A Software Made For Haryana Is Rewriting Kashmir's Land History

(MENAFN- Kashmir Observer)
Representational Photo

By Mohammad Amin Mir

Somewhere in the dusty office of a patwari in South Kashmir, an old register sits half-open, pages curled and ink fading. It contains family names, borders marked in red, and footnotes scribbled in Urdu.

For decades, it's been the only proof of land ownership for entire villages. Now, that register is supposed to live on a computer screen.

The government wants to digitize land records in Jammu and Kashmir. The software is called WebHALRIS. It was originally built for Haryana, a state with flat terrain and a more settled record of who owns what.

But Kashmir is not Haryana. Land here is not just land. It's memory, inheritance, even dispute.

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And putting that into a digital system without checking the facts first is like scanning a torn letter and calling it complete.

The push for digitization comes from the top. Prime Minister Narendra Modi has long advocated for a governance model that is sleek, digital, and fast.

In Kashmir, Lieutenant Governor Manoj Sinha has echoed that vision. Offices have gone paperless. Services have gone online. Revenue records are next. On paper, this sounds like progress. In practice, it's not that simple.

Take the Jamabandi, a key revenue document that records ownership, cultivation, and transfers.

In many parts of Kashmir, Jamabandis were uploaded into the system without any ground checks. Land that belonged to three brothers on paper might actually be in the hands of four after a family settlement that never got recorded properly.

A corner plot may show a single name in English, while everyone in the village remembers it as jointly held, its past written in Urdu and spoken around fires.

The law isn't silent on this.

Article 300A of the Constitution says that no one can be deprived of property except by authority of law.

But when the law is being translated, hurriedly, into a digital form full of errors, people are effectively being cut off from their rights.

The biggest danger is not the software itself. It's the fact that land records in Kashmir are messy, shaped by decades of oral arrangements, family compromises, and overlapping rights.

Before 1947, the system was handwritten, often undocumented. After that, partition, migration, and political unrest only added more layers.

Land was given, taken, settled, lost, and not always on paper.

The Shajra Nasab is a key part of this puzzle. It's a family tree that shows who inherited what. In Kashmir, where succession is deeply tied to land, this record can be more important than a will.

WebHALRIS, as the software stands, doesn't accommodate it. Without it, there's no way to trace ownership through generations. That opens the door to fraud, confusion, and court cases that could drag on for years.

Then there's the language problem.

Urdu is the official language of revenue work in Jammu & Kashmir. It's the language in which judgments have been written, disputes heard, and property transferred.

If WebHALRIS only works in Hindi and English, entire communities will be left out. They won't understand the notices they receive. They won't know how to appeal. This isn't just about comfort, it's about fairness.

Years ago, the late Justice Bahauddin Farooqi warned that when the legal system drifts away from the culture it's supposed to serve, justice suffers. That warning rings loud now.

If the digital system doesn't speak the people's language, it won't speak for them either.

Meanwhile, the patwaris, the lowest rung in the revenue hierarchy, are expected to keep this entire machine running. Many of them have no computers. Some don't have electricity. Internet is patchy.

And yet they're expected to scan, upload, verify, and update records with military speed. Some manage. Many struggle. When errors are found, the blame goes downward.

And here lies another gap: training. One workshop cannot prepare an officer to navigate a system as layered as WebHALRIS.

There are no handbooks, no field guides in local languages, no video tutorials for the ground staff. Without a clear training system, revenue work becomes trial and error, except the stakes here are people's homes and histories.

What is missing, too, is a proper Revenue Manual. In its absence, officers across districts are interpreting rules differently.

One tehsildar may allow a mutation based on oral testimony; another might not. One may enter a family settlement in the record; another may ask for a court order. This kind of uncertainty breaks the spine of any administrative reform.

A new Revenue Manual must be written, not by tech consultants, but by those who've worked the land and the law: retired officers, legal scholars, field staff. It should lay out procedures clearly, in language that's practical, and account for the special conditions of Jammu & Kashmir.

The Lieutenant Governor's office has recognized some of these concerns. Budget allocations have improved. There's talk of better infrastructure. But without regular field monitoring and deeper consultation with local officers, software alone won't fix the system.

The truth is, land is not just property here. It's inheritance. It's memory. It's often the only form of wealth families have.

And so, the job of digitizing land records is not just about files or forms. It's about building trust. That takes time. And patience. And an ear to the ground.

In all this, what is needed most is clarity. Clarity in law, clarity in process, and clarity in language. Because in Kashmir, when the record is clear, the land is at peace. And when it's not, disputes fester for generations.

Digitization is a step forward, yes. But only if the ground is steady before the leap.

• Mohammad Amin Mir is a legal researcher and writer. He focuses on land governance and legal process in Jammu & Kashmir.

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