Srinagar 11 Aug : There is a Kashmir that the world sees in photographs: snow-covered mountains, ancient shrines, intricate handicrafts, melodious music and colourful traditions.
But there is another Kashmir that remains largely outside the frame—the Kashmir of the people who spend their entire lives keeping these traditions alive.
They are the master craftsmen working quietly in small workshops. They are musicians who have inherited compositions from their forefathers. They are storytellers carrying memories that were never written down. They are theatre practitioners, folk performers, calligraphers, artisans and cultural researchers who continue their work not because it guarantees a comfortable livelihood, but because they cannot imagine Kashmir without it.
And increasingly, many of them are struggling.
When passion becomes a burden
For generations, cultural knowledge in Kashmir travelled from one person to another—not through formal institutions, but through families, neighbourhoods and communities.
A young apprentice sat beside a master craftsman.
A student listened to an elder singing an old composition.
A child heard a folk tale from a grandparent.
That informal chain of transmission created the extraordinary cultural landscape we inherited.
Today, that chain is under pressure.
Economic difficulties, shrinking audiences, inadequate platforms and changing social priorities are making it increasingly difficult for traditional practitioners to devote themselves entirely to their art.
For a young person, the question is often brutally practical: Can this tradition provide a livelihood?
If the answer is no, talent eventually moves elsewhere.
And when the young leave, an entire tradition can begin to age with its last generation of practitioners.
The real loss is invisible
The disappearance of a cultural tradition does not necessarily make headlines.
There may be no dramatic closure, no monument falling down and no official announcement.
A tradition simply stops being practised.
One master dies without finding an apprentice.
One musical form is performed less frequently.
One craft loses its market.
One dialect becomes confined to a shrinking circle of speakers.
One story disappears because nobody remembers all its words.
This is how cultural memory can vanish—quietly, gradually and almost unnoticed.
By the time we realise what has been lost, bringing it back may be impossible.
Artists need livelihoods, not sympathy
Cultural practitioners are often celebrated during festivals, honoured on special occasions and invited to speak about their achievements.
But recognition alone cannot sustain a family.
If we genuinely value our cultural heritage, support must extend beyond ceremonial appreciation.
Artists and traditional practitioners need regular platforms, fair remuneration, opportunities to teach, access to markets and audiences, social security and meaningful institutional engagement.
Young people who choose traditional arts should be able to see a future in them.
A craftsman should not have to choose between feeding his family and preserving his craft.
A musician should not be forced to abandon generations of knowledge simply because there is no sustainable platform for his work.
A new cultural contract
Perhaps Jammu and Kashmir now needs to rethink its relationship with its cultural custodians.
Instead of treating heritage merely as something to be displayed for visitors, we must regard it as a living economic and social resource.
Imagine cultural centres where master practitioners regularly teach young people.
Imagine schools inviting local artists into classrooms.
Imagine tourism circuits where visitors meet the people behind Kashmir’s traditional crafts and music.
Imagine digital archives recording the voices, techniques, compositions and stories of practitioners before they disappear.
And imagine a system where young Kashmiris can build respectable careers without having to leave their ancestral traditions behind.
These are not impossible ambitions. They require planning, coordination and, above all, the recognition that culture deserves investment just as infrastructure and industry do.
Let us change the question
Perhaps we have been asking the wrong question.
Instead of asking, “How can we preserve our heritage?” we should ask:
“How can we create a future for the people who carry that heritage?”
Because heritage cannot survive on paper.
It survives in human hands.
It survives in voices.
It survives in memory.
It survives when one generation is willing and able to teach the next.
And that is why the welfare of Kashmir’s artists, artisans and cultural practitioners is not a peripheral issue. It is directly connected to the survival of Kashmir’s cultural identity.
Kashmir Pen Cares
Through Kashmir Pen Cares, we want to bring attention to such stories—not simply to highlight hardship, but to begin a conversation about responsibility.
There is still time to strengthen the bridge between Kashmir’s past and its future.
But that bridge must be built around the people who have spent their lives protecting both ends.
Let us not wait for a tradition to disappear before we realise its value.
Let us listen to its custodians while they are still here to tell us their stories.
Kashmir Pen Cares — because preserving a culture begins with caring for the people who preserve it.
