This young man had two options: sink or swim. He decided to swim against the tide. This below-average student from Baramulla is now at the same table as minds from Columbia and Cornell, LSE and Oxford. He earned highly prestigious national and international scholarships and fellowships. The first book he co-authored in 2024 is published by a European think-tank. His readers, colleagues and clients are scattered across six habitable continents. This doctoral researcher just represented 1.46 billion fellow citizens, 18% of the world population. The simple answer to how he got here is that he stopped believing other’s opinions were destiny. Now open your eyes. That boy is writing to you from Nairobi.

Roy. Resilience. Runaway. 

Six flights, five cabs, several shuttles and in between I finished reading Arundhati Roy’s recently published memoir Mother Mary Comes to Me. The title is taken directly from the lyrics of the Beatles song “Let It Be,” specifically the line: “When I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary comes to me.”

Her words felt heavier, especially when she said she left home with nothing but pain, something I know too well. “Even the very poor had families, communities. I had nobody.” That line stayed with me. So did “Get out of my home.” In Roy’s book, it is more than a mother’s thorny diktat. It is an invisible wound. One that does not heal with time. Roy left Kottayam when she was 18 for never to return, I left little later, with a shoestring budget, perhaps for never to return to the same space. I, too, learned to live like a bird on the wire — alert, prepared, always ready to fly.

Stamp, Smiles and Sauna.

Unlike my previous foreign travels, immigration experience was pretty smooth. When the officer at Delhi airport asked, “Why do you want to go to Kenya?” I slipped out my sponsor’s invitation letter. “I am speaking about migration, refugees, border crisis, big tech authoritarianism and of course India’s digital revolution,” I replied. She smiled, stamped my passport, and the three words that escaped her lips warmed my midnight exhaustion: “Best of luck.” I carried those words like a blessing at terminal 03 of Indira Gandhi International Airport at New Delhi, the world’s most polluted city, as per IQAir, the Swiss air quality firm.

Hopping on the connecting flight from Sharjah, I reached my hotel and was greeted by smiling receptionists decked out in professional style. The staff told me about the air conditioning, the Wi-Fi, the complimentary steam bath, swimming pool, Sauna and the massage services and that I could come back to the front desk or call anytime if I needed anything. It was only 4 PM local time, but my day was done. Jetlagged and running on fumes, I collapsed into bed and slept, confident that the daze and disorientation of travel would fade after a night’s rest. The next morning, the staff served mango, orange and cocktail juice; then came doughnuts, muffins, pineapple and watermelon. The nightly room price was just US$300 including a hot breakfast. (Wait a minute, are you converting the currency? Please dont. INR is now Asia’s worst performer as reported by Reuters. On December 16,2025 Rupee hit an all-time low, historic 90.93 to a dollar. Another masterstroke.)

At a dinner table in a seven-star hotel, the Palestinian fellow spoke of his bleeding homeland. My Ugandan colleague recalled being hung upside down by teachers as a child. Another friend from Sudan remembered not being allowed to open his lunch box until 2 PM. Unkind teachers know no geography. Tyranny wears different uniforms but the wounds feel similar.

Wait for your Clock

My room was bigger than dreams I once buried. On my king size bed loneliness finally felt soft. When the housekeeping staff changed body lotion, shampoo, shower gel and dental kit every day, it sometimes felt too good to be true. I liked the rain shower. It feels so soothing and relaxing. But I reminded myself: privilege is never permanent.

Slow down. Life becomes easier when you don’t rush. Everyone has their own time zone: Some succeed early and fade fast. Some bloom late and shine longer. I know some meritorious brains now struggling to find love, even at home. I know people who were belittled in life but they started small and now doing exceptionally well in their lives. I know some people who married young, they are living miserable lives. I know some people who married ‘late’ are enjoying life. The clock is yours. Walk or crawl but at your own pace. Life is about waiting for the right moment, the right person and trusting your journey. Because if you want to grow fast, you should know where to go slow.

I understand this because I am a “mofussilite” who grew up poor till I turned 25. I experienced poverty but education became my passport to explore the world bigger than where I was born. When you choose to walk alongside people who are smarter than you, you grow automatically. As firebrand parliamentarian Aga Ruhullah Mehdi, addressing students at Jamia Milia Islamia on December 20, 2025 said, “ Do not settle for ordinary, aim for excellence.”

Why don’t we travel?

Travel is a kind of school. No attendance sheet. Just skies that keep asking who you are becoming. In one of the International conferences I attended pre-Covid, I had a chit-chat with a Malaysian delegate. He was 25 and had been to 26 countries.

And our 30-year-old graduates chase government jobs, degrees upon degrees for a meagre sum which comes at the cost of the lofty dreams. And worse, it becomes a narrative, that clerical job which pays you 30K bucks gets you a tag ‘settled in life’ and makes you a docile zombie. There is no challenge, no uncommon thrill in life.

Some people in my network are not globe-trotters but they travel to experience and they have so much to talk about places and ideas. He was born to a Chinese father and a Lebanese mother in London, studied in Italy, lived in Tbilisi for some time, and now works for a US based company in Belgium. Someone was born in Jordan, married to an Australian and now works in Canada.

In Kashmir, when a boy from Kulgam likes a girl from Sopore, they date and promise to be together for the rest of their lives. The marriage proposal is turned down by either of the parties. Why? Itna door nahi karengay. Come on. For heaven’s sake, it is just a 100 minute drive. It is fine to get stuck in a traffic gridlock for over an hour but it is not okay to marry your daughter with a person of her choice who happens to live 50 miles away. Rethink your decisions, travel often and see how the world operates.

Kibra’s Kashmir connection 

Kibra is Africa’s largest slum, a place crowded with poverty and struggle. Yet it was not always like this. Long before the cramped shacks and muddy lanes appeared, Kibra was an untouched forest on the fringes of Nairobi. When the first group of Nubians, originally from Sudan and serving under the British colonial forces, were settled here, the land was green, quiet and full of life. In the Nubian language, “Kibra” simply meant forest.

As the city expanded, politicians in the 1960s began eyeing areas where they could increase their influence. Different tribes were pushed into Kibra because the land was vast and affordable. Over time, the Nubians, the original custodians, became a minority in their own home. Even the name changed subtly — people added another vowel, turning Kibra into “Kibera,” and the forest gradually disappeared under the burden of overcrowding and neglect.

I learned that Kibra carries an Indian footprint. The Nairobi–Kisumu railway cuts through the infamous Lunatic Line. British colonisers dragged Indians here to build it in brutal conditions. Many never returned. Thousands died so resources could be hauled from neighbouring Uganda. Progress, even then, was built on broken bodies.

Back home, in this unforgiving winter, the story repeats itself in another form. While many of us sleep warm under heavy quilts at minus five, hundreds without homes fight the teeth-chattering cold on pavements, in shrines, hospitals, mosques, wherever a little shelter exists, as reported by this newspaper on December 01. We speak of moon missions but our government fails to execute PM Awas Yojna-Grameen which promises shelter to every citizen of this country. India calls itself the world’s fifth-largest economy, but ranks 136 out of 200 in GDP per capita — a fact (that we are a poor nation) flagged in Parliament on December 9,2025 by Kairana’s Iqra Choudhry.What exactly are we celebrating? We have every right to question this façade.

The City within a City 

Every urban landscape is divided between slums and exclusive neighborhoods or posh colonies. It is a clear division between haves and have-not’s. In one of the counties we visited one evening, in the outskirts of Nairobi, we saw kids playing at sundown. This, sadly, doesn’t happen in our city, Srinagar-the restless city of contradictions, unresolved tensions and suppressed emotions, the city with deeply buried taboos and silences. Nairobi, at least on the outside, carries a lighter heart. Nairobi is a gorgeous city. Fun fact: it is the only capital in the world with a national park within the city.

Unwanted Dogs

Security checks are essential, and every traveller understands the importance of following airport protocols. However, in an age where artificial intelligence and advanced surveillance systems like Lavender, Azure, and Red/Blue Wolf are reshaping global surveillance standards, it was surprising to see sniffer dogs still being relied upon so widely at a major East African airport. I haven’t encountered this method elsewhere in my earlier travels. Watching the dogs carefully inspect luggage felt out-dated, especially when modern screening technologies could perform the same tasks more efficiently and with far less strain on the animals. Let the poor dogs take rest.

Travelling teaches

This trip humbled me further. I had the honour to share a dinner table with a Nobel Peace prize Nominee and Directors of organizations who are working for asylum seekers and refugees and making the world a better place to live. When we went out for lunch the other day, I ordered Lebanese falafel, and my co-fellows ordered the food of their choice. As we prepared to leave, the way my director asked for the bill made me rethink how we treat our servers in local eateries. “Sorry for bothering you, Could you please get us a bill.” There was so much respect in his tone.

