I.Ahmed Wani
In the space of seventy-two hours this week, Jammu and Kashmir watched a masterclass in political sleight of hand that would make any seasoned magician blush. On 18 March 2026, the Jammu & Kashmir High Court quietly closed the four-year-old litigation over Gulmarg’s government-leased hotels. The petitioners — the very hoteliers whose leases had expired decades ago — suddenly “withdrew” every single petition, citing a sudden desire for “administrative settlement”. The bench nodded and the file was closed.
The same afternoon, National Conference MLA and chief spokesperson Tanvir Sadiq stepped in front of the cameras and announced that his party would introduce the J&K Land Grants (Restoration and Protection) Bill, 2025, the moment the Assembly resumes after Eid. The stated aim: to “restore land rights to the economically weaker sections” and roll back the 2022 rules that had dared to demand fresh auctions.
By the next morning, JKPC General Secretary Molvi Imran Raza Ansari had already smelt the rat. “This is not about the poor,” he said bluntly. “This is a conspiracy between the hoteliers and the ruling JKNC to protect their own.” He was not wrong.
Let us be brutally clear about what is actually happening.
In 2022, the Lieutenant Governor’s administration finally did what no elected government in eight decades had the spine to do. The new J&K Land Grant Rules declared in black and white: no more automatic renewals, no more indefinite extensions, no more cosy arrangements. Every expired lease stands terminated. Possession will be taken. Fresh allotment will happen only through open, competitive e-auction open to any Indian citizen. The message was unmistakable: government land belongs to the people of Jammu and Kashmir, not to a handful of families who have treated it as their private inheritance since the Dogra era.
Last year the administration acted. In Gulmarg alone, action was taken against 59 hotels. Fifty-five of them were running on leases that had expired as far back as 1985. Front pages across the Valley lit up with the news. For the first time in living memory, young Kashmiri entrepreneurs allowed themselves to dream. “Ab hamari baari hai,” they said openly. One of the properties sealed was the iconic 137-year-old Nedou’s Hotel — sprawling across 98 kanals of prime government land, its last lease linked directly to relatives of Dr Farooq Abdullah. When the hotel’s employees came out in protest in Srinagar’s Press Colony, their tears made national headlines. The symbolism was devastating: even the mightiest political family was not above the law.
That symbolism lasted exactly until the National Conference returned to power.
Now the empire is striking back with clinical precision. Court cases withdrawn overnight. A new “pro-poor” bill drafted in record time. Whisper campaigns about “protecting local investment” and “saving livelihoods”. The usual suspects are already lining up behind the scenes. PDP leaders, who once positioned themselves as anti-dynasty reformers, are privately signalling support. Their votes, along with Congress, will give the ruling coalition the numbers it needs. Expect emotional speeches about “saving the soil of Kashmir”. Expect the BJP to deliver its trademark drama — fiery interventions in the Assembly followed by convenient walkouts or strategic abstentions, allowing the bill to pass while the party claims it “opposed the rollback on principle”.
Eighty years of Kashmir’s political history have taught us one unchanging lesson: government land is the ultimate patronage tool. Sheikh Abdullah, Bakshi Ghulam Mohammad, Mir Qasim, Farooq Abdullah, Mufti Mohammad Sayeed, the PDP-Congress coalition — every single regime used the same playbook. Leases granted under the old 1960 rules were renewed quietly, extended indefinitely, converted into family empires across Gulmarg, Pahalgam, Patnitop and Srinagar’s prime commercial pockets. Not one fair auction. Not one genuine chance for the common youth. Not one rupee of honest revenue for the public exchequer.
The 2022 rules were the first honest interruption in that shameful continuum. They threatened the old order. So the old order is doing what it does best — changing the rules of the game before the new game can even begin.
The real question now is not what the Assembly will do. The real question is what the Lieutenant Governor will do.
For six long years, the LG administration stood as the only bulwark against this very culture of entitlement. It was the LG who notified the 2022 reforms that finally ended the loot. Under the constitutional architecture of the Union Territory, the Lieutenant Governor retains the power to withhold assent to any bill that undermines notified policy or harms the public interest.
All eyes in the Valley are now fixed on Raj Bhavan.
Will the guardian of the 2022 reforms sign away the future of open auctions and hand prime government land back to the same blue-eyed circle on a silver platter? Or will he do what no elected government in eighty years has done — stand firm and say “enough”?
Because if this bill is allowed to pass, the message will be written in neon across the mountains of Gulmarg: expired leases can be revived, rules can be rewritten, and the same old empire can be protected — all under the pious banner of “restoring rights to the poor”.
The pot may be different. The dead bird inside it is still the same — the crushed hope of every young Kashmiri who thought, for one brief shining moment, that the system might finally work for him.
The giveaway continues. The only question left is whether the last honest referee in the field will blow the whistle.
