Kashmir's Airwaves Once Had A Soul. Her Name Was Zoon.

By Zaheer Majeed

There was a time in Kashmir when Thursdays belonged to Zoon Dub.

At 9:15 PM sharp, everything else stopped: dinner conversations, shopkeeping, even quarrels.

Radios crackled to life across the valley, tuned religiously to what was then Radio Kashmir, Srinagar.

What followed was not just a 20-minute serial drama. It was a collective ritual.

And the plot was simple.

Zoon, a village woman with wit and wisdom, offered commentary on everything from politics to patriarchy, often without naming either.

Her world was local, but her insight was universal. What elevated the show, however, was its writing. It was sharp, subversive, and steeped in Kashmiri humour.

And the magnetic voice of Shameem Banu, who played Zoon with such authenticity that listeners felt she lived next door.

The legend has it that people would even skip weddings to hear Zoon. She wasn't merely a character, she was a phenomenon.

Created by Ali Mohammad Lone, one of Kashmir's finest dramatists, Zoon Dub aired for nearly two decades, becoming the longest-running and most popular radio drama in the Valley's broadcasting history.

Its format was deceptively light. A monologue, a few interactions, but its impact was seismic.

Zoon's gentle barbs exposed corruption, critiqued bureaucracy, and challenged regressive customs, all while making listeners laugh.

It was satire that didn't shout, commentary that didn't preach.

The show's success was rooted in its craftsmanship. Lone's scripts were lyrical yet grounded, drawing from Kashmiri folklore, idioms, and everyday speech.

Shameem Banu's delivery turned every line into lived experience. She had no training, but her voice had gravity. She was Zoon.

At the height of its popularity, Zoon Dub rivaled television in influence, especially in rural areas where TV hadn't yet arrived. Listeners wrote letters, sent gifts, and even visited the station hoping to meet Zoon.

Teachers used her quips in classrooms. Politicians tuned in uneasily, aware they might be the next subject of her critique.

But the show's cultural dominance couldn't shield it from institutional decay. As the 1990s strife intensified, key staff fled, and Radio Kashmir became a guarded, skeletal version of its former self.

When Shameem Banu passed away in the late 2000s, Zoon Dub died with her.

The archives still hold her recordings, but few have heard them in years. The reels-some digitized, many still fragile-gather dust behind locked doors at Radio Kashmir. There is no plan to re-air them, no public memorial for the voice that once united a people.

The tragedy is not just that Zoon Dub ended. It's that we let it vanish without a trace.

In today's Kashmir, where FM channels churn out pop playlists and podcasts cater to urban youth, Zoon Dub feels like a relic.

But its disappearance is not merely a consequence of changing tastes, it reflects a broader cultural amnesia.

The institutions that created such masterpieces are either broken or inaccessible. The drama unit that produced Zoon Dub, once hailed as the finest in India, is barely functional. Writers aren't groomed. Performers aren't supported.

And so, Zoon remains silent.

But for those who remember her, she remains vivid. A reminder of what Kashmiri storytelling once was and what it could still be.

Her laugh, her wisdom, her resilience echo in memory, even if the airwaves have forgotten.

In a valley searching for itself, perhaps it's time to turn the dial back, to Zoon Dub, and the kind of art that spoke truth with a smile.

• The writer is a retired lecturer from Budgam.

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