I could see the people from different parts of the globe enjoying meals and music on that terrace. No awkward glances, no ugly stares. Something that is so common in my city.

The Return of the Native

The Kashmiri saying goes: Cholmut chu ewaaan, golmut chuni ewaan (The fled turn up but the dead don’t). As my aircraft touched Srinagar soil, I was reading The Declaration of Love, the last chapter of Roy’s memoir. People jumped up the moment wheels kissed ground — pushing, shoving. Why the rush? It’s the same luggage belt. The same wait. Maybe we Kashmiris are always running — from delays, from life, from ourselves. My chest tightened as I came out of the aerodrome to claim my luggage.

Coming home is not always comforting. Sometimes it is a reminder of who wasn’t there to welcome you. I whispered into the air: “One day… I will belong somewhere.” I felt loveless, barren and deserted while reading Mother Mary’s last text to Arundhati, “There is no one in the world whom I have loved more than you.”

I clutched the book, too afraid to admit that I, too, have longed for someone to say that to me. I reached my native land, home to 7.5 million beating hearts, and headed to my tiny apartment, with a heart full of gratitude. As a dogged diarist, I always document what (Ernest) Hemingway calls “bleeding” on a blank screen. When your world is collapsing, you hold on to whatever gives you a sense of meaning. For me, that was/is the craft of writing. As Emily Dickenson has beautifully put it, “I know nothing in the world that has as much power as a word.”

As we breathe in the first week of the second quarter of the 21st century, I am enjoying organic Makki di Roti prepared on dambur (traditional hearth), beyond Firkiyan, in the warm Keran sector. As you finish reading my 69th piece for this esteemed daily, I am reading Josh Maliabadi, a fiery voice of freedom:

Muflis hoon magar waris-e-fitrat hoon main

Asrar-e-payambari ki daulat hoon main

Ae lamha-e-maujood, adab se paish aa

Aainda zamane ki amaanat hoon main

I may be poor, but I am the true heir to nature

and the treasure of the prophetic secrets;

O present moment, be reverent to me

For I am the wealth that belongs to the future.

The author is a Doctoral Fellow. 

The post Kashmir to Kenya appeared first on Greater Kashmir.

Now, let us pause for a moment and ask why our exams are inaccessible? Around 2.5 lakh students of class 10, 11 and 12 are writing their board exams this November. Universities, colleges and recruitment agencies continue their exams throughout the year. But are Jammu and Kashmir’s exam centres truly equipped for everyone? Do they have ramps, lifts, wide corridors and accessible toilets? Do invigilators know how to assist a blind, deaf or neurodivergent student with dignity? Do our Boards and universities follow the national accessibility rules, or are those rules lost somewhere between Delhi’s desks and Kashmir’s classrooms? Before a school is chosen as an exam centre, does anyone check if it is accessible? During district-level training, are students with disabilities even considered stakeholders?

 Paper promises

Our government promises welfare for students with disabilities. But welfare is not justice. Welfare is a bandage. Rights are the cure. When the state fails to uphold those rights, to ensure that every child, regardless of ability, can sit in an exam hall without humiliation or hardship, it is not just a policy failure, it is an HR abuse.

 Incredible exams?

Thousands of complaints were pouring in from different parts of the country regarding inaccessible exams and recently the Government of India (GoI) took a serious note. In August 2025, the union Government announced sweeping reforms to make exams more accessible for persons with disabilities (PwDs). The Department of Empowerment of Persons with Disabilities (DEPwD) rolled out new national guidelines under the Rights of Persons with Disabilities (RPwD) Act, 2016 and even integrated directives from the Supreme Court. When you read the document as a concerned citizen, it looks perfect. I will go a little far, it looks revolutionary. No pun intended. Exam centers have to be barrier-free with standardized scribes, compensatory time, and assistive technology. But then, there’s Kashmir. Exam centres are often cracked dimly lit buildings with missing ramps and lifts. A student with a disability is still carried on someone’s shoulders to the first floor because “the ground floor is occupied.” Here, an invigilator still says to a disabled student, “Just manage somehow.” The law promises access. Reality shuts the door.

 Dream vs. Dust

The new guidelines insist that all educational institutes and recruitment boards must ensure accessible centres. But in Kashmir, exams are conducted in cold, Maharaja-era buildings when accessibility was not valued. In 2022, a student with disability (in Srinagar) was carried up a staircase by his friends because the exam hall was on the second floor.

The government’s tech-first approach sounds modern, even empowering. Candidates are encouraged to use screen readers, magnifiers, Braille displays, and speech-to-text tools to write independently, without scribes.

But who will tell Delhi that Kashmir’s electricity flickers like a dying candle? Who will explain that power cuts do not wait for exam schedules? Screen readers like JAWS and NVDA do not work without power or proper training. Many blind students in rural districts have never even seen one. Here, technology does not equal empowerment. It equals exclusion.

 Whose Scribe am I anyway?

A few years ago, I wrote the UGC-NET exam, as a scribe, for Kashmir’s famous limbless scholar, Sultan, at National Institute of Technology, Srinagar. I was paid INR 1200 soon after Sultan submitted his OMR Sheet. But as per the new guidelines, the facility to arrange your own scribe is over. Now, the exam bodies will create official pools of approved scribes within two years. In theory, it is about curbing malpractice, but in reality, it is a cruel joke for disabled student community in Kashmir. Forget about border areas, the most disadvantaged population, will there be trained scribes in Handwara, Bandipora, or Pulwama — where even exam centres struggle to find a working fan?

To make it worse, scribes now must belong to the same academic stream. This rule sounds less like fairness and more like punishment for being disabled. The Supreme Court has often said that exams must be “fair, transparent, and equitable.” But fairness is not about treating everyone the same. It is about ensuring everyone can compete equally.

The Local Silence

As a disability rights activist, I no longer celebrate these announcements. I have seen too many “inclusive” reforms wilt under the weight of apathy. Policies are made in Delhi for photo-ops. No one checks if an exam hall in Kokernag has a ramp. No one asks whether a blind student in Teetwaal has power for his computer exam. This is an absence of will, empathy and accountability. Even simple rules, like granting 20 extra minutes per hour, are ignored. Students are mocked or asked to “prove” their disability despite valid UDID cards. This is apathy.

 What Next?

If the government is serious about accessibility, it must move beyond tokenism. To begin with, audit every centre; create a verified database of trained scribes at district level.  Sensitize exam staff to disability rights- not to pity but to respect. Ensure well-lit separate space for disabled candidates. Set up district-level helplines and redress systems for PwD candidates. The rights of disabled students cannot be seasonal, selective, or symbolic.

The post Ramp Promises, Broken Steps appeared first on Greater Kashmir.

But one email, one soul-crushing story, refuses to leave me. It was about a professor in one of Kashmir’s varsities. Her cruelty shattered a bright, young topper so deeply that he not only abandoned the degree but continues to live with lifelong trauma. He appeared for an external viva, (CCTV footage is the proof) but he was marked absent on his grade card. The surveillance tool is installed at the coordinator’s chamber where the exam was conducted.

Dear educators, you often take a high moral ground in public, but what happens behind classroom doors tells a very different story. Too many of you have turned into something unrecognizable, using your authority to hurt, not heal. You were meant to nurture. Instead, you destroy.

A few months ago, nine-year-old Anam from Srinagar fainted after being punished for forgetting her notebook. A child was punished so harshly that she went home unconscious. What have we turned our schools into? They were supposed to be safe spaces for learning, not places that scar children for life.

In Kashmir, children carry trauma as early as they carry schoolbags. Some have seen violence with their own eyes. Some have lost parents too soon. Others grow up in a constant state of fear. And yet, we rarely pause to notice their pain. We label them as “disobedient” or “lazy” when what they really need are softer hands, patient hearts, and understanding minds.

I had mentioned Numan’s story as a passing reference in my last article, but it deserves to be told again, loudly. His teacher called him immoral just because he was trying to understand himself, to explore his identity. Is that a crime? No. But Numan was ridiculed, mocked, and emotionally torn apart by the same people who were meant to protect him. When the weight became unbearable, he took his own life.

How many more Numans do we have to lose before we admit that all schools are not always safe for our children? What will it take to hold such teachers accountable for the emotional harm they cause?

Before enrolling your child in any school, ask one simple question: Do you have a full-time counsellor? Someone trained to support a student’s emotional well-being. If not, walk away. Because no child should have to sit in a classroom that doesn’t understand their pain. And no teacher should be allowed to teach without proper training in child psychology and trauma care.

