The Heart of Srinagar Isn’t Beating Like It Used To

By Syed Majid Gilani There was a time in Srinagar’s Shehr-e-Khaas, when life was shaped by community concern and shared lives. The old wooden homes, narrow lanes, and crowded courtyards weren’t just part of the landscape. They held together a society where people leaned on each other. Not out of need, but habit, affection, and duty. In those modest homes, where means were limited and space was tight, hearts were generous. Neighbours weren’t just people living next door. They were part of the family. Doors were open, physically and emotionally. If a child stayed out too long, any elder could ask where they’d been. If joy or grief entered a home, it spread to the whole street. No one waited for an invitation to help. Food carried meaning. When someone made Tehri, Halwa, or Harisa, neighbours received a portion. It wasn’t a formality, it was the quiet way of saying, “You’re part of us.” Happiness was shared. So was sorrow. No one ate alone in celebration, and no one suffered in silence. Public spaces mattered too. Men gathered in waani pend, hamams, or bakeries. Those social spaces were informal forums for news, debate, and decisions. Elders carried no official title, but their words had weight. Disputes were settled face to face. Advice was given freely. Peace was restored through counsel, not courts.

Women were protected by the community, not just their families. If trouble brewed inside a home, the women next door would notice. They’d intervene gently, offer help, or take steps to protect. If a married daughter stayed too long with her parents, quiet questions were asked. Not out of judgment, but concern. These checks were woven into everyday life, silent but strong. Children belonged to the neighbourhood. Any elder could discipline a child, and parents welcomed it. Respect for elders wasn’t taught, it was absorbed. To misbehave in front of an elder was a disgrace. Not just to the child, but to the family. Hardship was never faced alone. If someone fell ill, lost a job, or suffered a loss, the neighbourhood rallied. Food arrived quietly. Money was slipped into pockets without fuss. No one asked, “How can I help?” They simply did. Today, those streets feel quieter. Doors stay closed. Disputes go to lawyers. Celebrations happen behind curtains. Grief is endured in isolation. The watchfulness of elders has faded. The gentle intervention of neighbours is rare. Children grow up without the warmth of shared discipline, shared values, shared life. We’ve built bigger homes. But the hearts inside them feel smaller. What once lived on the streets—in gestures, greetings, and glances—now lives in memories. We’ve traded togetherness for privacy, community for convenience. The change hasn’t come overnight. It’s come gradually, silently. As people grew busier, they also grew apart. Technology replaced visits. Silence replaced concern. We stopped showing up. And with that, we stopped belonging to each other.

It’s not just a loss of tradition. It’s a loss of identity. Of how we saw each other, and what we expected of ourselves. Where people once stepped forward with advice, comfort, and help, there’s now hesitation, distance, and fear of overstepping. And perhaps that’s what’s hardest to accept. Not just that the old ways are gone, but that we let them slip away without protest. Shehr-e-Khaas once thrived not on wealth or structure, but on wisdom, patience, and presence. It wasn’t perfect. But it was human. It offered a kind of dignity, where problems were shared, and solutions came from within. As that spirit fades, something deeper is lost. A bond, a rhythm, and a way of life where people didn’t just live beside each other, they lived with each other. What remains are stories, and those who still tell them.