'I Raised Him, Then He Raised His Hand': Kashmir's Elders Are Growing Old, Alone

(MENAFN- Kashmir Observer)
Representational photo

By Mohammad Hanief

For years, a silver-haired man has appeared like a wandering mystic in Srinagar, his trembling hands punctuating a manic monologue:“I was thrown out of my home by my son...”

This raging revelation is no longer rare in Kashmir. Outside the city's high-security media hub, elderly men often shuffle in and out with photographs of land documents in their pockets. Most of them tell tales of treachery and the growing homelessness in Kashmir.

To shelter these persons wronged by their loved ones, the government on May 20, 2025 inaugurated Kashmir's first government-run old age home in Pandach, just 12 kilometres from the city centre.

The structure offers a safe haven for the region's abandoned elderly. It comes not a moment too soon.

Read Also Distinctive Care and Attention Imperative for Older Parents Sons of Solitude: Exploring Old Age Homes in a Changing Kashmir

But for those who've lost not just shelter but the meaning of family, the opening is also a mirror to a deeper tragedy.

It began quietly. First with separate kitchens, then locked doors, then lawyers.

“Now sons evict parents like tenants,” says Bilal Ahmad, a property lawyer who has handled dozens of such cases in recent years.“The shame is gone. I've had sons show me documents transferring land titles from their fathers-and the next day, filing for restraining orders to keep them out.”

Some sons bring their wives into it; others blame them.

“This culture of the nagging wife is becoming an excuse,” says Farhat Shah, a retired school principal.“But in truth, our sons are choosing comfort over conscience.”

Last year, an elderly man and his wife were filmed being beaten by their own son on the streets of Srinagar. The video, shared widely on social media, showed the man being kicked to the lane while his wife screamed nearby. The reason: a dispute over property.

The father had raised his son with all his love and life-savings. But something in him changed soon after marriage.“He started abusing us every now and then for property rights,” the man said later in a press interview,“He abandoned us in our own home.”

In the 1990s, Kashmir's joint family system was still intact. Sons built second floors above their parents' homes. Eid gatherings were multigenerational. Grandparents passed on not just inheritance but custom, language, and history. Today, that structure is collapsing.

Census data from 2011 showed that 10.4% of Jammu and Kashmir's population is over the age of 60. That number is projected to rise sharply over the next decade, with estimates suggesting it could double by 2036.

Yet, the region has no robust eldercare infrastructure, and public discourse about old age remains wrapped in denial.

The only private old age home in the Valley until now was run by a local NGO, which had to shut its doors last winter due to lack of funding.

“We don't even have basic data,” says Dr. Shazia Bano, a geriatric specialist.“We don't know how many elderly live alone, how many have been disowned, or how many are slipping through the cracks because they can't ask for help.”

Shazia recalls a recent case of an 82-year-old diabetic man who hadn't spoken to his son in three years.

The son lives in the UAE. The father lives in a crumbling single-room structure in Bandipora with no running water.“He still blesses his son every morning,” she says.“But he hasn't eaten properly in months.”

What sociologists call 'empty-nest syndrome' is rapidly hollowing out Kashmiri homes, as sons increasingly leave behind ageing parents, either for careers abroad or to set up new lives with their spouses in Kashmir.

Septuagenarian Zarina Begum's son is a government contractor who dropped her at a relative's place one fine day last year.“He said the house was too small,” she whispers.“But we built that house together.”

Abdul Rashid, 81, shares a similar story of elderly abandonment. A retired carpenter, he spent three decades building homes for others.“I never thought I'd end up in one built for old people,” he says with a dry laugh.

India's Maintenance and Welfare of Parents and Senior Citizens Act, 2007, is clear: adult children are legally bound to care for their parents. But enforcement in Jammu and Kashmir has been patchy at best.

“There is no functional tribunal here to hear such cases,” says advocate Nusrat Amin, who specialises in elder law.“And even when families do come forward, the process is emotionally bruising. Parents hesitate to press charges against their own flesh and blood.”

In one recent case, a 68-year-old widow filed a complaint after being thrown out of her home by her son and daughter-in-law. The case dragged on for eight months before being dismissed on grounds of 'amicable settlement.' She now rents a room in Srinagar and survives on donations from her local mosque.

“This is not how elders should live-or die,” Nusrat says.

Not everyone believes institutional care is the answer. Ahmad Ayaz, a prominent commentator, voiced a sharp critique that resonated widely on social media:“In Kashmiri society, elders have always been the pillars of wisdom, warmth, and continuity... The idea of setting up old age homes may seem like a solution to the rising instances of elderly neglect. But in reality, it reflects a far more troubling trend - a breakdown of family responsibility, emotional connectedness, and collective conscience... If you truly want to help, strengthen the family unit - don't dismantle it.”

Ayaz's words echo a growing anxiety among traditionalists who see the rise of old age homes not as progress, but as cultural loss. For them, institutional care is a symptom, not a cure.

In Srinagar, the silver-haired mystic leaves little to the imagination. His monologue is raw, his reality even more so:“I raised him, then he raised his hand.”

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