In the heart of Kashmir’s apple orchards and sleepy villages, childhood once unfolded gently with the rustle of chinar leaves, the echo of children’s laughter on dusty lanes, and the soothing aroma of kahwa simmering in clay cups. Life moved with the seasons, and childhood was shaped by simple joys: a game of gully cricket near the canal, stories told by grandmothers beside the hearth, the distant melody of the rabab floating through the evening air.
Our grandparents would sit with us in the fading light, telling tales like ‘Shale Kaaken Daleel’ stories woven with lessons of wisdom, courage, and kindness that shaped our values and gave us a sense of identity. Once, children spent much of their childhood in their maternal homes, enveloped by the love and freedom that only a mother’s village could provide. A night away from home was rare; the morning after would often bring the soft call to stay a while longer, to play by the streams, to breathe the air heavy with apricot blossoms.
Today, the rhythm is reversed. A single night’s stay at the maternal home is now a rare indulgence. By dawn, a child is hurriedly called back: “It’s getting late for school.” The maternal home, once a sanctuary of childhood, is now visited mostly during Eid, when fleeting reunions replace the daily warmth that once nourished generations. From the time children enter Class 8, their lives are pulled into the ever-growing world of coaching centres private halls where the warmth of village schools is lost amid rows of desks, ticking clocks, and hurried lessons. This coaching is not a mere extra; it has become a parallel education system, overshadowing the very schools children attend.
Giant billboards proclaim promises of success, while children leave behind the freedom of village fields for regimented schedules and endless tests. Their days are measured not by play or wonder but by performance and pressure. The cost is more than just academic. Exposure to this market-driven culture seeps into young hearts early. Boys and girls who once roamed barefoot in orchards now dress to impress, mimicking fashions they see in glossy ads or on screens. They spend weekends posing for photos on the Zero bridge of Srinagar, their carefree smiles replaced by anxious attempts to look grown-up.
The simple village child, who once found joy in a cricket bat made from a broken branch, now chases after brands of the clothes they wear, the gadgets they carry, the symbols of status that mark the divide between rich and poor. This divide is widening fast. Children from well-to-do families attend expensive coaching classes, with private tutors and resources aplenty. Others, from modest homes or government schools, either cram into overcrowded batches or miss out altogether. The classroom, once a shared space where children of farmers and shopkeepers learned side by side, now reflects this growing inequality. It is not just knowledge that separates them but accents, clothes, gadgets, and confidence a shift that threatens the very spirit of Kashmiri village life. Competition itself is not the enemy.
A healthy sense of challenge can build discipline and resilience. But when success is reduced to marks and ranks alone, we lose sight of what truly matters. A child may top exams yet fail in life’s deeper lessons kindness to neighbours, respect for nature, and humility in success. Our culture rich with storytelling during long winters, with songs and hospitality in the warm summers taught us that success meant more than certificates. It meant being a good person, a neighbour, a bearer of tradition. Yet, children are rarely given time to think beyond the narrow paths set before them. Most carry the burden of two dreams thrust upon them by well-meaning parents: to become a doctor or an engineer. This limited vision stifles the natural curiosity that once led children to explore, invent, and imagine new futures beyond the village fields.
The way forward is clear. Our schools must reclaim their role as the heart of learning offering strong teaching, mentorship, and space for creativity, where coaching becomes a choice, not a necessity. Parents must protect their children’s childhood, shielding them from the early and unnecessary pressures of market trends and competition. Communities must work to bridge divides through scholarships, free coaching, and collective support ensuring every child has a fair chance. We must redefine what it means to succeed.
Let the values of kindness, creativity, and curiosity stand tall alongside academic achievement. Kashmir is not merely a place to build careers; it is a land where the greatest lessons are still learned for free beneath the chinar tree, by the riverside, around the fire with elders sharing tales of the past.
If we let the rush for competition erase these treasures, the loss will not only be of childhoods but of the very soul of Kashmir’s villages a soul that once nurtured generations with hope, resilience, and a deep sense of belonging.
(The author is educator at GGHSS Yaripora Kulgam and can be reached at: [email protected])