Vanessa Lobue writes in Psychology Today that children learn best when they are allowed to make mistakes. Think about a baby learning to walk. It doesn’t happen overnight. It takes weeks and months, with countless falls along the way. Every fall is part of learning. When we don’t let children fail, we rob them of resilience, the ability to face challenges and manage emotions. Babies aren’t afraid of mistakes. But as they grow up, we teach them to feel ashamed of failing. And, that is, my dear readers, where we go wrong.

Licensed Teachers?

In the US, teaching is a licensed profession. If a teacher contacts students outside of school hours, her license can be revoked. In Kashmir, the teacher of the secondary school sends inappropriate texts to a minor at odd hours. This is how low a teacher can go.

A teacher shapes minds, and that’s a huge responsibility. Without empathy, that power becomes dangerous. Let teachers observe each other’s classes and learn together. Connect with students every day to build trust and make the classroom a safe space. Take time to understand the student as a person, not as a roll number. Ask students for feedback and improve based on what they say. Use the “I do, we do, you do” method — teach practice together, then let students try independently. Focus on emotional well-being and social learning, not just academics. Encourage volunteering and internships during vacations to help students understand responsibility and humility. Let students form opinions and express them. Having an opinion is not disrespectful. Drop the bossy attitude. Respect and fear are not the same.

A reader once wrote to me, “I was the quiet kid in school. My teachers called me gumsum but never asked why. At 27, I discovered I am autistic. All my life, I thought something was wrong with me.”

That broke me. Because it is not one story — it’s hundreds. Our teachers don’t understand the complexity of children’s minds. Not every B.Ed degree holder deserves to be a teacher. Do our teachers truly prepare students for real life? If they did, our postgraduates in Biochemistry or Geography would not be working as front-desk staff in hotels and hospitals. They would be thinkers and creators.

Relearn Kindness

Teachers should undergo regular training, every month. Because teaching is not about showing off authority. It is about service. Yet, in our classrooms, arrogance rules. When a student gives a wrong answer, don’t humiliate them. You can simply say, “That’s a good try, but let’s look at it another way.” This small kindness can build confidence.

If a student’s attendance is poor, ask why. Did something happen at home? If a student fails, ask if the class was too difficult or boring. Maybe you need to change your approach. Teaching is not about blaming students; it is about understanding them.

An ideal classroom is not one where you can hear a pin drop. Silence often means fear. The best classrooms are lively — filled with curiosity, laughter, and questions. Noise means children feel safe to express themselves. Try this once, instead of making students stand to greet you, stand at the door and welcome them with a smile. It will change the atmosphere instantly. Spend a few minutes each day asking, “How are you feeling today?” It is called Social Emotional learning (SEL). It might sound small, but those few words can make a world of difference.

Inclusion and Social Intelligence

In many countries, children with and without disabilities study together in public schools. The state provides everything, books, food, stationery, even therapy, all free of cost. Here, schools still demand uniforms and fees that many can’t afford. Compassion should not be a privilege.

By the time students finish school, they should have at least 100 hours of volunteering or fieldwork. That’s how you build empathy and social responsibility. But here, we laugh at such ideas. Our education system still believes that discipline comes from fear, not understanding.

Older generations proudly say, “We were beaten by teachers, and we turned out fine.” No, you didn’t. You just learned to live with pain and call it normal. Violence, physical or emotional, leaves invisible scars that last a lifetime. Private tuitions, endless homework, and marks-driven learning have sucked the joy out of education. A real teacher is not the one who fills notebooks, but the one who reaches hearts.

Not everyone can be a teacher. You have forty different minds in your classroom, each thinking differently. Teaching is not dictating notes; it’s understanding those minds and guiding them with patience. And it begins with one promise: Teach—don’t traumatize.

The post Teach, Don’t Traumatise appeared first on Greater Kashmir.

Abid Rashid Baba

universalbaba99@gmail.com

The three most beautiful words in English language are not ‘I love you’. They are ‘I don’t know’. Learning to say I don’t know when you don’t know is the first sign of maturity. This is exactly what I learned during Earthshastra– an 8-day immersive journey at Auroville in Tamilnadu, many moons ago. We visited The Last School, almost a carbon copy of San Francisco’s Brightworks. They believe children should learn because they want to, not because someone is forcing them. Agency is woven into every part of their ecosystem.

But in Kashmir?, students are pushed into a suffocating rat race where everyone pretends to know everything, even when they don’t. Teachers enforce this culture of fakery. And this is where the decay begins. When Teaching becomes trading. Classrooms turn into cashrooms. Our schools don’t encourage innovation and critical thinking and bask in mediocrity. Just like jail inmates, the sleep-deprived tender souls are transported in particular vehicles. They wear the same clothes. The authorities call it “uniform”. There is total control. Then the warden comes and asks some inmates to sing the signature tone. Default or designed? How is it futuristic? Who has envisioned this future? Even in some colleges, students are not allowed to enter or make an exit before or after a particular time. This is not discipline, this is dictatorship.

The pressure to “succeed” has become deadly. Even the Hon’ble Supreme Court has called it a suicide epidemic. Thirteen thousand young lives are lost to suicide every year. Thirteen thousand! Who is killing these blooming minds in my Hindustan? Not fate. Not destiny. It is the unkind teachers and the cruel system they uphold. The unbearable pressure they build, the obsession with ranks and grades is hanging our students, one by one.

On the way to my workplace last week, I met a student who looked exhausted, her face heavy with frustration. She kept sighing, as if the weight of the world was pressing on her chest. I asked her softly, “Is everything okay?” She broke down immediately. Through tears, she said, “I am writing my exams. I am doing a Bachelor’s in Physiotherapy. But this is not what I want to do for the rest of my life. My heart lies in literature. I love weaving stories.”

Her words cut like a knife. And no—this is not an isolated story. Throw a stone anywhere in Kashmir, and it will fall on a young person who has been pushed into something they neither love nor believe in. I spoke to another student once—someone who had been saved from ending his own life. His thoughts still haunt me: “There might be light at the end of the tunnel, but the tunnel is really long, and there is just darkness all around. Will it get better? How long until it gets better? What if it gets better a little too late?”

And then there is the story of 19-year-old Anurag Borkar from Maharashtra. A boy who scored a jaw-dropping 99.99 percentile in NEET exams. His family celebrated with pride. But behind the success, Anurag left behind a suicide note: “This is not what I wanted.” Do you see the tragedy? He conquered the system, yet the system still killed him.

So let us stop pretending. Free will in our education system is a cruel myth. We talk about “shifting definitions of success,” but the structures remain rigid, heartless, and suffocating. Anurag’s death is not just a statistic. It is a mirror we are too afraid to look into. The question that should haunt every teacher, every parent, every policymaker is this: Are we listening to what our children truly want? Or are we too busy shoving them into careers that feed our egos and family honor, while their own dreams rot and die inside them?

Our Teachers are not approachable, and that is the root of the problem. If they were welcoming, students wouldn’t be running to Google for every doubt. They would be walking to their teachers. But no, our classrooms are filled with dictators, not mentors. A student shows up a little late, and instead of empathy, they are shown the door. That is not discipline. It is tyranny.

And what do most teachers obsess over? Not ideas, not curiosity, not creativity. They are glued to attendance registers. When your focus is on ticking boxes, how do you expect your students to focus on innovation? Strict teachers don’t create disciplined minds—they create liars. Because students are smart enough to maneuver around their rigidity. Every time a child questions, teachers act offended. Mediocre teachers get annoyed. And in that moment, learning dies.

It is time we redefine what “school” and “college” even mean. You went, you passed tests, you got grades. You were programmed to believe this was the path to success. So you behaved well, followed the rules, did everything asked of you. And on the surface, it looked like it worked. But deep inside, you are haunted by the questions school never prepared you for:

Who am I? What do I really want? Why do I feel so disconnected when I did everything right?

That is the deeper flaw. That is why I call it a grand deception.

Behind every diploma, every degree, lies a blueprint. A blueprint not to create thinkers, but workers. Not to train insight, but obedience. Not to encourage reflection, but repetition. You were taught to memorize, not to understand. To conform, not to question. To meet expectations, not to discover your own voice. That is why so many of us are strangers to ourselves.

When teachers get irritated by curious questions, students begin to associate learning with fear, anxiety, and pressure. They learn to perform, not to pursue. To repeat, not to reflect. And guess what is worse? They get praised for it. So what kind of intelligence are we cultivating when obedience is rewarded more than originality? None at all. Independent minds don’t fit into standardized tests. They challenge the script. They refuse to be boxed in. But our teachers don’t nurture this independence. They crush it. When a teacher drills imitation instead of curiosity, the cost is creativity itself. The child who once asked bold, daring questions grows into an adult too afraid to be different. The learner becomes a docile follower. And the system celebrates this as success.

