Dr. Noour Ali Zehgeer
There was a time when Srinagar’s Shehr-e-Khaas—its historic Downtown—was not just a cluster of lanes, houses, and mosques. It was the very heart of Kashmiri life. Its narrow alleys, wooden homes, bustling courtyards, and centuries-old shrines told stories of a society bound not by wealth but by affection, dignity, and belonging. Muslims and Kashmiri Pandits teased each other, loved each other, and celebrated festivals together. They mourned together too, standing by one another whenever tragedy struck.
Though homes were modest and resources limited, hearts were generous. Neighbours were family, elders were guides, and every child belonged to the community. The people of Shehr-e-Khaas lived by unwritten codes of compassion and shared responsibility, weaving a social fabric richer than any material possession. An elder stopping a child to ask where they were headed was not seen as interference but as care. Food traveled across doorsteps—Tehri, Halwa, Gaadi, Paachi, Houk Suen, or winter’s Harisa—carried as a heartfelt declaration that no one was outside the circle of togetherness. Joys were shared, sorrows carried collectively, and no one rejoiced or suffered in isolation.
This spirit also thrived in the public spaces of the city—the waani pend, Kander Waan, Naid Waan, and the ever-warm hamams. These were more than markets or resting places; they were parliaments of the neighbourhood, where elders and youth alike debated politics, exchanged news, and resolved disputes. Rarely did conflicts reach courts. Elders settled them with fairness and honesty, their words respected not because of authority but because of trust. They were the moral compass of the community, guardians who guided and corrected without fear or force. Women too played a quiet yet decisive role. When unrest shook a household, women of the locality intervened with counsel and compassion, ensuring no family’s dignity collapsed in silence.
Children grew up belonging not just to their parents but to everyone around them. Any elder could correct a misbehaving child, and parents welcomed it as part of collective upbringing. Respect for elders was tied to family honour, and to disregard it was a shame no household could afford. The poor and distressed were never left abandoned. If someone lost work, fell ill, or faced hardship, help arrived silently—meals left at the door, money slipped discreetly into a hand, support extended without stripping anyone of dignity.
Perhaps the most enduring quality of that life was presence. Relatives, friends, and neighbours visited in person to share joy or grief. A hand on the shoulder, a cup of Kehwa or Noon Chai, or even silence conveyed what words could not. Bonds were built face-to-face, in the warmth of human connection, over bread and heartfelt conversations.
Today, that world is fading. Streets once alive with laughter, greetings, and concern now feel quiet and withdrawn. People retreat into private lives, celebrations stay behind closed doors, and grief often goes unnoticed. Disputes once resolved by the wisdom of elders now drag through courtrooms. Respect for elders has weakened, and children grow without the collective love that once shaped them. What remains is a society more isolated, colder, and lonelier.
Shehr-e-Khaas was never just a place. It was an emotion, a living example of unity, compassion, and shared values. Now these traditions survive only in fading memories, recalled with moist eyes by the old who lived them. As material comforts have multiplied, hearts have contracted. Big homes shelter lonely lives. Streets that once celebrated life together echo only with hurried footsteps of strangers.
What has been lost is not just customs but the essence of identity itself—the soul of a community that once thrived on love, trust, and togetherness.
