Valley's Invisible Watchmen

For over a century, lumberdars and chowkidars have served as the state's local eyes and ears. But as Kashmir's population exploded, these village gatekeepers stayed frozen in time-without tools, training, or support. Now, many are ghosts on paper.

- Mohammad Amin Mir

In a busy alley of Anantnag's Lal Chowk, a shopkeeper folded his arms and squinted under the soft flicker of a streetlight. "There is a chowkidar here," he said, "at least on paper. But if you ask me who he is-I couldn't tell you.

Around him, traffic hummed, lights blinked from rooftop cameras, and neighbours passed without a second glance. "We've learned to watch over ourselves."

That's not how it was supposed to work.

For over a century, Kashmir's local administration has leaned on two posts that once served as the backbone of rural and semi-urban order-the lumberdar and the chowkidar.

Part colonial creation, part social role, they were village-level insiders meant to serve as go-betweens for the people and the state.

One kept records, resolved disputes, and helped with land and revenue matters. The other kept vigil, kept peace, and kept watch.

But the world changed, and they didn't.

Back when the British set up the system, the math made sense: one lumberdar or chowkidar for every 100 families in a village. In some towns, it stretched to 150.

Today, that ratio is a distant memory. The population of Jammu and Kashmir has grown more than five times since 1947. In areas like Baramulla and Pulwama, what were once sleepy settlements are now semi-cities.

Yet the number of lumberdars and chowkidars remains mostly unchanged.