Through the eyes of a student from Gujjar Pati, the narrative explores the struggles and fading traditions of a community grappling with identity and recognition amidst changing societal values.
I teach at a college perched on the crest of a hill in north Kashmir. From this vantage point, the view is nothing short of breathtaking. To the front, the shimmering expanse of Wullar Lake stretches out in serene beauty, while to the right and behind rise the dense, green mountains, majestic and unyielding. On the left lies the picturesque town, dotted with small clusters of homes, their tin roofs glinting under the sun. Beyond the town, hamlets cling to the mountainside at heights that are both awe-inspiring and intimidating. Every time I gaze up at those scattered homes, bathed in sunlight, I can’t help but wonder about the lives of the people living there—how they endure, especially during the harsh Kashmiri winters.
One of my students, Sahil Khatana (SK), comes from one such hamlet, nestled at what seems to be the most daunting of altitudes. He calls it Gujjar Pati. A few days ago, during the farewell event for the outgoing batch, he became the talk of the college. His mesmerising performance, a traditional dance to a Gojri song, captivated everyone. It was a dance that spoke of the rich culture and heritage of his community.
One day, as I sat on the college lawn, basking in the afternoon sun, I spotted him walking by and called him over for a chat. What started as a casual conversation soon turned into an impromptu interview. His confidence and the clarity of his responses were remarkable, and I was eager to learn more about his life.
So, where exactly do you come from?
Gujjar Pati.
(Sahil raised his arm, pointing towards the towering mountain that stood like a sentinel behind our college. His eyes traced the path as if showing me the exact spot of his home nestled somewhere in the craggy heights.)
Is it difficult to reach your village? What about the connectivity?
Yes, it is. The matador takes us part of the way, about two kilometres from my home, and drops us off. From there, I have to climb a steep, narrow gravel path every day. Maybe that’s why I’m so slim, sturdy, and tall—it’s a daily workout.
(Sahil smiled as he said this, his humour revealing the resilience behind his words.)
And what about the winters, when it snows or when someone in the family falls ill?
Winters are tough, no doubt. But we’ve grown used to it. We don’t often suffer from serious illnesses, but when we do, we manage. We carry the sick person to the point where the road ends and from there, it’s easier to get them to medical help. It may look daunting from down here, but when you’ve lived it, it doesn’t seem as difficult as it appears.
Sahil, you recently danced to a Gojri song during the farewell. It was distinct—both the song and the dance. They must be very popular in your village.
They used to be, but not anymore. It’s sad. Over the last few years, our traditional Gojri songs and dances have started losing their relevance. Hardly anyone appreciates them now. It’s mostly the elderly who still prefer them. When I was around 8 or 10 years old, the sound of a drumbeat could fill the whole Gujjar Pati with life. But now, even the drum is fading into silence.
A drumbeat that could fill the entire village with life? How was it so invigorating, and why has it become irrelevant now?
(His eyes lit up as he remembered.) We have a distinct culture from the Kashmiri people. Our livelihoods, for the most part, depend on rearing cattle, especially sheep and goats. In the past, before winter set in and the heavy snowfalls blocked our movement, people would gather in groups to cut grass in the highlands, where it grew in abundance. And they didn’t do it alone—drummers and singers would accompany them. The drumbeats gave them courage and energy, pushing them to work faster. The faster the beat, the quicker the grass was cut. The best drum bands were always in demand, and they earned good money.(He paused, smiling wistfully.)
It wasn’t just work—it was a celebration. People would joke and laugh about the ‘competitions’ in the fields all winter long. The drumbeats and Gojri songs were the soundtrack of our lives. But now, those sounds are fading. Until a few years ago, no wedding was complete without dancers moving to the rhythm of the drums and singing Gojri songs late into the night. The women would sing madrigals—special songs in pure Gojri—wishing happiness for the bride and bridegroom. But the madrigals are lost now too.
(Sahil’s voice trailed off as if the weight of what was lost was too heavy to carry.)
What do you mean by your culture being different from Kashmiri? Aren’t you Kashmiri?
