Public life in Jammu and Kashmir moves in a cycle that leaves people drained of hope.

Every election brings a wave of trust. Villagers open their doors, shake hands with candidates, listen to long speeches on employment and development, and keep faith that this time will be different.

Once the results come, the distance returns.

Phone calls are ignored, letters remain unanswered, and the everyday voter disappears from the frame until the next polling day. Many Kashmiris feel that their value ends with the ink mark on their finger.

This growing gap between elected leaders and citizens has weakened the democratic spirit of our region.

I still remember my days in Punjab, where an MLA from a ruling party studied his Ph.D. with us. He lived like any student, moved without escorts, waited in lines, and spoke to everyone with ease. There was no show of rank in his behaviour.

That memory often returns when I see how power is displayed in Kashmir.

A person who wins a seat suddenly expects deference. The idea of a representative slowly shifts into the idea of a ruler. For a poor person who needs help, meeting an MLA often means spending an entire day outside a gate for a brief moment of attention. Even that moment depends on which party he supported.

This practice has turned public service into a form of punishment for those who stand outside the circle of influence.

Political favouritism has pushed the youth into despair. Students with postgraduate degrees line up for exams, interviews, and endless verification rounds, while those with political backing walk into jobs meant to be filled through merit.

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