Factories do not need thinkers. They do not need poets, visionaries, or philosophers. They need obedient, disciplined, predictable workers. That is exactly what our schools and colleges are training. Look closely: a bell rings, you sit in rows, you follow a rigid schedule, divided by subjects. Just like factory shifts, you are commanded when to start, when to stop, and when to move to the next task. You are rewarded for compliance, punished for deviation. Creativity? That has no place here.

Learning in its purest form should be about liberation, about questioning assumptions, about exploring ideas. But our system does the opposite. And when life throws something messy, unexpected, unstructured at us, we freeze. We know how to solve equations and manage deadlines, but nobody prepared us to sit with uncertainty, to navigate storms that don’t come with instructions. We feel disoriented even when we earn a solid income or run a decent business.

Have you heard of Paulo Freire? As teachers, you must know about him—the Brazilian educator who revolutionized teaching with a belief in hope-infused liberation. Freire listened as much as he spoke. A good communicator is first a good listener. Do you listen to your students? Really listen? There are four kinds of listeners—active, empathic, evaluative, and appreciative. When was the last time you paused to examine how you listen?

Freire, a lover of life, engaged with ordinary people because he believed everyone is extraordinary and valuable just by being. And you? Do you only praise a few so-called toppers while ignoring the rest? Then you have already failed as a teacher. In his brilliant book, Pedagogy of the Oppressed, Freire writes that the traditional “banking” method of teaching, where teachers deposit knowledge into passive students, is oppressive. It kills curiosity, discourages critical thinking, and produces meek, obedient minds.

And here is another educator our Kashmiri classrooms desperately need: Maria Montessori. Walk into her classroom, and it is an alien world for our rigid teachers. Children move around, explore, and focus on tasks of their choice. The teacher is not a dictator at the blackboard—they are a guide, giving equal attention to every student, creating activities that stimulate cognitive growth. Montessori teaching is self-directed, promotes independence, and allows children to learn at their own pace.

A good teacher can change lives. Did you watch Taare Zameen Par? Of course you did. Look around—there are hundreds of Ishaan Awasthi’s in your classrooms. They need love, encouragement, and mentorship. At home, they may be raised by Nandkishore’s, but in school, you have the chance to be their Ram Shankar Nilumbh—someone who sees their potential and nurtures it. Do you even try?

Benita Benjamin, a senior researcher at the University of Kerala, wrote recently that a good classroom is a space where conversations thrive, ideas clash, and perspectives are challenged. Not a room where students sit frozen, waiting for grades.

Here is the truth that will anger many teachers in Kashmir: every day you go to school or college, your intelligence diminishes. How is that possible? Because your teachers focus only on academic intelligence, conditioning you to believe that success means government jobs, degrees, and compliance. They are systematically destroying creative intelligence—the spark that leads to innovation, exploration, and true thought. Creativity is a high-risk, high-return game. It does not thrive in rigidity, it does not flourish under fear, it cannot survive standardized tests and rote memorization.

No one has ever changed the world by following instructions. No philosopher, no poet, no revolutionary ever became extraordinary by doing exactly what they were told. And yet, that is precisely what our schools demand: obedience, repetition, conformity.

If you are a teacher reading this, reflect: Are you nurturing curiosity or crushing it? Are you shaping minds capable of questioning, exploring, and daring? Or are you stamping out creativity, enforcing compliance, and producing another obedient cog in the machine? Let your students try and make mistakes. They do not have to be bang on all the time.

“If you’re not prepared to be wrong, you will never come up with anything original.” Pablo Picasso said it best: all children are born artists. And who is responsible for killing the artists inside our students? Teachers. And since 2020, digital teachers have turned jokers.

Online education has turned into a desperate circus for attention? With student attention spans down to a pathetic eight seconds, teachers and coaching platforms churn out cringe content just to stay noticed. But is this garbage teaching anyone—or is it killing the very purpose of education? Education has been monetized and reduced to content for clicks. Teachers are no longer educators—they are vloggers, entertainers, slaves of algorithms chasing virality. Remember this: only a disease goes viral. Using student’s privacy as trigger points to get likes and views is not teaching. I call it intellectual abuse. A teacher feels happy about introducing himself as a columnist of a C-grade newspaper and not with his primary identity as a teacher in a local government high school. This should give you a clear idea of the rot that is recruited to take care of our future.

Do you know why we are not producing Nobel laureates? Because teachers are complicit in this intellectual abuse. Schools were designed not to nurture thought, but to produce obedient workers. That is why classrooms are straight rows, students are told to sit still, raise their hands if they want to speak, and eat only when allowed. Eight hours a day, you tell students what to think, and then make them compete for an “A.” And when anyone dares to deviate, teachers lash out, reminding students: we are the authority here, you are submissive, you are a slave. In the process, they destroy creative abilities.

But we don’t need robots or zombies anymore. The world has moved on. What we need are thinkers—creative, innovative, critical, independent people who can connect ideas and solve problems. Every scientist will tell you no two brains are the same. Every parent with more than one child knows it too. If a doctor prescribed the same medicine to all patients, the results would be catastrophic. Yet in our classrooms, the same tragedy unfolds every day. One teacher, standing in front of twenty children, each with unique strengths, gifts, and dreams, teaches them all in exactly the same way. This is nothing short of educational malpractice.

It is time to act. Students may only make up 20% of the population, but they are 100% of our future. We must listen to their dreams, because there is no telling what they could achieve if we stop killing their creativity.

Dear students, your 99% marks in today’s exams are useless. That was a test of memory, not mind. Dig deep, and you will see that none of the J&K toppers in the last 20 years have become IT experts, scientists, or innovators. That 90%+ was never yours—it was a pressure imposed on you. Earlier this year, in a famous Srinagar school, a student was killed due to bullying and teacher pressure because teachers invoked religion over a tattoo. Recently, a female teacher was terminated in a popular Srinagar school for moral policing, judging girl students for their attire. These are not isolated incidents. This is what happens when education becomes a tool for control, not liberation.

It is time we stop calling these people teachers. They are jailers of imagination, executioners of curiosity, and murderers of creative minds. Maria Montessori once said:

“I did not invent a method of education. I simply gave some little children a chance to live.”

In the chaos of rows, registers, and rigid rules, how many of our students are even allowed to live? How many are denied the chance to think, explore, and discover themselves? Montessori’s words remind us that teaching is not about control, obedience, or uniformity, it is about giving children the space to grow, to breathe, and to be.

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Pennies for Survival

In June this year, the Odisha government raised the monthly disability pension to ₹3,500. Uttarakhand, last month, doubled its marriage grant for disabled persons to ₹50,000. More than 20 states across India provide similar incentives.

And Jammu & Kashmir? A meagre ₹1,250. Not even enough to buy a week’s groceries. My Hon’ble LG, my dear CM—what exactly are you doing? Besides cutting ribbons and celebrating “development” in air-conditioned halls?

Accessibility is a Mirage

The placards carried blunt demands: vertical reservations, special recruitment drives for qualified disabled persons, enforcement of the 4% quota in government jobs, separate service counters in banks and public offices, and basic accessibility in schools, transport, and websites.

Yet the reality is uncomfortable. Not a single major government office in J&K passes an accessibility audit. Forget ramps and elevators—many do not even have usable toilets. And in this much-hyped “Digital India,” government websites are anything but accessible.

Every morning, I get some 200 e-papers published from Srinagar. Guess how many are accessible to a visually impaired reader? None. Not one. Yet these newspapers happily swallow government advertisements. But they don’t bother to make their websites accessible for PwDs.

The Right to Learn—Denied

Schools and colleges are supposed to be places of opportunity. For disabled children in Kashmir, they are often the first sites of rejection. Teachers are untrained in inclusive education. They do not know how to adapt lessons for children with autism, ADHD, or learning disorders. There are no sign language interpreters. No special educators. And when children fail to cope, they are labelled “slow,” “aggressive,” or “unfit.” They eventually drop out, quietly erased from classrooms that were never meant for them. The Rights of Persons with Disabilities Act, 2016, makes it mandatory for institutions to provide interpreters, special educators, and support systems. How many schools in Jammu & Kashmir comply? The answer is as invisible as the children themselves.

Forgotten in Policy and Data

India’s first disability law came in 1995. The last census, 14 years ago, counted just 2.21% of the population as disabled—based on only eight categories. In 2016, the RPwD Act expanded recognition to 21 disabilities. But where is the updated data?

