Peerzada Masrat Shah
For weeks, Kashmir waited for the much-hyped political “bombshell.” Supporters whispered about dramatic announcements, rivals prepared for confrontation, and television studios sharpened their graphics packages in anticipation of political fireworks.
When the explosion finally arrived, it turned out not to be a policy breakthrough, an administrative shake-up, or even a serious course correction.
It was a picnic.
Inside the picturesque and tightly protected expanse of Dachigam National Park, elected representatives assembled for what was officially described as a “crucial review meeting” — a gathering supposedly meant to evaluate governance, discuss shortcomings, and chart the future course of the administration.
The backdrop was breathtaking: towering pine forests, wandering deer, cool mountain air, and carefully arranged group photographs. The optics, however, were catastrophic.
Dachigam unintentionally served as the perfect metaphor for governance in present-day Kashmir — restricted, insulated, heavily guarded, and increasingly disconnected from the people it claims to serve.
One struggles to understand why this urgent exercise in “introspection” required a taxpayer-funded retreat inside a wildlife sanctuary rather than the Civil Secretariat, the Legislative Assembly, or even a standard conference hall. Apparently, the problems of unemployment, collapsing infrastructure, erratic electricity, failing healthcare, and public frustration can only be understood properly while overlooking forests and sipping tea under security cover.
Governance, it seems, now comes with scenic views.
Insiders suggest the gathering had little to do with governance and far more to do with political arithmetic. Beneath the language of “review” and “coordination” lay a simpler objective: count the loyalists, reassure the uncertain, and remind ambitious legislators that survival depends on staying inside the tent.
In other words, this was less a governance review and more “Operation Save the Chair.”
Nineteen months into office, the administration appears far more occupied with protecting political stability than confronting public instability. Roads remain cratered, unemployment continues to suffocate young people, inflation bites deeper each month, and ordinary citizens wrestle daily with failing public services. Yet the immediate concern of the political class seems to be ensuring that no chair develops shaky legs.
And chairs, apparently, require constant maintenance.
Outside the carefully managed retreat, ordinary Kashmiris watched the spectacle with a mixture of sarcasm, exhaustion, and dark humour.
At a small tea stall near Batmaloo, Ghulam Mohammad, a veteran chai seller, summed it up bluntly.
“They call it a review meeting? Bhai, this was Operation Save the Chair. My gas cylinder bill rises every month, but they need forests and deer to understand what’s wrong with governance? Governance isn’t tourism.”
In Lal Chowk, schoolteacher and single mother Ayesha Bano spoke with the quiet frustration of someone too tired to be surprised anymore.
“I travel through power cuts, overcrowded buses, and broken roads just to teach children sharing outdated textbooks. My students deserve better. But our leaders need a jungle retreat for self-reflection? That’s not leadership. That’s insecurity disguised as team-building.”
Bilal Ahmad, a college student from Rajbagh, captured the mood of an increasingly cynical generation.
“I introspect every time I pay for petrol, every time my father runs after delayed pension files, every time I hear another promise about jobs. They went to Dachigam for photo sessions while we’re still waiting for functioning hospitals and actual opportunities. Honestly, even the deer probably expected better entertainment.”
These reactions are not isolated complaints. They reflect a widening public fatigue with symbolism replacing substance.
Kashmir has seen enough marathons, roadshows, publicity drives, ribbon cuttings, social media campaigns, and choreographed optimism. What people have not seen enough of are measurable results. Governments are elected to govern — not to stage-manage political retreats in protected forests.
Equally troubling is the silence surrounding the cost of the exercise. Transportation, security arrangements, catering, logistics, protocol, and administrative mobilisation do not come free. Public money funded this carefully curated display, which gives taxpayers every right to ask uncomfortable questions.
Will the participants personally reimburse the expenses?
The question itself sounds almost fictional — perhaps deserving preservation alongside Dachigam’s endangered hangul.
The irony, however, remains impossible to miss.
While politicians gathered inside a sanctuary discussing “survival strategies,” the people outside continue navigating the actual wilderness of administrative neglect. Citizens have become so accustomed to political theatre that outrage has slowly evolved into resignation. They no longer expect accountability; they merely observe the spectacle with weary amusement, fully aware that the joke is ultimately on them.
Dachigam’s forests will recover from this temporary migration of politics into wildlife territory.
Whether public trust recovers is another matter entirely.
Because until governance returns from its endless retreats and begins addressing the realities faced by the tea seller, the schoolteacher, and the unemployed graduate, the distance between rulers and the ruled will continue to grow.
The chair may be secure for now.
But the patience of the people is not.
