Sajid Raina
SRINAGAR: In Kashmir, celebrated comedians and actors, who once brought joy to audiences, now face daily struggles as stages vanish, opportunities fade, and institutional support fails, forcing them into labor to survive, reflecting a cultural decline where art is overshadowed by neglect and the loss of performance spaces.
Bashir Kotur, Mohammad Rafiq, and countless Kashmiri artists, once celebrated for their craft, now battle for survival as their stages disappear, opportunities vanish, and institutional neglect forces them into daily labor, their contributions fading in a world that no longer remembers.
Kotur, a name synonymous with comedy in Kashmir, once had audiences in splits with his wit and humor. Today, he drives an auto-rickshaw to make ends meet. “I spent my whole childhood in the theatre, playing different roles, entertaining people. But now, there’s no benefit in it,” Kotur says, his voice tinged with resignation.
Kotur, a resident of Wathoora in Budgam district, was a prominent figure in Kashmiri theatre until 2002.
He recalls how the art form once thrived, with artists like him dedicating their lives to preserving Kashmiri culture. However, the lack of government support and the exploitation of the industry by a few individuals left genuine artists like him in the lurch.
“Those who were trusted to stand for theatre used it for their own gains. Real artists were neglected,” he laments.
Despite receiving dozens of awards for his work, Kotur has not visited Doordarshan, the public broadcasting service, in over a decade. “The government claims to promote art, but the reality is quite the opposite. I’ve stopped doing government and private programmes because there’s no benefit in it,” he says.
His family often questions his decades-long dedication to theatre, asking what he has achieved. “I have nothing to show for it,” he admits.
Kotur’s story is not unique. It reflects the broader collapse of Kashmir’s cultural scene, where artists are forced to abandon their passion for survival. “If the government is really interested in keeping art and artists alive, they need to take immediate steps,” he urges.
Mohammad Rafiq, another renowned comedian, once graced the stages of Kashmiri theatre and television. Today, he collects parking fees in Srinagar. “I used to make people laugh, but now I’m struggling to make a living,” Rafiq says.
Rafiq’s transition from a celebrated artist to a daily-wage worker highlights the systemic neglect of Kashmiri artists. “The government has done nothing for us. No financial support, no training, no infrastructure. We’ve been left to fend for ourselves,” he says.
The closure of DD Kashir, a prominent platform for Kashmiri artists, in 2010 dealt a devastating blow to the community. “When DD Kashir shut down, it was like someone pulled the rug from under our feet. Many of us were left without work, and the funds owed to us are still pending,” Rafiq explains.
Kashmir’s theatre scene, once vibrant and thriving, is now a shadow of its former self. The traditional folk theatre style, Bhand Pather, which combined satire, play, and dance to address social issues, is on the verge of extinction.
Mushtaaque Ali Ahmad Khan, a prominent theatre activist, blames the government for the decline. “Not a single department of the Jammu and Kashmir government held any programme on World Theatre Day. The Academy of Art, Culture, and Languages did nothing. This shows how little they care about our culture,” he says.
The closure of DD Kashir was a turning point
The channel, which showcased Kashmiri culture, was abruptly shut down due to a lack of funds and human resources. “The closure left hundreds of artists in financial distress. Many were forced to give up their careers,” Khan adds.
Farhat Siddique, one of Kashmir’s pioneering female theatre artists, defied societal norms to join Doordarshan in 1990, during the peak of militancy. “At that time, no women dared to join the theatre. But I walked through the streets of downtown Srinagar to pursue my passion,” she recalls.
Farhat’s first play, Tikk Lal, was a massive success, earning her recognition and admiration. However, her popularity came at a cost. “My relatives stopped talking to me. They harassed my father, saying women shouldn’t work in television,” she says.
Despite the challenges, Farhat continued to excel, becoming a symbol of theatre in Kashmir. But the closure of Doordarshan left her in financial turmoil. “Since 2011, we haven’t received our payments. It’s been a struggle to survive,” she says.
In 2014, Farhat started her own drama club, Mehak Drama Club, to keep the art form alive. However, the lack of government support has made it difficult to sustain. “We’re trying to keep theatre alive, but without support, it’s an uphill battle,” she says.