The government drags its feet on conducting a fresh count. Because numbers don’t just tell stories—they demand accountability. And acknowledging the true scale of disability in India would mean the state can no longer hide behind token pensions and inaccessible buildings. Dear readers, you might be wondering, why do I advocate for accurate data? Because, this data could spur changes in policymaking and implementation of schemes related to healthcare, civic access and public welfare. Data identifying physical and social barriers faced by people with disabilities can help the government improve their access to and participation in education and employment.

That sit-in in Srinagar was, in part, a plea to the Prime Minister himself: expedite the census, give us a comprehensive database, and give us dignity. But will he hear them? Or will they, once again, be scrolled past like an inconvenient notification?

A Sky That Excludes

Let us talk about the aviation sector. Since I often fly out, I notice how inaccessible our airport is. Is Srinagar Airport disabled-friendly? No. And did you just notice that I skipped the word “International”—because there is nothing international about it.

Earlier this year, Air India was fined ₹30 lakh after a passenger died because he was denied a wheelchair. The DGCA has since proposed amendments to improve accessibility. Yet at Srinagar Airport, even the restrooms meant for PwDs lack proper signage.

Last year, when I attended the International Purple Fest in Goa, I asked a senior airline executive why employees with disabilities in the company were paid less. He went blank. No answers.

Excluded From Entertainment

The same story plays out at Srinagar’s Inox Cinema. There is a separate lavatory for PwDs—but without signage. Inox does not even offer any basic concessions in ticket pricing for disabled persons.

In 2024, the Ministry of Information and Broadcasting proposed making cinemas accessible for hearing-and visually-impaired persons. Yet Srinagar’s only functional theatre has no assistive devices, no closed captioning, no audio description, and no Indian Sign Language interpretation. The management proudly holds meetings to discuss programming and profits. But have they ever once discussed accessibility? The truth is, PwDs are simply excluded from even the simple joy of watching a film.

That silent sit-in at Press Enclave appealed directly to the Airport Authority of India and to Inox management: stop excluding us.

Elsewhere, Bold Moves

Across India, other states are moving forward. In Kerala, a government order now empowers local self-government institutions to distribute adult diapers and sanitary pads for PwDs, especially benefiting low-income families. What is my LG doing? In Tamil Nadu, a pilot project has begun home delivery of PDS essentials—rice, wheat, sugar, oil, and dal—for PwDs in 10 districts. What is my CM doing?

In Assam, Indian Sign Language has been introduced as an elective subject for Class XI students from 2025–26. It is a pioneering move, rooted in the RPwD Act and NEP 2020. When will ISL be an option in Kashmir’s classrooms? Can our Education Minister take such a bold step—or is it easier to cut another ribbon?

Law and its Convenient Blind Spots

Discrimination against the disabled is legally punishable, accessibility is a right—not a favour. Last month, the Delhi High Court ruled that posts reserved for PwDs cannot be surrendered to the unreserved category. That is what the law mandates.

And yet, even 78 years after Independence, we are still trapped in an Ableist cocoon.

Look at the National Medical Commission’s disability guidelines for MBBS students. They still ask questions like: “Can you bear weight and stand on your affected leg?” and “Can you climb up or go down stairs on your own?” In 2025, with all our technology and talk of “functional capabilities,” is this truly the age of enlightenment? Or are we still stuck measuring worth by legs and ladders?

Not-so-smart-City Buses

Let us look at Srinagar’s much-publicized Red buses. In July 2023, the Chief Engineer of Srinagar Smart City Mission proudly declared that these buses were “universally accessible.” Really? Yes, there are separate seats marked for Persons with Disabilities. But in practice, these seats are always occupied—often by women passengers who mock disabled commuters when asked to vacate them. The signage is deliberately erased by some women passengers. I personally noticed this dozens of times in the last few months that they refuse to offer those reserved seats to PwDs.

The General Manager of JKSRTC told me that PwDs are exempted from bus fare if they show their UDID card. Fair enough. But here is the catch: why haven’t bus conductors been trained to treat disabled passengers with respect? More often than not, they laugh, mock, or outright misbehave.

Disability is not the absence of ability—it is the absence of access. And in Kashmir, that absence is glaring. Most public infrastructure is not designed for disabled bodies—footpaths are broken, signage is unreadable, and transport systems are barely navigable. Will you take note now? Will you make mobility dignified for disabled people in Kashmir, or is the slogan of “Smart City” only smart on paper?

Budget Cuts for the Disabled Community

India’s total budget expenditure has ballooned from ₹30 lakh crore in 2020 to ₹50 lakh crore in 2025. Yet, amid this grand growth story, here is the government’s gift to its disabled citizens: a cut. The funds allocated to the Department of Empowerment of Persons with Disabilities have been reduced from ₹1,325 crore in 2020–21 to ₹1,275 crore in 2025–26.

If the government can pretend that certain people do not exist, it doesn’t have to spend on them. Simple. But the cruelty of such arithmetic shows up in daily life. It shows up in the absence of a ramp that would have allowed a student with a locomotor disability to enter her school. It shows up in the missing Braille signage or tactile paths that would have let a blind man safely walk to the local pharmacy. It shows up in classrooms where teachers—never trained to support neurodivergent children—are left to improvise, while the children themselves are left to fall behind.

The budget may be numbers on paper, but those cuts bleed into lived reality. And as always, it is the disabled who are told to adjust, to compromise, to make do in a country that celebrates economic growth while shrinking their space within it.

Silence is the loudest protest! 

That silent protest at Press Enclave was their loudest cry. It was a cute reminder to my dear LG and my dear CM that in times of “Sabka Saath, Sabka Vikas,” we remain unheard, unseen, and uncounted. The question is not whether the government can afford to act. The question is—how much longer will it choose not to?

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For deaf people, this scene is painfully familiar. It even has a name: Dinner Table Syndrome—the silent exclusion that happens when conversations skip over you, when you are told, “It is not important,” or “I will tell you later.” What is dismissed as chatter or gossip is, in fact, the very heartbeat of belonging. When denied, it turns into isolation.

The Invisible Community

India’s 1991 census had no questions on disability. The 2001 census collected data on five types of disabilities. The last census held in 2011—over 14 years ago—expanded this to eight categories. It recorded 26.8 million people with disabilities, which was just 2.21 percent of India’s population at the time. Since then, the Rights of Persons with Disabilities (RPWD) Act of 2016 has expanded the list to 21 disabilities and now we are the most populous country on earth. Yet, because no fresh census has been conducted since 2011, media continues to tell us that we are less than 3% of the total population which is inaccurate.

Insensitive Media Ecosystem

India’s media ecosystem is massive: 400+ news channels, over 100,000 newspapers, 460 million YouTube users. Yet, one question remains unanswered: how much of this ecosystem sees, hears, and represents its disabled citizens with dignity? Most do not.

Instead, what we see is lazy vocabulary and reductive frames. Hindi dailies often assume that disabled people lack agency. English newspapers casually drop phrases like “suffering from autism” or “overcame Down syndrome.” Neurodivergent people are demonised as violent or “mad.” This is not just inappropriate. It fuels ableism—the everyday discrimination in favour of non-disabled people. It shapes public perception, politics, and even policy. Language matters. Representation matters. Because words do not just describe reality, they create it.

The Curse of “Inspiration Porn”

In 2014, Australian journalist and wheelchair user Stella Young gave the world a term that became a battle cry: inspiration porn. It refers to the way disabled people are objectified for the benefit of non-disabled audiences. The viral story of a man with no arms painting with his mouth. The headline about a “limbless boy topping exams.” The Instagram reel of a blind girl typing fast. But why is existence framed as extraordinary?

As Stella wrote, “We all learn to use the bodies we are born with, or adapt to them. Why should my everyday life be your inspiration?”

And yet, twelve years after her words, most Indian journalists seem unable to write about a disabled person without phrases like “overcoming disability”, “defying the odds”, “wheelchair bound”, or the patronising favourite—“brave.” It is brilliant to highlight the achievements of persons with disabilities. We appreciate it. But remember when you call that 1% ‘inspirational’, you are creating a barrier, a vacuum, a void within the community. Remaining 99% who live with the disabilities feel inferior and that 1% is boxed. You, as an anchor, a reporter should know that everyone cannot do super inspirational things and that is completely okay. Stop sensationalizing the ‘inspirational stories’. Normalize the narrative, celebrate disability without feeling pity.

When Headlines Hurt

Take a headline that screamed: “From impairment to inspiration.” What does that tell the reader? That impairment equals despair, and the person’s only worth lies in transcending it. That being disabled is a tragedy until you win a medal or a job. This is not empowerment. This is erasure.

