The Kashmiri Scholar the System Keeps Discarding

By Dr. Ashraf Zainabi

Over the past 15 years, Dr. Altaf Lala (name changed) has buried countless desires and ambitions in the depths of his heart. His life, though outwardly composed, tells a far more complex and poignant story beneath the surface.

Recently we both were in Srinagar hospital to attend a common friend. After the rasm-e-khabar, we went on a stroll to Dal Lake. It was a cold winter evening in Srinagar. The mist curled around the streetlights, and the air carried the familiar scent of burning wood from distant chimneys. Dr. Altaf and I walked slowly along the boulevard, his hands deep in his jacket pockets, his thoughts heavier than the damp winter sky. To any passerby, he looked like any other man lost in thought. But beneath his quiet demeanor lay a graveyard of buried aspirations, unspoken pain, and silent struggles.

For over a decade, Altaf had devoted himself to academia. A PhD, a postdoctoral fellowship, research papers in reputed journals—each a testament to years of sacrifice. He had cleared NET and SET, proving his merit, hoping that one day, all this effort would translate into a secure, dignified career. But in Kashmir, where bureaucracy and unpredictability rule, that hope was an illusion. He missed regular appointments two times by a fraction of points — by decimals 0.10 and 0.40 respectively. 

Now he is working as a contractual lecturer in one of the GDC’s of Kashmir. He gets hired and fired every seven to nine months at the whims of officials who had never set foot in a classroom. Each year ends in uncertainty, his contract renewal hanging in the air like a death sentence waiting to be issued. There were no guarantees, no stability—only endless waiting, only new policies that seemed designed to keep people like him in limbo. 

At home, the stress took its toll. His parents, once proud of his achievements, had grown weary of his unstable career. His father would sigh in frustration, “What was the use of all those degrees if you can’t even secure a proper job?” His mother, though kinder, could not hide her worry. She had seen other young men—less qualified, less ambitious—settle into government jobs, buy homes, start families.

Marriage had been another battlefield. The first proposal fell through when the bride’s family learned he had no permanent job. The second ended in a bitter argument between relatives—”What kind of future can he offer?” they had whispered. And the third, the one that had actually turned into marriage, quickly collapsed under the weight of financial instability and societal pressure. His wife, once understanding, grew resentful. The love that had once united them eroded under the constant stress of uncertainty. Eventually, she left.

Relatives weren’t any better. They measured success in government salaries, land ownership, and social status. In their eyes, Adil was a failure. The whispers at family gatherings, the casual taunts from uncles and cousins—”So, still waiting for that job? Maybe it’s time to start a business instead.” They laughed, unaware—or perhaps indifferent—to the damage their words inflicted.

The locality was no different. Neighbors who once admired his academic achievements now spoke of him with pity. The fruit vendor outside his home greeted him with, “Doctor Sahib, any news yet?” The tone wasn’t one of respect, but of quiet mockery.

But the worst part of it all was what it did to him. The sleepless nights, the stress-induced headaches, the gnawing anxiety that never left him. His health had deteriorated—gastric issues from constant stress, migraines that made it impossible to focus, and a weight loss that everyone noticed but no one spoke about.

That evening, as we sat by the Dal Lake, we noticed an elderly man feeding pigeons. Something about his solitude drew Altaf in. Without thinking, he sat beside him.

“The pigeons always come back,” the old man said, breaking the silence. Altaf glanced at him, unsure how to respond. “But people, they leave. And sometimes, they take parts of us with them.” Man continued. Altaf felt his throat tighten.

“I spent my life teaching,” the man continued. “Decades of service as contractual lecturer in GDC’s of J&K, I watched my students become bureaucrats, officers, professors. I was discarded every seven to nine months, only to get hired again for another nine months.” Altaf looked away, his own future flashing before him. “You are too young to let your heart turn into a graveyard,” the old man said, his voice soft but firm.

With this brief conversation we left the elderly man feeding the pigeons. We reached our homes. I called Altaf next morning to enquire about him. He informed me, that night he sat at his desk, staring at his research notes, the ones he had abandoned in despair. He picked up his pen, not to write another job application, not to prove his worth to those who would never see it—but to reclaim what was his.

Because if the system refused to see his value, he would not let it bury him alive. His battle was not just for a job—it was for dignity, for self-respect, for the right to exist beyond the rules of a game rigged against him. Some battles are not won overnight. Some struggles stretch across lifetimes. But as long as a voice remains, as long as a mind refuses to surrender, no matter if heart becomes a graveyard of emotions. And in that defiance, in that refusal to be silenced, lies the hope of something greater.

Today, Altaf and thousands like him in Kashmir aged forty and above, not eligible and worthy by the definitions set by the system, are sailing the same boat.

• –  The author is a Chadoora-based teacher-researcher, and Advisor at The Nature University, Kashmir. 

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