SANJAY PANDITA
There are moments in history when art ceases to be entertainment and becomes revelation. When it is no longer crafted merely with camera and script but forged with silence, memory, longing, and the slow fire of devotion. On one such dusky June evening in Srinagar—when the sun folded gently behind the ridges and the Dal wore the shimmer of fading gold—the city witnessed such a moment. The much-anticipated bilingual feature film Harmukh premiered at INOX Srinagar. But to call it a mere film would be a disservice. It was a return—a homecoming, a consecration, a whisper from the sacred heart of Kashmir. And standing quietly at the epicenter of this cultural resu
rrection was a name that has, over decades, become synonymous with the soul of Kashmiri theatre and cinema—Dr. Ayash Arif.
To watch Harmukh (feature film)unfold was not simply to see a story glide across the screen—it was to feel a convergence. A confluence not only of two languages—Kannada and Kashmiri—but of civilisations, philosophies, artistic inheritances, and spiritual musings. The film is an offering, and embedded within its folds is the essence of a man who has spent nearly five decades carving light from darkness, purpose from pain, and art from the ephemeral breath of time. Dr. Ayash Arif is not merely a filmmaker, nor simply an actor, writer, or teacher. He is an oracle—a bridge between what was, what is, and what might still be salvaged.
The genesis of Harmukh is itself a narrative of yearning and vision. Ashok Kumar K.—the film’s cinematographer, writer, and director—an acclaimed Kannada cinematographer adorned with forty-five prestigious awards, had long harboured a deep fascination with the Kashmir Valley. Its snow-fed rivers, aching silences, saffron-scented air, and wounded yet unbowed history called to him. That calling became a seed. And in Dr. Ayash Arif, he found the soil. The idea germinated, and together—artist and visionary—they breathed life into what would become one of the most significant cultural collaborations in recent memory. Arif, stepping in as co-producer alongside Mushtaq A. Wani, Masarat Bashir, Ashok Kumar Cashyap, and as lead actor, embraced not just the script but the very spirit of the mountain after which the film was named.
The premiere on June 25, though grand in setting and audience, was imbued with quiet reverence. It wasn’t just a screening—it was a remembering. A reclaiming of an aesthetic ideal that conflict and forgetfulness had tried to erase. Among those gathered were pillars of Kashmir’s cultural and intellectual fraternity—Dr. Farooq Abdullah, who honoured the occasion as Chief Guest; literary scholar M. Amin Bhat; filmmaker Mushtaq Ali Ahmad Khan; theatre stalwart and a prominent figure in Indian media, journalism, and filmmaking Mushtaq Bala; Actors like Zamir Ashie; singer and music composer Waheed Jeelani; and artists such as Tariq Javid. Their presence didn’t merely elevate the event—it turned it into a summit, a communion of minds and memories.
But even amid such constellation, the gaze returned, inevitably and rightly, to Dr. Ayash Arif. His dual role in the film was but a glimmer of his lifelong devotion. Harmukh pulses with his vision, aches with his understanding, breathes with his rhythm. And in that breath, one finds not just narrative—but prayer.
Arif was born into a Kashmir that was finding its artistic voice in the wake of political upheaval and post-independence identity-building. In an era when most saw theatre as either a pastime or a luxury, Arif saw it as invocation. His journey began in the early 1970s with the Theatre Repertory Course—a decision that would tether him forever to the sacred craft of performance. In 1974, he entered the world of Doordarshan, when television was still monochrome, both in screen and imagination. But where the medium lacked colour, Arif painted with presence.
His performances shimmered with life, resonating deeply in a landscape that was thirsting for cultural expression.
What defines his legacy is not simply the breadth of his work, but the depth of his sincerity. In an industry often driven by applause, Arif moved with quiet determination, unfazed by spotlight or silence. His performances in plays like Khamosh Adalat Jari Hai, Beghar Bane, The Seagull, and Tasruf were not roles assumed—they were lives inhabited. He did not act. He became. His was not a voice raised—it was a soul revealed.
His directorial oeuvre is equally formidable. Films like Habba Khatoon and Athwas are not merely cinematic triumphs; they are cultural sacraments. These works transcend entertainment; they are elegies, testaments, and affirmations. They have won awards, yes—but far more importantly, they have stirred souls. They have summoned a people to remember, to reflect, and to hope.