Journalism is supposed to demystify, not dramatize. It must highlight systemic barriers—lack of ramps, inaccessible schools, and exclusionary policies—not reduce people into objects of pity or awe. Do not equate disability with tragedy. Why can’t Indian media adopt similar sensitivity?

The BBC’s disability guidelines offer a blueprint:

• Do not say “wheelchair-bound”; say “wheelchair user.”
• Do not say “suffering from”; say “living with.”

Ableism in Media Houses

Just last year, The Economist ran a cover showing a walker with the US presidential seal under the headline “No Way to Run a Country.” The image suggested that using a mobility aid makes you unfit for leadership. The backlash was swift. Advocates pointed out that Franklin D. Roosevelt, one of the greatest US presidents, used a wheelchair. Leadership is not limited by mobility. But the damage was done: once again, a disability was weaponized as an insult. This is the power of imagery. One picture can entrench stigma across borders.

Bollywood and the Joke that Never Ends

For decades, Indian cinema has mined disability for comic relief. From the Golmaal series to Housefull 3 to Aankh Micholi, Ableist jokes have drawn cheap laughs. “Are you blind? Are you deaf?” — Phrases shouted on screen as punch-lines, while audiences roar. But for disabled viewers, these are not jokes. They are everyday humiliations repackaged as entertainment. Recently, activists like Nipun Malhotra took these portrayals to court. The Supreme Court finally issued guidelines on how disability must be shown in films. It was a historic step, but far from enough. Because true change will come only when disabled actors, directors, and writers get to tell their own stories—not just play caricatures written by others.

Everyday Ableism: Micro-aggressions we ignore

Representation is not only about headlines and films. It is also about conversations. And often, the smallest phrases cut the deepest. Here are six things people often say to disabled people that reek of ableism:

1. 
   “Can you be cured?” – Disability is not a disease to be eradicated.
2. 
   “I will pray for you.” – Disabled people do not need pity disguised as prayer.
3. 
   “My cousin has the same thing and she is fine.” – Every disability is unique.
4. 
   “Have you tried yoga/homeopathy/this miracle treatment?” – Unsolicited advice erases lived experience.
5. 
   “I am sorry.” – Sympathy suggests disability is a tragedy.
6. 
   “Your life is over.” – No. Disabled lives are full lives.

These phrases seem harmless to non-disabled people. But they reinforce the same hierarchy of worth that media headlines scream aloud.

Pride, Not Pity

We just celebrated July as Disability Pride Month worldwide. The very word “pride” unsettles many in India, where disability is still whispered about in terms of suffering or burden. But pride is resistance. Pride is reclaiming identity from shame. Pride is rejecting both pity and pedestal.

Disability is neither a disease nor a disorder. In her 1999 book, “Exile and Pride: Disability, Queerness, and Liberation”, Eli Claire, says that “To frame disability in terms of cure is to accept the medical model, to see disabled people as sick. But we are not sick—we are human.” Disability is diversity.

To add insult to the injury, they follow a very problematic “charity model” representation. They highlight and focus on the sufferings if someone from the community makes strides in the career or does something out of the box.

Let me flesh it out a bit with a fresh example from Kashmir. Check out this problematic headline as a reference. What do you, as a journalist, want to prove by writing “despite being limbless/visually or hearing impaired?” What do you, as readers, infer from it? Please take note, as a non-disabled person, when you write “from impairment to inspiration”, you negate the disability and that is insensitive and not okay with the community. Therefore, “disability sensitive training” is important.

Towards Better Storytelling

So what does responsible media representation look like? Here’s a simple checklist for journalists and storytellers:

• Focus on causes, not characters. Address systemic barriers, not just individual heroics.
• Normalise, don’t dramatize. Show disabled people working, laughing, and struggling— like anyone else.
• Respect language. Use “disabled person” (an identity), not euphemisms like “differently-abled” or “specially-abled” that make disability sound shameful.
• Show context. Achievements do not happen in isolation—highlight assistive tools, supportive networks, and accessibility measures.
• Include disabled voices. Nothing about us without us.

Reframing the Narrative

The good news? Change is possible. Campaigns like Everyone Is Good at Something (EGS) are already archiving everyday stories of disabled Indians—ordinary lives, ordinary joys, ordinary dreams. Internationally, disabled creators, filmmakers, and journalists are pushing back against lazy tropes. Even courts are recognising the damage of Ableist humour. But Indian media must catch up. It must train its reporters. It must revise its vocabularies. It must listen to disabled people because until then, disability will remain a footnote in a country where it should be a chapter.

Outro

Dinner Table Syndrome is not just about deaf children watching lips move without words. It is about an entire community left out of the conversation of the nation. If India’s media can learn to see us not as tragedies or inspirations but as citizens, colleagues, leaders, and creators, then maybe one day no one will feel invisible at the dinner table. Disability is not a burden. It is not a blessing. It is life—messy, ordinary, and worthy of dignity. And the stories we tell about it matter.

Note: After completing his VLI (Virtual Leadership Institute) Program with Distinction at Atlas Service Corps, the author received Community Impact Fund (CIF) grant for his project Reframing Disability Narratives. This piece is funded by Cultural Vistas, Washington D.C.

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A few months after her 14th birthday, her family noticed she struggled to stand. A devastating diagnosis followed: polio had paralyzed her legs. This marked the beginning of relentless challenges. The first casualty was her education; mobility issues forced her to drop out. Financial constraints meant no wheelchair. She was ridiculed as a “curse” or “bad omen.”

“That was my life,” Rukaya sums up her journey.

Today, she owns a retail shop, creates embroidery and helps disabled women file pension applications. She earns a dignified living, proving dreams can become reality. She credits her father and the Entrepreneurship Development Training Program by NEDAR Foundation for equipping her with business skills.

“I don’t know if my life has value,” she says faintly. “Sometimes, I wonder… does it even matter?” After breakfast and chores, she prepares for work. Her father pushes her wheelchair and lifts her shop’s shutters. Rukaya feels erased—forgotten by a society that sees her as broken, ignored by a system that never tried to understand her.

Like hundreds of Kashmiri women, she embodies how trauma, gender, and disability suffocate joy. “For disabled women, it’s a double-whammy,” she says, dusting her shop. “The problem is ableism. It teaches non-disabled people that disability equals shame—that we are not normal or beautiful enough.” Rukaya insists that Persons with Disabilities (PwDs) should not be portrayed as victims or “inspiration porn.” To clarify the term, I contacted Masrat Akhtar, an RCI-licensed Rehabilitation Professional, Counsellor and Special Educator.

“It’s objectifying disabled people as inspirations solely based on their life circumstances,” Masrat explains. “Disability isn’t a disease or disorder. Media must normalize it; otherwise, their narratives harm the community.”

A Girlhood Denied

Farah remembers the day her mother called her cursed.

“She glared after I spilled tea,” Farah recalls. “She whispered, ‘God sent you to test us.’”

Farah is blind. At 35, she’s lonely, terrified, and severely depressed. She has never travelled alone, visited a park or had an unmonitored friendship.

She tried to kill herself, twice. The first time, her family scolded her; the second, they threatened to lock her away. “No one asked why,” she says. “They just told me to be grateful I am alive.” She pauses. “I wish I wasn’t.”

The Conflict Outside, the War Within

This isn’t just Rukaya and Farah’s story. It’s the story of thousands of disabled women. Their minds unravelling behind locked doors, their mental health ignored until it collapses into silence.

Women with disabilities—physical, intellectual, or sensory—live in ableism cages. Their bodies are seen as burdens, their minds irrelevant and their dreams delusional. Masrat calls the crisis urgent but invisible. “These women don’t just fall through the cracks,” she says. “They are not on the map. Nobody hears their screams—because their suffering is silent.”

Inside the Home, the Hurt is Loudest

In a Budgam village, 21-year-old Neelofar, who is deaf, was assaulted by a relative. She told her mother through gestures and tears. Her mother slapped her in response.

“You are lying. No one would touch a girl like you.” The mother silenced her daughter.

“Since then, she has stopped trying to speak,” Masrat told me at Srinagar’s Composite Regional Centre – a Rehabilitation Centre for persons with disabilities, established by the Ministry of Social Justice and Empowerment, Government of India.

Across Kashmir, such stories are rarely whispered. Disabled women face societal discrimination and abuse—verbal, physical—from their own families. Fewer are believed.

“If a disabled woman seeks help, she needs money, mobility, and courage,” Masrat explains. “And even then, she often gets shame and pills.”

Sajida, 33, uses wheelchair. She saved for weeks to see a private psychologist in Srinagar. “When I said I cry daily and can’t sleep, he replied, ‘That’s normal. You’re disabled. What else do you expect?’” She never returned.
One woman with schizophrenia from Srinagar’s suburbs is locked in a room during breakdowns. Her brother claims it’s “for her own good.” A neighbour whispers: “She cries like an animal. No one listens.” How do you heal when those meant to love you… don’t?

