Kashmir's Timeless Culture of Ageing Well

As science pushes the boundaries of ageing, a Kashmiri judo coach wonders if the secret to longer, happier lives lies not in labs, but in orchards, poetry, and the slow rhythm of home.

- Kabra Altaf

In the hills above Shopian, there was a man known only as “Mujah Baba.” No one knew his real name or age. He kept bees. He drank a glass of raw milk every morning. His skin was leather, but his grip was strong enough to break open walnuts.

Some said he was 100. Others said older. He never said anything. Just smiled and went on collecting honey like time owed him nothing.

I think of him often these days, especially when I read about scientists promising to extend life with stem cells, gene editing, precision pills. They say we could soon live to 120, maybe more. But I wonder: what for?

In Kashmir, we've already seen people stretch the limits of age. They did it without doctors. Without diagnostics. They did it quietly, by living the kind of life that’s disappearing fast.

It wasn’t built on supplements or gym memberships. It was built on hard work, silence, and a kind of patience you don’t learn from books.

There was rhythm to their days. They rose before the sun, worked in fields, walked to springs for water, and returned home with stories carried on their shoulders like firewood.

Meals were simple but complete. Roti and rice, curd, homegrown vegetables, fruits like bananas, apples, mulberries; eggs fresh from backyard hens; chicken or meat when available. All of it was cooked with what came from their own land. Nothing was artificial, nothing came with a barcode.

They didn’t snack. They didn’t scroll. They chewed slowly and rarely ate alone.

Longevity wasn’t something they spoke of. It just happened. Because they didn’t fight time. They moved with it. Now, things are changing.