And now, with Harmukh, Arif ascends yet another summit. The film tells the story of Amar, an archaeologist from Karnataka, and Aadil, a sensitive Kashmiri man—two seekers navigating not just terrain but trauma, not merely history but heart. Yet beyond plot, Harmukh sings a deeper song—of shared humanity, of spiritual kinship, of unity that doesn’t flatten difference but celebrates it. This is not a moral fable. It is a luminous meditation.
Co-actors speak of Arif’s rare capacity to dissolve into a scene. His long-time collaborator Rajesh Koul says it best: “He brings the dust of Kashmir, the silence of the mountains, and the echo of our past into every frame.” This is the alchemy that elevates Harmukh—a fusion of geography, grief, grace, and growth.
Throughout his life, Arif has served as a bridge—not only between languages and regions but between loss and revival. His editorial stints with The Daily Kashmiriyat and The Daily Afaaq are etched in the memory of Kashmiri journalism. He wrote with a reporter’s clarity, yes—but also with a poet’s ache. His television scripts like Nove Te Vow, Midnight Dreams, and Widow offered layered, emotionally intelligent narratives that mirrored Kashmir’s complex truths.
Even during his teaching tenure at Mewar University in Rajasthan, Arif carried with him the fragrance of Kashmir. He taught performance, but more crucially, he taught presence. “He didn’t just mentor talent—he resurrected it,” noted Dr. Sohan Lal Koul, encapsulating what many feel but few articulate.
To name a film Harmukh, after the majestic peak revered by both Hindus and Muslims, is to invoke Kashmir’s syncretic soul. To do justice to that name requires not just skill but surrender. Arif has surrendered. In the panoramic sweep of the film, in the whispers between characters, in the silences that speak louder than words—there lies not artifice, but truth.
Ayash’s awards—from Best Actor in the 1980s to Best Director in the 2000s—are but footnotes to a life lived in sacred dedication. His true laurels rest in the hearts he has touched, the minds he has awakened, and the culture he has refused to let die.
Even in the darkest decades—when bullets echoed louder than ballads, when theatre halls were shuttered, and when hope was exiled—Arif remained. “He was the silence when everything else was noise,” reflects Shabir Mujahid, a fellow artist. He kept theatre alive, not only in spaces, but in spirit.
And Harmukh is the culmination of that endurance. As the camera pans across meadows and rivers, one feels not just visual delight but spiritual immersion. The mountain stands not merely as a backdrop but as a witness. The dialogues ring not with dramatics but with yearning. The film is less a narrative and more a hymn.
Dr. Farooq Abdullah, in his address at the premiere, captured the essence: “This is not just cinema. This is Kashmir’s offering to the country. A bridge, not a wall.” And indeed, in every frame of that bridge, in its soul, is the indelible presence of Dr. Ayash Arif.
As Kashmir begins to find its voice again—tentative yet resolute, like the first thaw of spring upon its snowbound silence—its artists return to the stage not merely to perform, but to reclaim what was nearly lost: the rhythm of belonging, the music of memory, and the sacred inheritance of expression. In this slow but luminous awakening, it is not banners or ideologies that lead the way. It is the quiet constellations of those who, like Dr. Ayash Arif, have held a lamp in the darkness, unwavering and humble.
His is not the legacy of noise, but of nuance. Not of fleeting sensation, but of sustained resonance. In an age where narratives are often manufactured, where truth is too easily sacrificed at the altar of spectacle, Dr. Arif has chosen the harder path—the path of grace, of craft, of fidelity to culture. His work does not shout, it listens. It does not impose, it reveals. Through his films, poetry, and cultural interventions, he has built not monuments to himself but mirrors for a people searching for their own reflection.
To honour Dr. Ayash Arif, then, is not merely to celebrate a cinematic achievement or a decorated career. It is to recognize a pilgrimage of the soul—a journey undertaken not for applause but for remembrance. His life’s work has become a sanctum where the scattered memories of a wounded land gather and breathe. In chronicling Kashmir’s pain, its resilience, its lyrical lament and its stubborn hope, he has offered it the most profound gift: its own voice, restored with reverence.
And in doing so, he has reminded us that true storytelling is not an act of performance but of prayer. That culture, when rooted in truth, becomes more than expression—it becomes redemption. Dr. Arif’s legacy will endure not just in film reels or the written word, but in the silent gratitude of a people who, through his vision, rediscovered their reflection—and dared once more to dream.
Kashmir may heal in time, but it is through the silent labour of torchbearers like him that its soul will sing again.
The writer can be reached at: sanjaypanditasp@gmail.com