Sadly, the Government Looks Away!

No policies in J&K explicitly address disabled women’s mental health. No helpline offers sign language support. No awareness campaigns feature disabled voices. Hospitals remain architecturally and emotionally inaccessible.

“Everywhere I go, I feel I don’t belong,” says Sajida. “It’s like the world is made for people who walk, talk, and smile like they are fine.” The Rights of Persons with Disabilities Act, 2016 promises dignity and equality. But in Kashmir, it is a paper promise—especially for disabled women.

What Must Change

This pain isn’t inevitable—it’s structural. Mental healthcare must be physically, emotionally, and economically accessible. Frontline workers need training to spot mental health issues in the disabled. Therapists must be sensitized to gender and disability. Schools must welcome disabled girls. Ableist narratives are pervasive societal stories and beliefs that devalue, marginalize, or exclude individuals with disabilities, often by framing non-disabled individuals as superior and disability as a negative or undesirable condition. Newsrooms must invest in sensitivity trainings for journalists telling the stories of PwDs. Above all; families and communities must stop seeing disability as a curse.

Love, Unconditionally

Back in Rukaya’s Handwara home, the sun sets. Her shop’s shutters are down. She presses her palm against her wheelchair’s armrest. “Affection is medicine too,” she concludes. “Sometimes, all we need is someone to say: ‘I see you. I believe you. You matter.’”

(Note: Some names have been changed for privacy reasons.)

 (The author is a Laadli Media Fellowship recipient 2025. This work is supported by Population First. The opinions and views expressed are those of the author.

Laadli and UNFPA do not necessarily endorse the views.)

The post UNSEEN, UNHEARD AND UNLOVED: The Silent Grief of Kashmir’s Disabled Women appeared first on Greater Kashmir.

Greenhorns in white coats surrounded me, their brows furrowed, their mouths tight. No one knew why I was slipping away. “Mamuli infection chus,” they said. Just a minor infection. For ten long days, they treated me for gastroenteritis — while inside me, a silent, savage storm brewed. My body was breaking. Not all at once, but slowly, cruelly — in pieces.

Baba sat beside me, terror stitched into his eyes. But fear was not what the doctors noticed.
“Yeman che fakh ewaan,” they diagnosed, noses scrunched. “These villagers stink.” I did not know then what I know now — that smell was apathy. I was rotting inside, and nobody cared.

One evening, a senior doctor pulled Baba aside and said what no parent should ever hear: “Das roz se ziada nahi chalega. Prepare for the worst.” Prepare to bury your son. And with that, they signed my death certificate — a referral letter — and sent me off to SKIMS, Soura.

There, Dr. Afzal Wani — head of neurology — examined me. “The blood flow to his brain has almost stopped,” he said. “We’ll have to operate.” I was wheeled into a cold green corridor. They dressed me in a loose green gown and prepared me for operation theatre.

I was shivering, not from cold, but from knowing that this might be the end and the last time I am bidding adieu to my lifeline, my Baba. Goodbyes are always hard, harder for a person who is being left behind. Baba was inconsolable. “Survival chances in haemorrhage are rare,” the doctor declared. “But we’ll try.” In that moment, I saw my funeral. I saw our village Molvi writing off my name, not addressing me by my first name but a body-bag (Mayyat). I saw a white shroud and trembling hands lowering me into the womb of the earth. I was watching my own Jinaza.

But then… the unexpected happened. The surgery was postponed. Once. Twice. Again. I lay suspended — between this world and the next — for 35 days. Why the delay? What did the surgeon see? Nobody knew. Do you believe in Miracles? I do. Do you believe in divine interventions? I do.

I believe in Shifay’e Aajila (immediate healing), Shifay’e Dayima (lasting healing), and Shifay’e Mustammira (Ceaseless healing). These are gifts from the Almighty. They arrive not when we want, but when He decides. We are impatient creatures.

Three days before everything changed, we visited the abode of Sopore’s mystic saint — Ahad Bab. No grand supplications. No words. I just sat before him. Twenty something souls had surrounded him but his eyes found mine. He locked his gaze and something passed between us. A silence that shook the heavens. After five minutes, we were asked to leave. Outside, people queued for tabaruk. Some received sacred soil. Some sweets. But when my turn came — the assistant handed me a fistful of rice.

“Che chi rezikh,” he said. “You will survive.” And then, magic happened.

One day before Eid, Dr. Wani walked in, his face unreadable. He looked at me and softly said, “Go home. You’re fine.” I broke. I sobbed. Doctors don’t cry — not in front of patients. But I swear to God, I saw tears in his eyes as he kissed my forehead. He was my doctor. He was my angel.

Most people leave that neurology section wrapped in white. Some leave with skulls split. But me? I walked out — untouched. Uncut. Alive. How do you explain that? How do you explain returning from the edge of death? How do you explain mercy when all signs pointed to an ending? Maybe like Bhoomi Chauhan— the Bristol student who missed a doomed Gatwick bound flight by twenty minutes on June 12. Maybe like Vishwas Ramesh, the lone survivor who walked away from the Ahmedabad crash. There is a divine scheme at play. And sometimes, the script rewrites itself. I don’t know why I survived. Perhaps, to tell you that miracles are real.

Post-Script: The recent aviation crash taught us that life is fragile. Don’t stress yourself. We all heal a little faster when we lean on each other. The tragedy is also a stark reminder to never take anyone for granted. We assume we will get the chance to call back, to say “I’m sorry,” or to remind someone we love them. But not everyone gets that chance.

Let’s not let pride, ego, or busyness rob us of connection. Life is unpredictable. If someone is on your mind, reach out. Call them. Text them. Say what you need to say — not later, not when it’s convenient, but now. Because it’s the unfinished sentences, the unsent messages, the unspoken love that haunt us most in the wake of tragedy.

 The author is a senior consultant with a Washington based social impact organization.

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This is not just Eidgah’s story. This is a eulogy for every Maidaan turned into a paid park, garrison, restricted complex for VIP visits and what not? I spent six years scripting sports stories, as a shoe-leather scribe, for All India Radio (Akashvani) Srinagar. I know what a playground means. It’s not just a ground. It’s a stage. A therapy room. A world of endless possibilities. It teaches teamwork, risk, recovery. It holds the bruises and the dreams. Today, Srinagar’s playgrounds are locked, lost, or looted. By events, encroachments and government apathy. Ask any child: “Where do you play?” They’ll point to narrow lanes. And sometimes, rough roads of not-so-smart city.

When play is not a priority, drugs dominate. Play is not a luxury. It’s not a break from education. It is education. It’s how children process fear, joy, loss, and friendship. It’s where they learn to fall and rise again. Srinagar has no play policy. No minister talks of play. No municipal plan maps it. SMC’s job is not to take trash and dump it at Achan and make the lives of the locals miserable. Municipality’s job is to ensure that our children are safe, sound and solid. Last month, 50 playgrounds were built through the Maidaan Cup initiative in restive Dantewada in Chhattisgarh. Ten thousand children benefited. If Dantewada can dream in red zones, why can’t Srinagar dream in green? What stops the local lawmakers?

In the last week of last month, I sent an open letter to our cabinet minister about the grievances and problems of our disabled community. I believe no answer is also an answer: I don’t care. On June 06, I dialled a top official of a particular public sector undertaking to know their inclusion story. He shouted and hung up. That speaks volumes about the smartness of this city. Inclusion starts with a willingness to unlearn. Many in power don’t.

In any healthy democracy with welfare mind-set, you don’t find officers enveloped by apathy. You ask for your rights. What about my street? What about your colony? Can a stroller roll on our footpaths? Can a child cycle safely to school? Where is the inclusive city we’re promised?

UNICEF and UN-Habitat, in 1996, proposed child-friendly cities. In 2017, the UN gave us Shaping Urbanisation for Children. Our planners clearly skipped that class. We witnessed much-hyped Smart City Mission marred by corruption. We saw taxpayer’s money going for a toss. Officially, 90% of the proposed work is complete, then why Srinagar sinks and stinks. Why everyday gridlocks? Why did SCM fail to ease Srinagar’s traffic tensions? Why were playfields excluded in SCM?

On June 07 afternoon, my advocate friend drove me around the city to see how people access recreational spaces. It was the day of joy in the sad city. We reached Pratap Park. I asked her if she can find anything uncommon in the park. After 10 minutes of walk, she gave up. Look, on two extremes of the park, you see SMC powered restrooms. Perfect. No? But in the middle of Pratap Park, there is an old-fashioned Kashmiri taet (latrine). She couldn’t control laughing for next few minutes. Forget about playgrounds, imagine 713.94 crore spent on SSCM couldn’t move a teat from Pratap park in the heart of the city.

