In Srinagar, where Dal Lake’s gentle waves tell tales of old and the Himalayas stand tall like guardians, something incredible happened. Thousands of us Kashmiris came together for the Tiranga Yatra, holding our national flag with hearts bursting with pride and hope. It wasn’t just a march; it was our souls singing for India, a celebration of wounds healing and dreams taking wing.
Thanks to the fearless vision of Prime Minister Shri Narendra Modi Ji, Home Minister Shri Amit Shah Ji, and Lieutenant Governor Shri Manoj Sinha Ji, the bold move to scrap Article 370 in 2019 has swept away the shadows of separatism. It’s pulled us closer to India’s heart, letting love for our nation bloom in the Valley like never before.
As I joined the crowd, the air carried the crisp scent of pine, stirring my soul with a warmth I can’t put into words. Tricolor flags—saffron, white, and green—fluttered along the boulevard from the Sher-i-Kashmir Conference Centre to the lush Botanical Garden. The chant of “Bharat Mata Ki Jai” rose like a river, joined by patriotic songs along the way. Kids in crisp school uniforms waved tiny flags with shining eyes; families stood arm-in-arm, sharing stories of strength; athletes marched with purpose; and elders, their faces carved by time, glowed with memories of a freer past.
The Har Ghar Tiranga campaign lit up the day—balloons soared in bursts of colour, and Kashmiri folk tunes blended with national anthems, weaving a melody of unity. Security stood watch, steady but gentle, wrapping us in safety so we could revel in this festival of freedom, our hearts wide open.
But amid this joy, memories pulled me back to a darker time, when loving my country felt like a dangerous secret. It was 2017, the eve of Independence Day, and the Valley buzzed with tension, like a storm ready to break. I was young, my heart tied to India’s anthem, and with a few brave friends, I dared to dream of raising the tricolour near Taj Vivanta Hotel by Dal Lake—a place where beauty met fear. We weren’t chasing fame; we just wanted to honour our nation in our own land.
It took us two days to even find a flag. We scoured every shop and store in Srinagar, but the tricolour was nowhere to be found, as if patriotism itself was hidden away. Finally, through a soldier friend at Badamibagh Army camp, we got our hands on one—a small flag, but to us, it was everything. We planned in whispers, sipping noon chai in a dim room, far from prying eyes. I drove us in my old Honda City; its silver frame a trusted companion on Kashmir’s winding roads. The seats were warm from the sun, the engine humming softly as we neared the hotel.
In a backpack, we hid that precious flag. The lake’s soft ripples masked the danger, but we knew the risks—unrest hung heavy, ready to spark. I left the car running, doors cracked open, keys in the ignition, ready for a quick escape. My friends and I shared shaky glances, hands sweaty, hearts pounding with thrill and terror.
Raising that flag was a moment of pure light. Its colours—saffron for courage, white for peace, green for hope, and the Ashoka Chakra spinning tales of duty—glowed against the dusk. We tied one end of a rope to the flag and me and my friend climbed partway up the iron mesh fence, trying to secure it firmly to the top. The rest of friends kept watch, murmuring support. For a fleeting second, it felt like we were mending a broken bond, claiming our right to belong. Nervous laughter spilled out; we pictured the flag flying high, shouting that Kashmir’s heart was India’s.
Then, darkness struck. From the alleys, boys on roaring motorcycles appeared, their faces twisted with anger, fed by years of divisive lies. “That’s not our flag! Leave!” they screamed, their voices sharp as knives. Stones flew, cracking the ground near us, each one a jolt to our hearts. Fear swallowed us whole; we didn’t argue. We abandoned our hard-won flag, sprinting to the car, our footsteps pounding like war drums.
I slid into the driver’s seat, slamming the door as my friends scrambled in, breathless and tangled. The Honda City roared as I floored it, tires shrieking, dust swirling. The boys gave chase, their bikes snarling like beasts. For 2 to 2.5 kilometres, they hunted us through Srinagar’s maze—past chinar-lined lanes, markets alive with walnut vendors, and quiet homes where kids played unaware.
In the rear-view, their headlights glared, their shouts mixing with the chaos of horns. I gripped the wheel, knuckles white, weaving through traffic, the car groaning as I dodged potholes. Sweat stung my eyes; my mind screamed with images of what might happen if they caught us. One friend prayed, another begged me to go faster. It felt like forever, each turn a plea for freedom, until we hit Sonwar road, and their bikes faded like a bad dream.
We stopped miles away, hearts hammering, bodies shaking. Silence filled the car, heavy with relief and grief. We were safe, but the wound was deep—a reminder that back then, raising the tricolour could cost you everything. It broke me, made me wonder if our Valley would ever heal, if our love for India would always be a fight.
Today, that same boulevard is a river of joy, not fear. This miracle flows from leaders whose hearts match our mountains’ strength. Shri Narendra Modi Ji dreamed of a Kashmir free from chains, united with India. Shri Amit Shah Ji, with his sharp mind, carved the path by ending Article 370, turning doubters into believers. And Shri Manoj Sinha Ji, our anchor, brought this vision to life with care and courage. At the yatra, his words lit a fire, calling the tricolour our pride, our unity, our destiny. He honoured our soldiers, who face dangers like the recent Pahalgam attack, so we can celebrate without fear.
Remember the sceptics of 2019? They swore the Valley would burn, that no Kashmiri would wave the tricolour, that division would swallow us. Lies, all of them, meant to keep us apart. Instead, ending Article 370 has been a gift of belonging. It’s sparked growth—tourism hums, schools thrive, and our youth build dreams, not walls. The tricolour, once so hard to find, now flies on homes and in hearts, proof that bold hearts can heal deep scars.
This yatra was my salvation, soothing the pain of that 2017 chase. Walking with the crowd, feeling the heartbeat of Desh Bhakti, tears fell—tears of old fears melting into new joy. Seeing kids wave flags fearlessly, elders share tales of unity, families embrace the tricolour as theirs—it broke me open, a rush so deep my heart ached with happiness. What was once a fragile hope is now our truth. I owe my soul’s peace to Shri Narendra Modi Ji, Shri Amit Shah Ji, and Shri Manoj Sinha Ji, who turned our shadows into light.
Walking back after the yatra, the tricolour still in my hand, I felt its fabric hum with victory, not escape. Kashmir, my heart’s home, is India’s shining gem. The patriotism we felt today promises a future where fear is just a whisper, drowned by the tricolour’s endless wave.
From my soul’s depths, I cry: Jai Hind!
(Author is the Practising Advocate at JKL High Court Srinagar & President of J&K High Court Bar Association Srinagar/Kashmir Advocates Association and can be reached at: [email protected])