Well, that’s what we call the people living in the plains who speak Kashmiri. Up where I live, we don’t speak Kashmiri much, although we understand it. And when we do try to speak it in the plains, our accent—how we pronounce the words—often gets in the way, and sometimes we face discrimination or even humiliation because of it. Some of us are more comfortable with Punjabi or Pahari (a regional language spoken in the hills) than with Kashmiri. We speak Gojri, and sometimes we’re referred to as ‘Gojri’ by those we call Kashmiri, but often in a dismissive or even mocking way. You see, Kashmiri people tend to think of themselves as superior, and we Gujjars (a traditionally nomadic ethnic group) are very aware of that. There’s a clear disparity—a difference in status or treatment—between us. This divide is understood on both sides. Since we Gujjars know we’re distinct, we often refer to the people from the plains as Kashmiri. Sometimes, we use it in a dismissive way too.
But there’s more to it. Over time, this disparity has led to many of us, especially the younger generation, developing an inferiority complex (a persistent feeling of being less important or worthy than others). It’s not something that happened all at once, but it’s certainly happening. You can see it now in how we celebrate festivals, weddings, and cultural events. The younger girls prefer singing Kashmiri or Punjabi songs, thinking these are more modern, more refined, or advanced compared to our traditional Gojri songs. Sadly, the old traditions—like drum beating, dancing, and singing bands—are fading. Those performers, who were once the heart of our celebrations, aren’t invited to weddings anymore. Now, DJs and Punjabi music dominate the events. Our cultural identity is changing, and it seems no one is worried about what’s being lost.
That sounds like a profound change. Have you thought about how you could preserve your culture?
Yes, it’s something I think about often. Studying literature at the college opened my eyes to the power of language. I’ve always wanted to write about all of this. We don’t have anyone representing us, telling our stories, especially in a powerful way. To truly represent a community, you need a language that can capture its essence and communicate it widely.
English, for most of us, is almost non-existent—people up in my village rarely know it, and they don’t see its value. Kashmiri isn’t spoken well by the Gujjars either, and writing in it is even more unlikely. So, there’s a gap. Most of my people don’t know how to preserve their culture in their own language. That’s why I thought learning English, which is read and understood by the largest number of people globally, would be the best way to write about my people. Through English, I want to capture what’s happening to us—the slow erosion of our identity—and share it with the world.
Do you feel that your community is dispossessed or disowned?
We don’t even exist for most people—except when it’s convenient. Take the elections, for example. Suddenly, a few things start appearing, like roads being fixed or promises being made. But here we are, in the 21st century, and I still have to climb two kilometres every day from where the matador drops me off. No one really complains anymore because no one listens. When you’re deprived of basic facilities for so long, you don’t just stay backwards—you begin to accept that identity. It becomes internalized. And once that happens, it gets normalized. When that sense of backwardness becomes normal, you unconsciously start imitating those you perceive as more advanced. That’s what we Gujjars do in relation to the Kashmiri. We might not openly admire them, but in subtle ways, we imitate their ways, and their customs.
If I’m not mistaken, the government has been trying to do more for the Gujjar community, like launching schemes and increasing job quotas. Isn’t that helping?
Yes, there are some benefits. But there’s a big difference between providing temporary benefits and truly emancipating a community. Uplifting people means more than just offering schemes. It’s about improving education, infrastructure, healthcare, and most importantly, preserving cultural identity. The problem is that most people don’t even understand what it means to have a distinct cultural identity or how to preserve it. And it’s painful to see that the system doesn’t do anything to ensure that preservation. People aren’t taught these values, and their ignorance isn’t seen as a problem by the system.
(Sahil’s voice grew more passionate, his frustration evident.)
The people know hundreds of ways to protect their livestock from predators, but they don’t know how to preserve their own identity. This ignorance isn’t their fault—it’s been socially constructed. When a system ignores you for so long, it doesn’t just neglect your physical needs; it erases your sense of self. That’s what we’re going through.
The writer is an Assistant Professor at HKM Government Degree College (GDC) Bandipora. His writing “mainly focuses on mini-narratives, local practices and small-scale events that could otherwise be lost forever to the oblivion of untold histories”. His short story collection titled ‘The Cankered Rose’ is his first major forthcoming work.
Ghulam Mohammad Khan