Playgrounds are mental health sanctuaries. Philosophers knew this. Aristotle warned: train only for war, and you forget how to live. Harry Overstreet said, “Recreation shapes people.” Initiatives like Chennai’s No Tech Tuesdays and Mumbai’s Equal Streets show us the way. Close the roads to cars, open them to children. Prioritise playfield over parking lots. Insist that every residential block have a play zone.

Remember the summers of our childhood? Mohallah tournaments, those broken windows, bruised knees, stolen fruits and fierce debates over cricket laws? Play was free, loud, and full of mischief. Now, in 2025, our children stand fenced out of fields. Play has become a product. Only those who can pay can play. This is not a lament. It is a call to reclaim joy. The UN Convention on the Rights of the Child—Article 31—recognises every child’s right to rest, leisure, and play. When cities ignore this, they are not just failing their future; they are violating a right.

Srinagar must rise. Demand play. Demand space. Let us push the administration to draft and adopt a Child-Friendly Urban Policy. Let every maidan be maintained, not encroached. Can people in power also encroach? What? I can’t hear you. Are you saying might is right? No, we are ruled by popular government. We voted them to power. They will ensure that our children have free access to playgrounds/parks one day.

Did you just say that today’s busy Jahangir-chowk was a vast playground a few decades ago? Seriously? Golbagh playground paved way for High Court of J&K. but why? Due to political pressure? Yes, I know there was a playground nearby, exclusively meant for women, called Zanana Park, I see civil secretariat there. There was Khaar Maidaan (chandmari ground) in Batamallo. But where is it now? Sir Mohammad Iqbal park in Hazuribagh was once a famous football ground. Hair-raising? Even Habbakadal’s Gudoodbagh Maidaan is gone. So, University of Kashmir’s Convocation Complex is built on a playground? Oh My God.

June 11 last year was the first International Day of Play following a campaign that called on the United Nations to promote play in the lives of children everywhere. It was an urgent need to “put play back on the agenda”. But children in war situations and conflict zones, in the words of Palestinian poet Mosab Abu Toha, “are not learning how to paint, how to colour, how to ride their bikes – they are learning to survive.”

When a city ignores its children, it erases small joys such as climbing a tree, chasing pigeons in the park etc. Why aren’t they considered in city planning? In absence of playgrounds, children see this city as chaotic, confusing, and often unfriendly. Inclusive cities are designed with children and PwDs at the centre. Tim Gill, in Urban Playground, argues that play must be as essential as water and power. Why not here? Now, play is a privilege. Pay to enter. Pay to play. Or stay home and scroll. Our children don’t want malls. They want mud. They don’t demand much— Just space. And time. And a city that remembers joy. A city that plays is a city that heals. A city that fences play is a city that dies. Let Srinagar not be that city. Children may not vote. But they are watching. And we owe them an inclusive playground.

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This missive comes to you not from an office desk, but from a place of lived reality — a reality shared by over half a million persons with disabilities in Jammu and Kashmir. And yet, despite our numbers, we remain invisible in budgets, policies, and now, in your recent decision.

On April 03, 2025, the Department of Social Welfare, under your ministry, issued an official order enhancing the monthly disability pension under the Integrated Social Security Scheme (ISSS) from ₹1000 to ₹1250 — a hike of ₹250 for the vast majority of the invisible minority.  As someone who is deeply fascinated by disability rights movements and works for the disability justice, it was a huge disappointment for me and my ilk. If my memory serves me right, I remember you pledging tripling disability pension at an event in Jammu on December 21, 2024. Why didn’t you live up to your promise? We are your Riaa’yah, and you are our Haakim. Why did you let us down? Who will take care of us, if not you? We vote with the hope that we will be empowered but what empowerment comes with additional ₹250?

After years of waiting, of hoping, of pleading, of dragging our bodies through bureaucracy and our souls through apathy—you handed us ₹250. A number so small it mocks us more than it supports us. A number that speaks louder than all your press releases. In the past decade, the price of LPG has risen from ₹410 to over ₹1100. The average price of essential medicines has nearly doubled. A kilo of rice costs ₹50. Even a simple wheelchair now costs upwards of ₹6000. Yet our support from the state, until now, remained frozen at ₹1000 — a sum insufficient even for a month’s medical needs, let alone food, clothing, or transport. With the recent revision, the state now gives us ₹1250 per month.

Madam Minister, the private sector remains largely inaccessible to people with disabilities. Government job quotas remain under-implemented. Most educational institutions lack ramps, tactile books, sign language interpreters, or assistive devices. And public transport? A nightmare for anyone who doesn’t walk on two “normal” legs. And why aren’t you recruiting special educators for thousands of disabled children? In a nutshell, we face exclusion at every level — structural, social, and economic. Yet, in response, we are offered ₹250 more after nearly a decade. Is this what our dignity is worth?

We are the disabled of Jammu and Kashmir. Over 6.6 lakh of us, if we go by current estimates — although no one’s bothered to count us properly since 2011. We are blind. We are deaf. We are neurodivergent. We are in wheelchairs and on crutches. We have scars you can’t see and syndromes you can’t name. We are your neighbours, your voters, your citizens. But to you, it seems, we are invisible. How else do you explain this “revision”? Let’s not even call it that. Let’s call it what it is: a cruel joke, an insult. You say this hike is a step forward. We say it’s a slap.

Do you know what this pension means to us? For many, it’s the only income. It buys pain relief. It pays for trips to hospitals. It fills stomachs with something—anything—so that survival can be stretched just a little further. It keeps hope flickering, just barely.

But you don’t see that, do you? You don’t see the blind boy in Baramulla who gave up school because there was no Braille. You don’t see the girl in Kupwara who dropped out because the ramps were built at a 90-degree angle. You don’t hear the mother in Rajouri crying herself to sleep because her son’s hearing aid stopped working three months ago and she hasn’t received the pension. You don’t notice the man in Kishtwar dragging himself down a 3 km hill to check if ₹1000 has magically appeared in his account—only to find nothing. You may not see us but we are here.  And we demand to be treated like human beings—not as burdens. Not as statistics. Not as afterthoughts.

What do we get? ₹1250. And the cold silence of a government that thinks it has done enough. Let us be clear: we are not asking for charity. We are demanding justice. We are demanding what Article 41 of the Constitution guarantees. We are demanding what the Rights of Persons with Disabilities Act, 2016, enshrines in law. We are demanding that our state honour its duty—it’s moral, legal, and ethical responsibility. Section 24 of the Rights of Persons with Disabilities Act, 2016 (RPwD Act) outlines the government’s responsibility to formulate schemes and programs that safeguard and promote the right of persons with disabilities to an adequate standard of living and enable them to live independently in the community. What is adequate about ₹1250 in 2025? What is dignified about ₹41.66 a day? There is no dignity in scraps. There is no justice in neglect.

Dear Minister, you are in a position of great influence. You can change this narrative. This meagre hike needs to be re-evaluated. It must, at least, be brought to national standards. These are not impossible demands. These are constitutional promises. And fulfilling them will not just uplift the disabled community — it will reflect a government’s commitment to humanity.

In a democracy, the worth of a society is measured by how it treats its most vulnerable. Persons with disabilities in Jammu and Kashmir are not asking for privilege. We are simply asking to be seen, to be heard, and to be valued beyond tokenism. Madam Minister, you can choose to be remembered as the one who broke a nine-year silence with a ₹250 note — or the one who truly brought change. We believe in your ability to listen, to feel, and to act. And we hope this letter moves you — not as a file, but as a voice from the ground. This letter is not political. It is personal. And we hope you will make it personal too.

Because the ₹1250 you offer us today may look like a policy achievement in an office file.
But in our homes— it is the price of despair. We demand:

1. An immediate revision of the monthly pension to at least ₹5000 (irrespective of age).
2. An annual indexing of pension to inflation, so we are not forced to wait another nine years while prices soar and bodies decay.
3. Time-bound disbursement — no more 6-month delays.
4. A Disability Rights Taskforce with actual representation from persons with disabilities. Kindly stop designing policies about us without us.

Let it be known that when the time came, you listened. You acted. You rose above bureaucracy and showed compassion. Show us that our lives are worth more than paper tokens. Show us that you care—not just for files, but for people.

We are looking forward to hearing from you. We hope you will come up with a pleasant surprise. Fingers crossed.

Gratefully Yours,

Abid.
On behalf of the disability community of Jammu and Kashmir.

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