When The Tourists Stopped Coming

(MENAFN- Kashmir Observer)
File photo

By Uzma Qadir Mir

Naranag is a village of stones and sky and silence. It sits tucked into the hills of Kangan, in Ganderbal district, a place where the ancient breath of temple ruins lingers among pine forests and the river Sindh curls like a song.

In summer, it hums with life. There are ponies clipping over trails. Tea stalls open early and sleep late. Young boys run alongside trekkers, offering directions or dreams. Women sweep porches of guesthouses. The whole village moves with the season, like a heartbeat in step with the footsteps of strangers.

But this summer is different. This summer, there is no sound.

It started far away, on April 22, 2025, in Pahalgam. A sudden attack. Violence, once again, breaking into the ordinary. And in its wake, a swift decision from the administration: shut down 48 tourist sites. Among them was Naranag.

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The reasoning made sense. Safety. Prevention. A necessary pause.

But what does a pause mean when your entire life depends on motion?

Naranag, in the absence of tourists, becomes a ghost with memory. Guesthouses sit fully furnished, but empty. The roads that once echoed with horns and hooves now lie deserted, shaded by still trees. There are no footprints on the trail to Gangabal. No schoolchild is told to avoid the roadside traffic.

I went to Naranag to ask how people were doing. A man told me,“Some of us bought horses for this season. Others got loans, renovated our rooms, expanded kitchens. We were ready. But now, there's nothing. We're just watching time pass.”

It's not just Naranag that's hurting. But Naranag feels it most deeply, because this village doesn't just host tourists-it breathes through them.

In these short months of warmth, the village earns enough to carry its weight through winter. The math is simple: no tourists, no income. No income, no repairs, no school fees, no weddings, no medicine, no dignity.

Children who once helped their families with ponies or packed food for trekkers now sit home, unused to this stillness. Elders who used to lean on fences and count the arriving taxis now count days instead. In the rhythm of the village, a beat has gone missing.

In Srinagar, people used to drive up to Naranag for a breath of cooler air, a view of the peaks, a walk among ruins older than memory. Even that tradition is on hold.

I worry most about the young people. Their pride in seasonal work has been replaced by restlessness. Some of them wander the village with nothing to do, anxious and bored. When a routine breaks, something else can take its place, something darker.

Drug addiction is already creeping into the Valley. And when there's no work, no hope, and too much time, the risk grows sharper.

Kashmir has always known how to survive. But survival, like tourism, is also about timing. When a season is lost, a year is lost.

Tourism accounts for about seven percent of Kashmir's GDP. It feeds over two hundred thousand people, directly or indirectly. Naranag is part of this great network. One guesthouse here means work for a baker in Ganderbal, a carpenter in Kangan, a weaver in Baramulla. The closure doesn't just shut doors in one village. It shakes a web that stretches across the region.

Last year, Kashmir saw nearly three million visitors. There was hope again. Hope that the post-COVID world would bring back the economy, inch by inch. Then April came, and it slipped away. News reports spoke of lakhs of cancellations. But in Naranag, the cancellations weren't on paper. They were in kitchens with no rice, in stables with idle ponies, in bank accounts with minus signs.

Still, the villagers aren't asking for magic. They aren't even asking for full reopening. They're asking for balance.

There are ways. Let tourists come in small numbers. Give passes. Station guards. Let villagers help patrol trails. Offer them work in keeping the paths safe. Provide a little money, just enough to last the season. ₹10,000 or ₹15,000 can mean a lot here. More than money, it gives a feeling of being seen.

Even former Chief Minister Mehbooba Mufti called it“collective punishment.” Many on the ground don't seem to disagree with that statement.

Amid anguish, the ruins still stand. The river still flows. And the people still wait.

One pony handler told me,“We just want to work again. That's all.” He said it gently, like someone asking not for a favour, but for the chance to earn one.

Naranag is small, but its silence is loud. It tells us what's at stake when safety forgets to make space for the living.

It tells us that a village can survive war and winter, but not neglect. It asks us: when will the footsteps return?

• The author is an economics undergraduate at Amar Singh College, Cluster University Kashmir. She can be reached at [email protected]

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