Talib the Ponywallah and a Valley’s Cry
Peerzada Masrat Shah
On April 28, 2025, I walked through the hushed trails of Pahalgam, a paradise dimmed by the shadow of a recent terror attack. Near the meadows, Talib, a ponywallah, stood with his friends, their hundreds of horses grazing idly, their saddles empty. The ponywallahs, the heartbeat of Pahalgam’s rugged paths, are now helpless, their hopes fading like the mist over the Lidder River. “Yeh ghode meri rozi the,” Talib said, his voice heavy with grief. “Ab na tourist, na umeed.” The attack has not only claimed lives but strangled the livelihoods of Talib and his fellow ponywallahs, alongside tea stall owners, fruit juice vendors, taxi drivers, food vendors, restaurant owners, and hoteliers. In their weary faces and trembling voices, Pahalgam pleads: terrorism has burned our valley, and we, its people, carry the deepest scars.
Talib’s companions, ponywallahs like Rahim and Shabir, shared his despair, their horses standing listless in Pahalgam’s meadows. Once, they guided tourists to Betaab Valley and Aru, their laughter mingling with the jingle of bridles. Now, their trails are silent. “We earned enough in a season to feed our families,” Rahim said, patting his horse. “Now, I can’t afford fodder. My children ask why I return empty-handed.” The ponywallahs, hundreds strong, are not just jobless but hopeless, their dreams crushed. “We’re not terrorists,” Talib said, tears in his eyes. “Why must our horses starve?”
At Akad Park, the tea stall owners sat in despair, their kettles cold. Ghulam Mohammad, surrounded by unsold packets of kahwa and biscuits, shook his head. “Yeh park kabhi khali nahi tha,” he said, his hands idle. “Tourists would sit here, sipping tea, chatting. Now, I haven’t sold a cup in weeks.” Ghulam, like other tea vendors, took loans to stock his stall for the season. “I owe Rs. 2 lakh,” he said, his voice breaking. “Pahalgam ko nazar lag gayi.” The tea stall owners of Akad Park, once the soul of Pahalgam’s social hub, now face debts they cannot repay, their stalls abandoned.
In Seer Hamdan, the fruit juice vendors stood by their silent carts, their famed apple juice unsold. Aijaz, a young vendor, stared at crates of rotting apples. “This stall was my pride,” he said, his voice heavy. “Tourists loved our apple juice, the best in Pahalgam. Now, I can’t sell a single glass.” Aijaz poured his savings into his cart, dreaming of a thriving season. The attack has left his stall deserted, his earnings gone. “I’m losing more than money,” he whispered, “I’m losing hope.” The juice vendors of Seer Hamdan, whose refreshing drinks once drew crowds, now watch their livelihoods spoil alongside their apples.
Mushtaq Pahalgami, president of the Pahalgam Hotel and Guesthouse Owners Association, stood outside his empty guesthouse, its silence haunting. “This was a home for travelers,” he said, his voice thick with sorrow. “Now, it’s a graveyard of dreams.” Mushtaq spoke for guesthouse owners across Pahalgam, who invested their savings to maintain their properties. “My staff—cooks, cleaners—are family, but I can’t pay them,” he said. The attack has driven tourists away, leaving guesthouses struggling. “We welcomed tourists with love,” Mushtaq said, echoing his recent pleas. “Who will stand with us?”
The taxi drivers, especially the youth who took loans for vehicles, are heartbroken. Bilal, a 25-year-old driver, leaned against his idle taxi. “I took a Rs. 5 lakh loan for this car,” he said, staring at the empty road. “I thought this season would help me repay it. Now, I can’t afford the EMI.” Bilal’s story echoes other young drivers who saw tourism as their future. With no tourists to ferry, their taxis sit unused, their loans a growing burden. “We’re not the enemy,” Bilal said, his voice cracking. “Why are we suffering?”
Food vendors, whose carts once filled the air with the aroma of kebabs and momos, now stand desolate. Shazia, a vendor near Akad Park, wiped tears as she spoke. “I used to sell out every evening,” she said. “Now, I can’t sell a single plate. My children go hungry.” Shazia’s cart, her family’s lifeline, is now a symbol of loss, her dreams shattered by the attack.
Restaurant owners face a bleak future. Farooq, who runs an eatery by the Lidder River, stared at his empty tables. “I invested everything in this place,” he said. “Tourists loved our wazwan. Now, I can’t pay my cooks.” Farooq’s restaurant, like others, teeters on closure, with supplies spoiling and cancellations mounting. “This attack killed our future,” he said, his voice trembling.
Hotel owners, particularly those who leased properties, are in despair. Asif, who paid Rs. 10 lakh in advance rent for a hotel, sat in his empty lobby. “I thought this season would be my breakthrough,” he said. “Now, I’ve lost everything.” Asif’s plight is shared by other lessees, their advance payments unrecoverable, their hotels deserted. “We treated tourists like family,” he said. “Why must we pay for this hate?”
Yet, Pahalgam’s spirit endures. To Talib and his ponywallahs, to Ghulam and the tea stall owners of Akad Park, to Aijaz and the juice vendors of Seer Hamdan, to Mushtaq and the guesthouse owners, Bilal and the taxi drivers, Shazia and the food vendors, Farooq and the restaurant owners, Asif and the hoteliers: your resilience is Pahalgam’s pulse. We plead with tourists: return to our valley. Ride Talib’s horses, sip Ghulam’s tea, drink Aijaz’s apple juice, stay in Mushtaq’s guesthouse. Your presence defies terrorism. To our fellow Kashmiris: visit Akad Park, dine in our restaurants, ride in Bilal’s taxi. Until tourists return, let us keep Pahalgam alive.
Pahalgam weeps, but it will not break. Come back, stand with us, and let love triumph over terror.