Kashmir’s rich cultural heritage, a blend of traditions, arts, music, and cuisine, is at risk of being lost. The decline of theatre is not just a loss for artists but for the entire community. “Our culture is our identity. If we lose it, we lose a part of ourselves,” says Khan.
Artists like Kotur and Rafiq have appealed to the government for support, emphasizing the need for financial assistance, digital training, and infrastructure. “Social media can be a powerful tool for artists to showcase their talent. But we need the government’s help to adapt to the changing times,” Kotur says.
Shafiya Akthar, a name that once resonated with pride in Kashmiri theatre and television, now finds herself fighting for survival. Despite receiving hundreds of awards for her performances, Shafiya’s life is a testament to the systemic neglect faced by artists in Kashmir. “I’ve dedicated my life to art, but today, I’m struggling to make ends meet,” she says, her voice filled with frustration.
Shafiya, who has been a part of Kashmiri theatre for over three decades, questions the government’s lack of support for artists. “Where are the policies for artists? Where is the financial assistance? We’ve been left to fend for ourselves,” she says. Her performances, which once brought joy to countless audiences, now seem like a distant memory as she grapples with the harsh realities of life.
“When DD Kashir shut down, it felt like a part of me died. That was our stage, our identity. Now, there’s no place for us to perform,” she says. Despite her contributions to Kashmiri art and culture, Shafiya has received no recognition or support from the government. “They give us awards, but what good are awards when we can’t even feed our families?” she asks.
“We’ve kept Kashmiri culture alive through our art. But who will keep us alive?” she questions.
Salman Kumar, another artist who once worked with Doordarshan, now works at a local brick kiln to make ends meet. “I used to perform on television, but now I’m working at a brick kiln. It’s heartbreaking,” he says.
“Art is in my blood. I hope one day I can perform again,” he says. However, the lack of government support has made it difficult for him to pursue his passion. “The government talks about preserving culture, but they’ve done nothing for artists like us,” he adds.
The DD
Before 2010, Prasar Bharati played a crucial role in supporting the state government by commissioning serials and other Doordarshan programs, providing a vital platform for local artists. Many of these artists thrived during this period, with some even establishing private production houses and securing empanelment with Mandi House in New Delhi. This ecosystem allowed them to sustain their craft and contribute significantly to Kashmir’s cultural landscape.
Alongside the active Doordarshan Kendras in Jammu, Srinagar, and Leh, the launch of DD Kashir in 2003 marked a major milestone. The channel not only showcased Kashmiri culture but also brought in additional funding, creating more opportunities for local artists. For a time, it seemed like a golden era—artists had platforms to showcase their talent, earn a livelihood, and keep Kashmiri traditions alive.
However, the abrupt closure of DD Kashir in 2010 due to a lack of funds and resources brought this flourishing ecosystem to a standstill. The sudden withdrawal of support left many artists in financial distress, forcing them to abandon their passion and seek alternative means of survival. Once-thriving artists who had established production houses and contributed significantly to Kashmiri culture now found themselves struggling to make ends meet.
Local artists question the new film policy: “What about us?”
While the government’s introduction of the 2024 Film Policy has been hailed as a step towards reviving Kashmir’s cultural and cinematic landscape, local artists are raising concerns about its lack of focus on their welfare.
The policy, which aims to boost film production in the region by offering financial incentives and opening up new filming locations, has left many wondering how it will directly benefit the local artistic community.
“The policy talks about subsidies for filmmakers, developing studios, and attracting big productions to Kashmir, but what about us? The local artists who have been struggling for years?” asked Foziya Khan, veteran Kashmiri actress. “There’s no mention of how this policy will create opportunities for local talent or provide us with the support we need to survive.”
The policy offers a 10% subsidy on production costs and an additional 25% subsidy for films that win national or international awards. However, it does not outline any specific measures to empower local artists, such as training programs, financial assistance, or platforms to showcase their work.
“The government is inviting filmmakers from outside to shoot here, but what about the artists who have been part of Kashmiri cinema and theatre for decades? We’ve been ignored for years, and this policy doesn’t seem to change that,” she says.
