Peerzada Masarat Shah
In Kashmir, every apple season now resembles less of a harvest festival and more of a national tragedy. The fruit that sustains over 3.5 million people, contributes more than 75 percent to the region’s GDP, and colors the valley’s orchards with promise, ends up rotting on roadsides. And why? Because promises, bureaucracy, and selective negligence ripen faster than apples ever can.
The Srinagar–Jammu highway, the so-called lifeline of Kashmir, is notorious for collapsing when it is needed most. This year, torrential rains and flash floods dealt the first blow, closing the 270-kilometer road for more than a week. But the greater tragedy unfolded when, even after the highway reopened, fruit-laden trucks remained stranded. Apples waited for markets. Farmers waited for relief. But officials waited for… nothing, really.
When Leaders Cry
National Conference MP Ruhullah Mehdi summed up the mood with what he described as a “pattern.” Sometimes the horticulture industry is sabotaged by spurious pesticides, sometimes by cheap imported apples, and sometimes—conveniently—by a conveniently closed highway. “Our horticulture contributes seven times more than tourism, yet there’s a war against it,” he thundered. A powerful statement, no doubt, but thundering speeches don’t move boulders or clear landslides.
Adding insult to injury, traffic authorities allowed trucks from Jammu to enter Srinagar but stopped fruit-laden trucks from Kashmir heading the other way. Apparently, traffic management in Kashmir follows its own version of Newton’s laws of motion. Trucks carrying goods into the Valley glide through, but those carrying apples out are mysteriously glued to the road. Physics, it seems, is selective too.
When Promises Ripen
Not to be left behind in the annual ritual of reassurance, PDP leader Iltija Mufti met Lieutenant Governor Manoj Sinha. He, in his ever-reassuring tone, promised that smooth truck movement would be expedited “soon.” The trouble is that “soon” is a word farmers have grown allergic to—it’s like waiting for spring in December. By the time “soon” arrives, the apples are long gone, their worth reduced to compost.
The Awami Itihaad Party took to the streets, labeling the blockade an “economic assault” and chanting “Save Apple, Save Kashmir.” Their protest echoed through Srinagar’s Press Colony, until the police decided that slogans were a greater threat than rotting apples. The leaders were detained, the slogans silenced, and the apples? Still waiting.
Experts Speak, Silence Reigns
CPI(M) leader M.Y. Tarigami, a veteran voice of reason, reminded everyone that this is not just a weather problem but an economic disaster. He pointed out how the recommendations of the Dr. Swaminathan Commission remain conveniently ignored, how the Pradhan Mantri Fasal Bima Yojna pretends apples don’t exist, and how insurance companies have pocketed crores in premiums while refusing to cover Kashmir’s lifeline crop.
He also raised the chronic shortage of cold storage facilities—something the government has been “announcing” for decades. In Kashmir, official announcements bloom like wildflowers in spring: colorful, plentiful, and short-lived. By the time farmers go looking for results, the flowers—and promises—are gone.
When Nature Joins Hands with Neglect
As though government apathy weren’t enough, nature decided to join the act. Intermittent rains caused apples to fall prematurely, damaging crops even before they reached crates. Leaves withered early, orchards looked bruised, and growers watched helplessly as their year’s effort scattered to the ground.
Sher-i-Kashmir University of Agricultural Sciences and Technology (SKUAST), which should have guided farmers with preventive measures, remained as silent as the stranded trucks. Growers were left to rely on guesswork and despair. Science stayed in its labs; apples rotted in the orchards.
Rotten Apples, Rotten System
Here lies the cruel irony: apples are the backbone of J&K’s economy, yet they are treated like an afterthought. While the government romanticizes tourism with glossy advertisements and slogans, it is horticulture that actually feeds people. But when crises strike, farmers get sympathy speeches instead of solutions.
Schemes that could cushion losses, like the Market Intervention Scheme (MIS), were once effective but now remain shelved. MIS ensured that damaged apples could still be procured for juice or jam, reducing losses. Reviving it would save thousands of growers, but who wants to store apples when empty speeches are far easier to stockpile?
The Great Comedy of Neglect
Every September, the same performance repeats. Leaders express outrage, farmers stage protests, officials assure action, and apples rot quietly in their crates. It’s a play where the script never changes, the actors never improve, and the audience—Kashmir’s farmers—has no choice but to sit through it again and again.
This year’s tragedy is not just about landslides or rains; it’s about a system that deliberately refuses to prioritize what sustains millions. When apples rot, entire households lose income. When trucks are stranded, families are pushed into debt. And when leaders cry, apples die—without the faintest chance of reaching the markets where they belong.
The Bitter Harvest
The bitterest truth is this: the fruit that sustains Kashmir’s economy is left to decay, while politicians harvest rhetoric. Apples rot on stranded trucks, but promises bloom on political stages—lush, evergreen, and endlessly reusable.
Until the Srinagar–Jammu highway is treated as an actual lifeline and not a seasonal inconvenience, until schemes move from files to fields, and until growers are given more than condolences, Kashmir’s apple story will remain a tragicomedy.
The orchards of Kashmir deserve better than being theatres of neglect. But as things stand, the curtain rises every autumn on the same sad play: leaders cry, apples die.
