revisiting 1990 Through Evidence
Kashmir Rechords, through its access to rare archival newspapers, photographs and contemporaneous reports, attempts to revisit that turning point—not through hearsay, but through documented evidence long absent from public discourse.
This is not merely a story about Jagmohan. It is a story about how narratives are constructed, reshaped and sustained over generations.
History, especially in Kashmir, is rarely linear. It is layered, contested and often uncomfortable.
On his death anniversary, Jagmohan stands not just as a figure of the past—but as a reminder that truth, in times of conflict, is often the first casualty—and the last to be recovered.
In April 2026, thousands of miles away from Kashmir, a quiet yet deeply symbolic act unfolded in Livermore, California. The Kashmiri Pandit diaspora acquired nearly 60 kanals of land to build a temple dedicated to Mata Kheer Bhawani—their revered Kuldevi. A Bhumi Pujan marked not just the beginning of construction, but the continuation of a centuries-old civilisational instinct: to carry faith, memory and identity across geographies.
This is not new. Nor is it merely ritual. It is history repeating itself.
A Pattern Older Than Exile
The emotional and spiritual bond between Kashmiri Pandits and Mata Kheer Bhawani runs deep—rooted in the sacred spring shrine at Tulmulla in Kashmir. But whenever distance has intervened, devotion has adapted.
Replicas of this shrine already stand in Bhawani Nagar, Janipur Jammu), other parts of Jammu and Patparganj (Delhi). Today, that sacred geography is expanding into the United States.
Yet, to see this as a post-1990 phenomenon alone would be to misunderstand the community’s past.
Even during earlier migrations—into Lucknow, Punjab, and across undivided British India—Kashmiri Pandits recreated their sacred spaces. Temples were not just places of worship; they were anchors of identity.
The Forgotten Temple of Qilladar(Pakistan)
A remarkable rediscovery by Kashmir Rechords adds weight to this historical continuity. A rare Urdu directory (1924–1934) has revealed the existence of a “Fire Temple” dedicated to Swami Dhooni Sahib, built around 1884 in Qilladar, also written as Killadar (now in Pakistan).
This temple was not built in Kashmir—but by Kashmiris.
Readers may read about it by clicking the link provided alongwith this writeup.
Alongside it stood a school and an inn, reflecting a community that carried not only its gods but also its values—education, hospitality and collective life. The site, believed to sit atop natural flames, became both a spiritual and cultural landmark.Even then, far from their homeland, Kashmiri Pandits were reconstructing belonging.
Whether it is the Kheer Bhawani temple in Jammu, the Sharika shrine at Paloura, Jammu or now the upcoming temple in California, these replicas are not attempts to replace the original. They are acts of remembrance.
They reflect a worldview where sacredness is not confined to geography but carried through consciousness. In exile, these structures become bridges—between past and present, homeland and diaspora.
The sentiment is simple yet profound: If we cannot return to our shrines, we will recreate them—faithfully, lovingly, wherever we are.
Exile, Identity, Unbroken Chord
For a community that has faced repeated displacements—from pre-Partition migrations to the mass exodus of the 1990s—these temples represent far more than religion.
They signify continuity. They embody a refusal to forget. They speak of a people who may live in exile, but refuse to be spiritually uprooted.
From the fire-lit sanctum of Qilladar, now in Pakistan, to the upcoming temple in Livermore, the story remains unchanged: Kashmiri Pandits rebuild not because they have lost—but because they remember.
A Living Testament
The land purchased in California is not just real estate. It is memory made visible.
It tells future generations that identity can travel, devotion can endure and exile need not mean erasure.
Because for Kashmiri Pandits, the bond with their deities—and their homeland—is not broken by distance.
It is simply… rebuilt.
Keep These Stories Alive…
Every story we share at Kashmir Rechords is not just history—it is memory, pain, resilience and a voice that refuses to fade away. You won’t find such real and credible stories anywhere.
Behind every archived clipping and forgotten narrative lies a community’s struggle to be remembered. But preserving or narrating these stories is not easy—and we cannot do it alone.
Your financial support, no matter how small it might be, will not just be a donation—it will be a gesture of remembrance, a stand for truth and a lifeline for our continued work.
Help us keep these voices alive. Help us survive.
If these stories have touched you, we humbly request you to KINDLY contribute anything to support Kashmir Rechords.
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