VIP Culture Thrives in Jammu and Kashmir
In the bustling streets of Jammu and the serene valleys of Kashmir, a familiar cacophony pierces the air—blaring sirens, honking police vehicles, and the unmistakable hustle of traffic being halted for the privileged few. It’s a sound that has long symbolized power and entitlement in India, a universal marker of “VIP culture” that citizens love to hate—until, of course, they’re on the inside. This ingrained societal reflex, where hierarchy and privilege reign supreme, is not unique to the subcontinent, but in the Union Territory (UT) of Jammu and Kashmir, it unfolds with a particularly stark irony. Here, both the Lieutenant Governor (LG) administration and the newly elected government, despite their vocal criticisms of each other, seem united in perpetuating the very practices they once decried.
Take the case of Chief Minister Omar Abdullah. When out of power, he was a vocal critic of the LG administration’s penchant for halting traffic, deploying sirens, and mobilizing police escorts to ensure smooth passage for the elite. His indignation resonated with the common man, who saw in him a potential reformer. Yet, since assuming the mantle of Chief Minister, the same sirens now herald his movements. A recent conversation with shopkeepers near Shaheedi Chowk in Jammu revealed a palpable frustration. “The CM should change his route, or they should shift his residence,” one shopkeeper remarked, his voice tinged with exasperation. “Two to six times a day, we’re forced to endure this loud nonsense.” Chander, a passerby, echoed the sentiment: “It’s a burden on us. Why must we listen to this daily?” The irony is inescapable—Omar’s criticisms of the LG’s excesses have morphed into a mirror image of the same behavior under his watch.
The LG administration, too, has faced its share of flak. Manoj Sinha, the current Lieutenant Governor, has been repeatedly called out for traffic disruptions caused by his convoys. Residents and opposition figures alike have pointed to the sirens and roadblocks as symbols of an aloof administration, disconnected from the struggles of ordinary citizens. Yet, the transition from LG-led governance to an elected UT government has done little to dismantle this culture of entitlement. Instead, it has merely shifted the spotlight from one set of leaders to another, leaving the public caught in the crossfire of honks and halted lives.
This VIP culture, however, doesn’t stop at the top. It trickles down to the grassroots, permeating every level of political life in Jammu and Kashmir. Members of the Legislative Assembly (MLAs) enjoy a lavish suite of perks: salaries nearing ₹2 lakh, complemented by free travel, telephone, and electricity privileges, and a retinue of at least four personal security guards (PSGs) per MLA. Some, astonishingly, have demanded a salary hike to ₹5 lakh, arguing that a heftier paycheck would deter corrupt practices—a claim that strains credulity given the scale of benefits already at their disposal. One might wonder: how much is enough to fill these seemingly bottomless appetites for privilege?
The absurdity extends further. Politicians who lost elections—spanning major parties—continue to enjoy government-provided security, with numbers ranging from two to as many as ten guards for select individuals. Then there are the unelected ruling party leaders, who wield influence without a mandate, basking in the same largesse. Lavish government accommodations, rented at a nominal ₹2,000 to ₹4,000 per month, come furnished with everything from mattresses to bathroom essentials—all free of cost, courtesy of the Estates Department. An employee from the department, speaking on condition of anonymity, revealed a staggering reality: electricity bills for these residences range from ₹5 lakh to ₹10 lakh, often left unpaid for years. “We provide everything,” he sighed, “and they still claim it’s for the welfare of the masses.”
This disconnect between rhetoric and reality is jarring. Leaders across the spectrum—be it the LG administration or the elected UT government—routinely cloak their privileges in the language of public service. Yet, the lived experience of citizens tells a different story. In Srinagar, a local trader recounted how a prominent politician’s convoy disrupted an entire market for hours, leaving vendors fuming. “They say they’re working for us,” he muttered, “but we’re the ones paying the price.” Similarly, in Jammu, a schoolteacher described how her daily commute is marred by road closures for VIP movements. “If this is welfare,” she quipped, “I’d rather they keep it to themselves.”
The persistence of VIP culture in Jammu and Kashmir reflects a broader societal malaise—one where privilege is not just accepted but expected. It’s a system that thrives on hierarchy, where the trappings of power—sirens, security, and subsidized living—are seen as rightful rewards rather than burdens on the public exchequer. Efforts to curb it have been cosmetic at best. The LG administration’s occasional directives to streamline security protocols rarely translate into action, while the elected government’s promises of reform ring hollow amid their own indulgence.
What’s needed is not just a change in route or residence, as the Shaheedi Chowk shopkeepers suggested, but a fundamental shift in mindset. The LG and the CM could set an example by voluntarily scaling back their entourages and embracing a more austere approach to governance—much like the austerity once championed by national leaders like Mahatma Gandhi. MLAs could forgo extravagant demands, and unelected leaders could relinquish perks they haven’t earned. Until then, the sirens will continue to blare, a grating reminder of a promise unfulfilled.
In the end, Jammu and Kashmir’s VIP culture is less about individuals and more about a collective failure to prioritize the public over the privileged. As Chander put it, “This nonsense music isn’t just noise—it’s the sound of our leaders tuning us out.” For a region striving to rebuild trust between its people and its rulers, that’s a melody no one can afford to keep playing.
