NC president and other senior leaders of the party have overruled resignation from the government. The message from seniors to juniors is simple-it is time to survive on all costs including zero governance. In short Gupkar has turned into the veranda of surrender.
Dr. Ashraf Zainabi
In the heart of Srinagar, lies a place called Gupkar, where private residences of Kashmir’s popular politicians including Abdullah’s are present. For several decadesGupkar has remained as a castle of the kingdom where kings rested, ruled, and laughed. But since the abrogation of Article 370 and more so since Omar sarkar in a UT setup, the scenes in andoutside of the Gupkar seemlifted from allegory rather than contemporary politics. One can almost picture Sheikh Farooq, the seasoned patriarch, leaning on the veranda of the family residence, surveying the region he once governed with authority. Beside him stands Sheikh Omar, his only son, heir to both legacy and expectation. The counsel from Farooq to Omar is clear: “It is time to survive, not to fight.
In politics, there are moments when leaders reveal not just what they think but how they view their people. One such momentabout current UT government leadership is imagined in this piece. Imagination has been drawn from non-hindi movies wherein once the powerful kingdoms bow or surrender to other powerful. And an old king advises his young and energetic prince, in order to survive, don’t fight with otherpowerful.The Prince says to his father—the king, what about our people (subjects), the king replies, leave them to other powerfuls mercy. Ultimately those once powerful kingdoms doomed for all together and for ever but the people (subjects) remained.
This is not simply about a father advising his son. It is about how politics in J&K has come to be understood and practised. Farooq Abdullah is not a minor player in Kashmir’s history. He has been Chief Minister multiple times, Union Minister, and a voice of the region in national politics. His image, once forceful, carried both charisma and controversy. But in his later years, what remains is not the vigour of the past but the instinct to hold on, to avoid risks, to counsel retreat. Omar Abdullah, who once represented generational change and hope for modernised governance, finds himself constrained. The region has changed dramatically since the abrogation of Article 370 in 2019. The Union Territory structure has narrowed political space, and the old formulas of negotiation no longer apply. Omar’s dilemma is sharp: inherit his father’s caution, or strike out in a landscape where the cost of boldness may be high.
Every leader faces the temptation of survival politics—choosing to preserve office and influence rather than taking risks for the people. In J&K, this temptation is especially strong. The environment is fraught, the powers of local leadership reduced, and the shadow of central authority looms large. The language of survival may keep individuals safe, but it weakens the bond between rulers and ruled. It reduces politics to self-preservation, leaving citizens exposed to uncertainty without a strong advocate. The veranda of Gupkar is not just an image; it is a metaphor for this style of leadership. From there, one can see the valley stretching across Dal Lake, the hills, and the restless city. It offers perspective without participation. It allows leaders to calculate risks while standing apart from them. But leadership cannot be conducted from a veranda. Watching is not the same as acting. The counsel to survive may protect the Abdullahs as a family, but it does little to reassure the people waiting for leadership. A kingdom—or in this case, a region—cannot thrive if its rulers choose retreat over responsibility.
“The people of Jammu and Kashmir, having endured generations of political disappointments, value courageous and principled leadership over mere performance or cautious political maneuvering. They demand leaders who are willing to stand firm, defend their honor, and speak clearly on their behalf, regardless of the high personal or political cost, viewing caution as a failure to protect citizens.”
For the people of Kashmir, this caution has tangible effects. Development projects are delayed, grievances pile up, and the sense of political disempowerment grows. The Abdullahs, who once spoke with a measure of authority, now appear to whisper their words carefully, fearing to say too much. Citizens recognise the difference between prudence and withdrawal. Prudence protects the people; withdrawal protects only the leaders. Increasingly, it seems the latter has taken hold.
Omar Abdullah is not simply the son of a cautious father; he is a politician in his own right, with decades of experience, both as Chief Minister and as a parliamentarian. He has the chance to read his father’s counsel differently. To survive need not mean to surrender. Political prudence can coexist with courage. It is possible to speak firmly, to defend citizens’ dignity and interests, even while navigating the reality of limited power in a Union Territory. But that requires a conscious decision: to move from the veranda into the square, from caution to conviction. The younger Abdullah must decide whether he wants to inherit not only the family name but also its growing reputation for hesitancy.
History, whether in Kashmir or elsewhere, has not been kind to leaders who choose survival over duty. Rulers who retreat into caution eventually lose both respect and authority. Survival may extend a career, but it does not build a legacy. The people of J&K have lived through generations of broken promises, compromises, and political manoeuvres. They understand better than most that leadership without courage is little more than performance. In their collective memory, those who stood firm—even when defeated—are remembered more kindly than those who played safe and left citizens unprotected. Gupkar at 2025 is not only a critique of the Abdullahs; it is a mirror for J&K’s politics. The valley does not need leaders who are reckless. But it does need leaders who are willing to defend honour alongside survival. The people expect to see someone speak for them clearly, even if the cost is high.
What they receive instead is hesitation, delays, and muted words. The political vacuum left by this caution is filled not by hope but by frustration. And in that frustration lies the danger of alienation, disengagement, and erosion of trust. This is not about one family or one residence on Gupkar Road. It is about the meaning of leadership in a region where trust is fragile and the stakes are high. For J&K, the issue is not whether the Abdullahs survive as politicians. The real issue is whether citizens feel defended, represented, and respected. Survival alone cannot secure that. Only leadership that combines prudence with courage can. As Farooq Abdullah continues to guide his son with words of caution, the future of J&K politics hangs on how Omar interprets them. Will he accept survival as the highest principle, or will he attempt to blend it with honour, risk, and responsibility? The people of the valley are watching. They have heard the counsel from the veranda. They wait now to see whether their leaders will step down from it and face the storms directly. History will not remember those who merely survived. It will remember those who chose to defend their people, even when survival was uncertain.
(The author is a teacher and a researcher based in Gowhar Pora Chadoora of Central Kashmir’s Budgam district. The views, opinions and conclusions expressed in this article are those of the author and aren’t necessarily in accord with the views of “Kashmir Horizon”)
