In 2000, I had just finished engineering college. In those days, a group of friends felt an urgent need to promote reading and scholarship among young people in Kashmir. Driven by idealism and a desire to do something positive during those turbulent times, we organized book exhibitions across the valley.
At one such exhibition in Srinagar’s Regal Chowk, an elderly man approached me. Slim, thinly bearded, with a sharp nose and jawline, wearing a pheran, he placed his hand on my back and gently led me aside. In pure Kashmiri, he murmured in my ear:
Kashmir needs awakening. This initiative must expand. I will join you and guide you.
I had no idea who he was. As I stood there trying to figure it out, another gentleman in a neat suit and tie came up to me.
“Do you know who he is?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“He is Akhtar Mohiuddin Sahab. And I am Ghulam Nabi Khayal.”
We exchanged phone numbers. A few days later, Akhtar Sahab introduced me to Marhoom Agha Ashraf Ali sahab. With a new vigour, we embarked on a dream —establishing a large public library in Kashmir.
Akhtar Mohiuddin and Khayal sahab offered dozens of books in Kashmiri for the library. Akhtar Sahab insisted that promoting Kashmiri language and literature should be one of our main objectives. During that brief, inspiring time, alongside Agha Ashraf Sahab, I came to know more about Akhtar Mohiuddin and his literary brilliance. But, to be honest, I didn’t grasp the full depth of his works back then as I do today.
Something unrelated happened then. A few months later, I wrote a column advocating greater ethnic cohesion in Jammu & Kashmir. In it, I emphasized the importance of Urdu as a common language that could bridge ethnic and sub-ethnic communities in this state. That same day, Akhtar sahab called. His voice was heavy with disappointment.
“I didn’t expect you to overlook the Kashmiri language,” he said.
I was taken aback and struggled to respond. That was our last conversation. A year later, Akhtar sahab passed away. I was left with a deep sense of guilt. I never got the chance to explain myself.
Now, 24 years later, I write this for a reason. Over these years, my travels across the world exposed me to diverse cultures and linguistic communities. The more I experienced, the clearer it became why we must promote Kashmiri language and its composite culture. It is not just a language; it’s a civilization, a culture with an ancient written history. Sadly, a large majority of our younger generations are losing touch with the richness of our language, literature, architecture, music and crafts.
For centuries, and particularly in the last 150 years, Kashmir has produced extraordinary literature and music. From the Kashmir Valley to Banihal, Doda, Reasi, Bhaderwah, and Kishtwar, Kashmiri language has flourished, thanks to numerous thinkers and writers have created literary marvels.
Yet today, caught in the whirlwind of fast-moving trends and technology, Kashmir’s literary and musical heritage faces challenges. Preserving it means safeguarding the collective soul of a people.
The last 500 years give us hope and pride. Despite difficult times, Kashmiri poetry witnessed a renaissance.
Rooted in the mystic verses of 14th-century poet-saints like Lal Ded and Sheikh-ul-Alam, Kashmiri poetry has always been a vehicle for both divine longing and positive social change.
Mahjoor, Habba Khotoon and many others, with their deep love for this land, and calls for social reform, set the foundations of a beautiful thinking. Abdul Ahad Azad combined mysticism with a fierce cry for social justice.
Dina Nath Nadim expanded the literary landscape by pioneering Nave Kah, bringing modern sensibilities into Kashmiri verse. His Bombur te Yemberzal became an anthem of cultural awakening.
Rehman Rahi took Kashmiri poetry to new heights with his existential themes and lyrical mastery. Naseem Shafaie’s poetry, meanwhile, brought feminine experiences to the fore, challenging male-dominated narratives.
But the legacy isn’t limited to poetry. Akhtar Mohiuddin’s novel Dod Dag painted an intimate portrait of Kashmiri society, expanding the region’s literary horizons far beyond its valleys.
If literature is Kashmir’s soul, music is its heartbeat. Our musical tradition is an exquisite fusion of Persian, Central Asian, and Indian classical influences. Shaped by generations of Sufi saints and folk artists, it has a soundscape unique to Kashmir.
At its core is Sufiana Mausiqi— Kashmir’s classical music form — now fading into oblivion. Yet, its blend of Santoor, Sitar, and Saaz-e-Kashmir remains unparalleled. Ustad Ghulam Mohammad Saznawaz, a santoor maestro, kept this tradition alive for decades. Ghulam Hassan Sofi’s voice became synonymous with Kashmiriyat, his renditions of Sufiana Kalam speaking to all Kashmiris, regardless of faith. Abdul Rashid Hafiz’s maqams brought an otherworldly depth to devotional poetry.
Zinda Kaul (Masterji), the first Sahitya Akademi Award winner from Kashmir, infused spirituality into everyday life. Abdul Rashid Hafiz mesmerized audiences with his devotional naat songs.
Raj Begum, hailed as the Nightingale of Kashmir, and Kailash Mehra turned Kashmiri poetry into timeless musical renditions.
In recent years, a new generation of musicians has taken the baton. They are blending traditional melodies with modern genres—folk with pop, Sufi with rock, and hip-hop with protest.
Songs like Aa Bea Koshur, Aha Bea Koshur, Baby this is Downtown by Musaib Bhat may sound contemporary, but they have helped Kashmiri language and music reach Gen Alpha. Many young Kashmiris, even those struggling with spoken Kashmiri, can sing these songs with ease.
Artists like Ali Saffudin fuse raw vocals and folk-rock in songs like Cholhama Roshay, which have become anthems for Gen Z and Millennials alike. Aabha Hanjura’s Hukus Bukus gave Kashmiri music a global, pop-infused twist while staying true to its roots.
Bands like Qasamir are reviving old Kashmiri songs using traditional instruments like the rabab and tumbaknaer. Their rendition of Harmukh Bartal has crossed borders, introducing Kashmiri folk to wider audiences.
The valley has also found its voice in hip-hop. MC Kash (Roushan Illahi) pioneered a new form of rap, while Ahmer Javed’s Little Kid, Big Dreams offered another lens into life in Kashmir. Female collectives like Zanaan Wanaan are reclaiming traditional songs and lullabies, echoing the experiences of new-age Kashmiri women.
Artists like Faheem Abdullah, Shazia Bashir, and Mehmeet Syed continue to bridge traditional Kashmiri music with contemporary aesthetics.
Today, Kashmir’s literary and musical heritage stands at a crossroads. It is a treasure to be preserved, celebrated and passed on.
Even diaspora artists like Mohammad Muneem (Alif) blend Sufi poetry with rock. His lyrics—“I am a shadow of the light that never dies” finds a lot of resonance with youngsters.
Kashmir’s language, literature, and music are not relics of the past; they are our cultural DNA. Preserving these traditions means investing in the Kashmiri language, encouraging young writers and musicians to carry the legacy forward, and archiving the works of our past masters.
Kashmiri poets, musicians, and storytellers — past and present — embody our eternal spirit. Preserving this legacy isn’t just cultural conservation; it is a declaration that the soul of Kashmir will continue to sing, write, and inspire for generations.
I realized this far too late. Akhtar Mohiuddin Sahab was right when he expressed his disappointment.
As Rehman Rahi wrote:
“We are the people of words,
Our alphabet etched in snow and blood.
To forget our tongue is to vanish
Like a shadow in the valley’s dusk.”
Akhtar Sahab, I now understand. I apologise.
The writer has worked across 16 countries, specialises in international development and organisational change management. He is also founder of Ziraat Times.
