As the tulips bloom in their striking red, they seem to pose a question we cannot afford to ignore: Will we protect what still lives – or wait until it fades into memory?
MUJEEB FAZILI
Over the past few weeks, my journeys back to my roots have grown more frequent. The 50-kilometre road unfolds gently at first; stretching straight for nearly half its length and, for over a kilometre, running alongside the sprawling campus of the Mountain Livestock Research Institute (MLRI), Manasbal, separated only by a line of barbed wire.
Along this serene passage, the world-famous Manasbal Lake glistens to the right on the onward journey – and to the left on return – offering a tranquil visual companion before the road yields to the torturous hills ahead. This stretch is usually a moment of calm. As I drive, I often lose myself in the soothing strains of Urdu ghazals or Kashmiri chakri carried over familiar radio frequencies. Yet, almost involuntarily, my gaze drifts toward the institution that, for a brief yet meaningful chapter of my life, I was entrusted to lead.
I did not arrive there willingly. The posting felt misplaced, distant from my discipline and somewhat outside the spirit of institutional norms. I remember carrying a quiet resistance in those early days. But time, with its subtle persuasion, reshaped perception. What began with reluctance gradually evolved into a deeply engaging and productive experience.
I found reliability in the staff, sincerity among the daily wagers, and an unexpected companionship in the gentle, expressive eyes of the cattle and their young. The farm revealed itself not merely as a workplace, but as a living, breathing ecosystem of effort and potential. Teaching, particularly extension, gained meaning, and research opportunities quietly blossomed. I also found space to engage with simple surgical challenges in animals – an aspect close to my professional core.
Now, each time I pass by, those memories resurface vividly. A brief stop, a few words with the gatekeeper, an inquiry about familiar faces – these have become small rituals of remembrance. And above it all stand the majestic chinar trees, silent sentinels to decades of dedication, resilience, and, at times, institutional neglect. They seem to remember everything.
But it was my most recent visit that stirred something deeper. Near the far end of the farm, the striking bloom of Gul-e-Lala tulips in their full spring glory swayed gracefully in the breeze. Their vivid red petals glowed even from a moving car, appearing as bright specks against the dense, lush green of the cultivated fodder fields. Scientifically, red, with its longer wavelength, travels farther and scatters least, ensuring visibility even in diminished conditions.
Yet beyond physics lies symbolism. In Persian literary tradition, the red tulip represents a heart consumed by love – its dark centre a mark of burning passion and sacrifice. Often described as the “lamp of the mountains,” it embodies longing and devotion.
And still, as I drove past, this poetic imagery slowly gave way to a more urgent reflection. Red is also the universal colour of warning of danger, of urgency, of something demanding immediate attention. Biologically and psychologically, it signals alarm. Suddenly, those fields of tulips no longer felt like mere springtime beauty; they felt like a message.
The MLRI, once a cornerstone of the region’s dairy development, has already witnessed a significant reduction in its land and fodder resources over more than three decades. Reportedly renewed claims continue to threaten what little remains – land that sustains invaluable livestock resources and supports the region’s dairy aspirations. This is not vacant ground; it is life-sustaining soil, nurturing livestock and underpinning the fragile backbone of the rural economy.
At a time when the institute stands on the threshold of progress – poised to establish the valley’s first game-changing bovine embryo transfer centre under HADP, and to strengthen the recently introduced degree programme in dairy technology (which critically depends on functional dairy farms and processing infrastructure) – such threats are particularly concerning.
This season’s bloom of red Gul-e-Lala across the fodder fields feels almost symbolic – a subtle yet insistent signal from nature itself. It reminds us that what is at stake is not merely land, but legacy. The administrators, policymakers, and all stakeholders must awaken to the urgency of preserving this vital institution.
MLRI is not just a farm. It is memory, effort, science, and hope – woven together across generations. Its survival and growth are inseparable from the region’s food security, rural economy, and scientific advancement. As the tulips bloom in their striking red, they seem to pose a question we cannot afford to ignore: Will we protect what still lives – or wait until it fades into memory?
(The Author is Former Prof. & Head, MLRI, SKUAST-Kashmir. Feedback: fazili_mr@yahoo.co.in)