A massive mandate propelled by an emotional appeal. The honour of a cap – a toop. In Muslim and Punjabi cultures, a pagdi or topi is not an accessory; it is dignity. It is honour.
Kashmiris, as history has repeatedly shown, are exceptionally emotional and close-knit people. This emotionality was behind the rise of Jammu and Kashmir National Conference founder Sheikh Abdullah in the 1940s. His grandson, Omar Abdullah, invoked the same sentiment, and it struck a chord. People voted. The National Conference returned to power after a decade with a mandate that was less electoral and more emotional.
The manifesto was people-centric, built around “dignity” and the promise of restoring “Kashmir’s lost glory”. Statehood was the centrepiece. The man would fight. That was the promise.
Nineteen months into power, nobody seems to know what is happening. Not the public, outraged over unfulfilled promises. Not the legislators, visibly disgruntled. Not the opposition, which has moved from criticism to fury. Kashmir’s politics today is a picture of frustration and dismay.
The Chief Minister’s most repeated words have become his most hollow ones: “They don’t let me work.” But governance is not only about what others allow you to do. There are things within his control. The question nobody can answer, because nobody has asked him directly, is whether those things were ever done.
Talks on statehood may have failed. Or such talks may never have happened at all. The distinction matters, and the Chief Minister has not been made to explain it. A man who plays golf and runs marathons understands the discipline of consistent effort. Governance demands the same. Seeking statehood demands even more.
What followed was predictable to anyone paying attention. Hands were joined in PAGD, an alliance of majority of Jammu and Kashmir’s political parties. Parties came together around a shared demand. That alliance fractured. Blame followed. “Iski topi uske sar“. The cap that once symbolised dignity became something passed around, placed on whoever was most convenient to blame.
Now the Chief Minister is calling for those same hands to join again. The same parties. The same demand. The same street. If what was built once collapsed under its own contradictions, the question worth asking is whether this is a genuine second attempt or a performance designed to distribute the weight of inevitable failure.
Ladakh offers a different story. Its leaders fought for what they claimed was their right, and they were transparent about every step. What they asked for, what they were told, and where things stood. They kept talking, negotiating, renegotiating, returning when doors closed. They came home with their heads held high: an assembly with legislative powers and their caps intact.
Omar Abdullah took it upon himself to fight for Kashmir’s statehood. That was his promise, not something imposed on him. If he has now concluded that confrontation with the Central Government is the only path forward, he should know that the emotional capital he spent in 2024 is gone. The “toop” cannot be invoked twice.
When the Chief Minister sits at Jantar Mantar with his elected members to seek statehood, people will be watching with the particular sharpness of those who have been disappointed before. They know the difference between a genuine fight and a mantar – words spoken with ceremony that carry no real intent.
