SANJAY PANDITA
There are lives that move quietly, leaving behind only faint traces, and there are lives that illuminate everything they touch—through words, gestures, and the gentle strength of conviction. Zahid Mukhtar belonged to the latter kind. His was a life that did not merely unfold; it blossomed in many directions—poet, playwright, actor, broadcaster, journalist—each role shaped by a deep fidelity to truth and art. In him resided an artist who never confined himself to a single form of expression. For more than five decades, he stood as one of the most versatile and compassionate voices of Kashmir’s creative and cultural landscape, weaving together emotion and intellect with remarkable ease. His death at sixty-nine leaves behind not merely a void but a silence that feels personal, as if a familiar voice on a distant radio frequency has suddenly gone still.
Born in 1956 in Anantnag, Zahid Mukhtar grew up in a Kashmir that was still tender, lyrical, and deeply connected to its oral and literary traditions. From early on, the young Zahid displayed an uncommon sensitivity to language. Poetry was his first refuge and first rebellion—a way to understand the self and the world. For him, poetry was not ornamentation; it was experience distilled. It became a lifelong companion, a confidant that allowed him to shape his thoughts into rhythm and silence into meaning. His earliest verses bore the raw candor of youth, but even then, there was a sense of deliberation, an awareness of the sacred responsibility that comes with words.
By the time he wrote Ibtida (The Beginning), Zahid had already begun to articulate a distinct voice—measured, melancholic, and aware of the fragile relationship between beauty and sorrow. Later, Sulagtay Chinar (Blazing Chinars) deepened that sensibility. The poems in this collection were not just lyrical reflections; they were living documents of his times—each poem a leaf burning softly in the winds of memory. His Kashmiri collection Timbri Halm (A Hem Filled with Sparks) revealed another facet of his genius. The title itself seemed prophetic, for Zahid indeed carried within him sparks that illuminated everything he touched.
But poetry, for Zahid Mukhtar, was not enough. The world within him demanded prose, theatre, and movement. His short story Chout (Injury), published in 1976, marked his first venture into prose fiction. It carried all the tenderness and tension that would come to define his later works. Over the years, he authored several collections—Jhelum ka Teesra Kinara (Jhelum’s Third Bank) and Suraj ka Pehla Andhera (The First Darkness of the Sun)—each one a testament to his growing mastery over narrative. These were not stories written in the comfort of imagination but carved out of the living fabric of Kashmiri life. They dealt with human frailty, longing, oppression, and endurance, revealing his deep empathy for those who lived in the margins of visibility.
Among his many works, Pul-e-Sirat (The Bridge of Judgment Day) stands as a literary monument. Through this story, Zahid condensed three decades of Kashmiri suffering into a haunting allegory. The metaphor of the bridge—surrounded by fire, suspended between salvation and doom—became, in his hands, an image of everyday survival. The story’s impact lay in its realism cloaked in symbolism. Zahid was never afraid to hold a mirror to society, but he did so with dignity, not despair. He had the rare ability to expose wounds without turning them into spectacles.
As a playwright and actor, Zahid understood the pulse of performance. He knew that theatre was not about pretense but revelation. Over the course of his career, he wrote and produced more than a hundred plays for television and radio. Each one bore the signature of his style—intense yet restrained, socially conscious yet deeply human. For him, the stage was not merely a platform but a sacred space where language met life. He could capture, in a few lines, the complexities of love, conflict, and belonging. When he acted, he became the character, disappearing completely into the role until art and artist became indistinguishable.
In those golden years of Doordarshan Kashmir, Zahid Mukhtar became a household name. His presence on television carried the warmth of familiarity and the gravity of intellect. As a broadcaster and producer, he was meticulous, creative, and compassionate. He was among the few who treated broadcasting not merely as a profession but as a calling. To him, the microphone was a sacred object—an instrument of connection between heart and world.
His tenure as an anchor of Good Morning Kashmir turned him into a beloved public figure. The program was not just a daily show; it was a ritual that began people’s mornings with his radiant smile and soothing voice. He had that rare gift of making his audience feel seen and heard. Whether he was discussing art, culture, or everyday life, Zahid’s tone remained steady, measured, and hopeful. His words often carried undercurrents of poetry. During turbulent times, when fear and uncertainty shadowed the Valley, his broadcasts offered a kind of calm continuity—a reminder that life, in all its fragility, could still find rhythm.
Zahid was a broadcaster of the old school. He belonged to that era of radio and television where articulation was an art and sincerity the soul of every transmission. His voice, soft yet firm, carried empathy. He did not speak to impress; he spoke to connect. And in those moments, whether behind a studio microphone or in front of a television camera, he embodied the very essence of communication—bridging distances, soothing hearts, and kindling thought.
