Anika Rashid Farash
Over a hundred years ago, Franz Kafka wrote a haunting story titled The Hunger Artist, about a man who performed the art of fasting. Once admired, he was eventually forgotten, placed in a corner of a circus where no one cared to understand the depth of his devotion. In his final breath, he confessed:
“If I had found the food I liked, believe me, I would have eaten like you or anyone else.”
Kafka’s story wasn’t about fasting it was about being unseen, about an artist’s deep hunger not for food, but for recognition, dignity, and meaning.
The news of Bashir Kotur’s death ,one of Kashmir’s finest comedians ,brought this story rushing back to me. Known off-stage as Bashir Ahmed, he was rarely recognized by his real name. His stage identity, “Bashir Kotur,” became his reality, his legacy, and heartbreakingly, his mask. One that brought smiles to thousands, while hiding a truth that only surfaced in his final days.
Those who grew up in the 1990s will remember him vividly. At a time when Kashmir had no access to Instagram, Facebook, or modern entertainment, he was laughter itself , appearing on television screens like a much-needed therapy session in a time of unrest. He made children laugh, healed hearts, and became part of the cultural memory of a generation.
And yet, he died a silent death ,not only as a body but as an artist.
Struggling with deteriorating health and financial hardship, Bashir Kotur faded into the background, like Kafka’s hunger artist in his cage, unseen and neglected by the very society he once uplifted.
It is both tragic and shameful that an artist of such caliber couldn’t sustain his health not because he lacked talent or dedication, but because our system lacks care. The departments and institutions that boast of preserving art and heritage continue to turn away from the artists themselves. They organize events, publish brochures, and deliver speeches but fail to answer the most basic question:
Can an artist in Kashmir live with dignity? Can he afford to fall ill? Can he age without fear?
And then, just days after he passed, our inboxes were flooded with invitations for tributes.
Tribute?
Where was that concern when he was alive. Why is it that we only value artists once they are gone ,when the applause can no longer reach their ears?
It is a state of cultural embarrassment that an artist who made millions laugh died without the comfort of recognition, support, or a system that acknowledged his humanity. We mourn publicly, but we ignore privately. We speak about legacy, yet we refuse to share in the daily struggles that shape it.
Bashir Kotur didn’t just make people laugh he carried the emotional weight of a generation, using humor to soften the hard truths of a troubled land. And we the audience, the institutions, the so-called custodians of culture let him fade into silence.
If art is the soul of a society, then how we treat our artists is a mirror to who we truly are.
And today, that mirror should make us uncomfortable.
Anika Rashid Farash can be reached at anikafarash@gmail.com
