<p>Srinagar: In the saffron fields outside Pampore, 45-year-old farmer Ghulam Rasool bends to inspect the violet blossoms glistening with morning dew. A decade ago, he would have kept one ear tuned to the echo of slogans from a nearby protest or the distant thud of tear gas shells.</p><p>“Now,” he says, straightening up, “we worry only about the weather — not what’s happening on the street.”</p><p>That sentiment captures a quieter, less dramatic transformation underway in the <a href="https://www.deccanherald.com/india/jammu-and-kashmir">Kashmir Valley</a> — a shift in people’s emotional and political mood from anger to endurance and from confrontation to cautious cooperation.</p><p>Six years after the revocation of Article 370 ended Jammu and Kashmir’s special constitutional status, many here are not necessarily waving flags or echoing political slogans. Instead, they are negotiating peace in their own small, personal ways: by investing in business, enrolling their children in better schools, or voting in the recent Assembly elections.</p><p>Srinagar’s Lal Chowk, once a symbol of defiance, today mirrors this subtle recalibration. Cafés and boutique stores crowd the same lanes that once echoed with shutdown calls. Young people with laptops occupy the tables at a new co-working space near Residency Road, discussing start-ups and online marketing.</p><p>“Politics used to be our daily bread — now people want a normal life,” says 27-year-old Aamir Ahmad, who runs a café in old city Srinagar. He remembers his teenage years marked by protests and curfews. “Peace has brought us business. It’s simple — no stone pelting, no hartal, no loss.”<br><br><strong>Peace through dignity, not diktat<br></strong>Yet, this new calm isn’t just about the absence of gunfire. For many Kashmiris, it’s about regaining dignity through stability. “We are tired of being seen as victims or villains,” says social worker Shazia from Budgam, who leads a women’s self-help group. </p><p>“Our empowerment doesn’t come from slogans. It comes from being able to send our children to school, run a small business, and live without fear.”<br>Her collective of 20 women, supported by a Central government rural livelihood scheme, earned ₹12 lakh in turnover last year. Shazia calls it her “azaadi of a different kind” — freedom from dependency.</p><p>The most striking change, however, comes from the younger generation that grew up in the shadow of militancy. For them, India isn’t an occupying abstraction; it’s the larger ecosystem that offers opportunity — scholarships, sports leagues, social media platforms, and sometimes even escape.</p><p>The government’s outreach through Mission Youth and sports programmes has helped many young Kashmiris travel outside the State for training or competitions — experiences that often reshape perceptions.</p><p>“When I went to Chennai for a sports event, I realised how much we isolate ourselves,” says Danish Dar from Sopore. “People were warm. They didn’t see me as different. That changed me.”<br><br><strong>The fading romance of rebellion<br></strong>The decline in militancy is also mirrored in the social rejection of violence. Funeral processions that once drew thousands now attract a few. The ‘martyrdom glamour’ that once surrounded local militants has lost its appeal, eroded by fatigue, exposure, and technology.</p><p>But none of this means Kashmir’s wounds have healed. Political alienation, human rights concerns, and the lingering scars of conflict continue to shape the Valley’s psyche. But within this complexity, a pragmatic optimism is taking root.</p><p>At the Dal Lake, where shikaras now ferry honeymooners from Bengaluru and Guwahati, 62-year-old boatman Abdul Majeed smiles when asked about the change. “We’ve seen enough slogans and stones,” he says. “Now, we want customers.”</p><p>His laughter carries across the still waters, mingling with the hum of distant traffic and temple bells from the Shankaracharya Hill. In that ordinary sound lies something extraordinary — the quiet assertion of a people tired of being defined by strife, seeking instead to belong to a larger, more hopeful story.</p><p>For the first time in decades, Kashmir’s calm doesn’t feel imposed. It feels chosen.</p>
<p>Srinagar: In the saffron fields outside Pampore, 45-year-old farmer Ghulam Rasool bends to inspect the violet blossoms glistening with morning dew. A decade ago, he would have kept one ear tuned to the echo of slogans from a nearby protest or the distant thud of tear gas shells.</p><p>“Now,” he says, straightening up, “we worry only about the weather — not what’s happening on the street.”</p><p>That sentiment captures a quieter, less dramatic transformation underway in the <a href="https://www.deccanherald.com/india/jammu-and-kashmir">Kashmir Valley</a> — a shift in people’s emotional and political mood from anger to endurance and from confrontation to cautious cooperation.</p><p>Six years after the revocation of Article 370 ended Jammu and Kashmir’s special constitutional status, many here are not necessarily waving flags or echoing political slogans. Instead, they are negotiating peace in their own small, personal ways: by investing in business, enrolling their children in better schools, or voting in the recent Assembly elections.</p><p>Srinagar’s Lal Chowk, once a symbol of defiance, today mirrors this subtle recalibration. Cafés and boutique stores crowd the same lanes that once echoed with shutdown calls. Young people with laptops occupy the tables at a new co-working space near Residency Road, discussing start-ups and online marketing.</p><p>“Politics used to be our daily bread — now people want a normal life,” says 27-year-old Aamir Ahmad, who runs a café in old city Srinagar. He remembers his teenage years marked by protests and curfews. “Peace has brought us business. It’s simple — no stone pelting, no hartal, no loss.”<br><br><strong>Peace through dignity, not diktat<br></strong>Yet, this new calm isn’t just about the absence of gunfire. For many Kashmiris, it’s about regaining dignity through stability. “We are tired of being seen as victims or villains,” says social worker Shazia from Budgam, who leads a women’s self-help group. </p><p>“Our empowerment doesn’t come from slogans. It comes from being able to send our children to school, run a small business, and live without fear.”<br>Her collective of 20 women, supported by a Central government rural livelihood scheme, earned ₹12 lakh in turnover last year. Shazia calls it her “azaadi of a different kind” — freedom from dependency.</p><p>The most striking change, however, comes from the younger generation that grew up in the shadow of militancy. For them, India isn’t an occupying abstraction; it’s the larger ecosystem that offers opportunity — scholarships, sports leagues, social media platforms, and sometimes even escape.</p><p>The government’s outreach through Mission Youth and sports programmes has helped many young Kashmiris travel outside the State for training or competitions — experiences that often reshape perceptions.</p><p>“When I went to Chennai for a sports event, I realised how much we isolate ourselves,” says Danish Dar from Sopore. “People were warm. They didn’t see me as different. That changed me.”<br><br><strong>The fading romance of rebellion<br></strong>The decline in militancy is also mirrored in the social rejection of violence. Funeral processions that once drew thousands now attract a few. The ‘martyrdom glamour’ that once surrounded local militants has lost its appeal, eroded by fatigue, exposure, and technology.</p><p>But none of this means Kashmir’s wounds have healed. Political alienation, human rights concerns, and the lingering scars of conflict continue to shape the Valley’s psyche. But within this complexity, a pragmatic optimism is taking root.</p><p>At the Dal Lake, where shikaras now ferry honeymooners from Bengaluru and Guwahati, 62-year-old boatman Abdul Majeed smiles when asked about the change. “We’ve seen enough slogans and stones,” he says. “Now, we want customers.”</p><p>His laughter carries across the still waters, mingling with the hum of distant traffic and temple bells from the Shankaracharya Hill. In that ordinary sound lies something extraordinary — the quiet assertion of a people tired of being defined by strife, seeking instead to belong to a larger, more hopeful story.</p><p>For the first time in decades, Kashmir’s calm doesn’t feel imposed. It feels chosen.</p>