Beyond the bright lights of the studio, Zahid was a journalist who sought truth with unflinching courage. In the early 1990s, when the valley was undergoing one of its most volatile periods, he founded the weekly newspaper Al-Mukhtar. It was an audacious step, driven not by ambition but by conscience. The publication quickly gained attention for its honesty and literary flair, but as the political environment worsened, sustaining it became impossible. Even when the newspaper folded, Zahid’s journalistic spirit endured. He continued his engagement with the written word through Lafz ba Lafz (Word by Word), a literary magazine that became a haven for young and established writers alike. Under his editorial guidance, the magazine celebrated creativity and dialogue, carrying forward his lifelong belief that literature must be both aesthetic and ethical.
What made Zahid Mukhtar remarkable was the unity of his many selves. He was not a man who compartmentalized his roles; rather, each facet of his identity informed the other. The poet lent lyricism to the journalist’s prose; the actor’s intuition gave depth to the writer’s characters; the broadcaster’s discipline refined the thinker’s expression. He lived in constant conversation with his art, allowing each medium to mirror and magnify the others.
His contemporaries often described him as gentle yet resolute—a man of deep conviction who never allowed cynicism to corrode his humanity. He was a rebel in the truest sense, not because he opposed authority for its own sake, but because he insisted on the right to live and think freely. When he left a government job in the 1970s to follow his creative instincts, it was seen as an act of defiance. Yet that decision defined the rest of his life. It was as if he had chosen uncertainty over comfort, truth over security—a choice only artists of rare integrity make.
Zahid’s personality carried an old-world grace. He spoke softly, dressed simply, and listened deeply. His colleagues at Doordarshan recall how he would arrive early to the studio, script in hand, rehearsing quietly until every word aligned with its intended emotion. His work ethic was as strong as his artistry. He believed that creation was not born of impulse but of devotion—a discipline of the mind and soul.
Though he won numerous awards, including the Safeer-e-Urdu from Aligarh Muslim University and recognition from the Jammu and Kashmir Urdu Academy, Zahid remained untouched by pride. To him, awards were acknowledgments, not accomplishments. What truly mattered was whether a reader or listener felt moved, whether a young writer found courage through his mentorship, or whether a piece of his work spoke to the conscience of his people.
Illness came slowly into his life, but even as his body grew frail, his spirit did not wane. Those who met him in his later years remember how his conversation still sparkled with curiosity and warmth. He continued to write, to guide, to discuss new projects with undiminished passion. His home in Anantnag became a gathering place for artists, writers, and admirers. The room where he worked was cluttered with books, manuscripts, and old cassettes—a personal archive of a life devoted to creativity. Even when confined by health, he remained, in every sense, a broadcaster—sending waves of thought and kindness into the world.
Zahid Mukhtar’s legacy is not confined to the pages he wrote or the programs he hosted. It lies in the sensibility he nurtured—a sensibility that valued beauty without detachment, art without arrogance, and truth without bitterness. He believed that the artist’s role was not to preach but to reveal, not to escape reality but to refine it through imagination. His life was, therefore, not just a career; it was a continuous dialogue between man and meaning.
In literary gatherings across the Valley, Zahid’s presence was like a gentle light—never dominating, always illuminating. He had a way of listening that made others articulate their best selves. Younger poets and writers found in him both a mentor and a friend. He did not believe in gatekeeping literature; he believed in expanding its circle. He knew that art was not about hierarchies but about communion.
Now that he is gone, the cultural fabric of Kashmir feels a little dimmer. Yet, in another sense, his presence is everywhere. In the lines of his poems, one still hears his voice; in the recordings of Good Morning Kashmir, his warmth lingers like morning sunlight; in the stories he wrote, his compassion breathes on. For the younger generation of Kashmiri writers and broadcasters, Zahid remains a model of integrity and excellence—a reminder that art is most powerful when it springs from sincerity.
He leaves behind an inheritance far richer than material success—a legacy of thought, humility, and enduring grace. The bridges he built between literature and media, between the spoken and the written word, between art and life, continue to stand firm. He was not merely a chronicler of his times; he was a conscience of his culture. His writings captured the anxieties of an age but also its aspirations, proving that even in turmoil, the human spirit could find its rhythm in words.
Perhaps the most beautiful tribute to Zahid Mukhtar lies in this simple truth: he lived as he wrote—authentically, fearlessly, and compassionately. He was a man who gave everything to art and asked nothing in return except the chance to keep creating. His departure feels like the closing of a long, melodious broadcast—one that began with a whisper of poetry and ended with an echo of love.
And yet, endings in art are never real endings. Somewhere in the vastness of memory, his voice still lingers—calm, assured, luminous—saying once more what he said to countless listeners every morning, with that familiar blend of warmth and wisdom:
The writer can be reached at sanjaypanditasp@gmail.com
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