[{"postImg":{"cover":{"webp":"https://assets.ramen.101reporters.com/imgs/2026/7/826*532/101RPT3282338/op.webp","original":"https://assets.ramen.101reporters.com/imgs/2026/7/826*532/101RPT3282338/op.png"},"largeCard":{"webp":"https://assets.ramen.101reporters.com/imgs/2026/7/724*425/101RPT3282338/op.webp","original":"https://assets.ramen.101reporters.com/imgs/2026/7/724*425/101RPT3282338/op.png"},"smallCard":{"webp":"https://assets.ramen.101reporters.com/imgs/2026/7/333*138/101RPT3282338/op.webp","original":"https://assets.ramen.101reporters.com/imgs/2026/7/333*138/101RPT3282338/op.png"},"metatags":{"whatsappUrl":"https://assets.ramen.101reporters.com/imgs/2026/7/300*200/101RPT3282338/op.png","facebookUrl":"https://assets.ramen.101reporters.com/imgs/2026/7/1200*630/101RPT3282338/op.png","twitterUrl":"https://assets.ramen.101reporters.com/imgs/2026/7/4096*4096/101RPT3282338/op.png"}},"_id":"6a577e30f5460b402bfca2d6","postId":"101RPT3282338","postTitle":"Kashmir's rising heat is exposing a blind spot in rural healthcare","postDate":"2026-07-15T12:33:52+05:30","content":"

Pampore, Jammu and Kashmir: By the time the afternoon sun settles over Pampore's orchards, some workers head home early; others retreat into the shade before returning to the fields. The situation is new for everyone as Kashmir’s summers are turning increasingly intense.

On June 19, 2025, Srinagar recorded 35.2°C, its hottest June day in 20 years and seven degrees above the seasonal average, according to the India Meteorological Department. Just over two weeks later, on July 5, the city touched 37.4°C — its highest July temperature in more than 70 years.

Showkat Ahmad, an orchard worker in his late forties from Samboora village in Pampore, spends long hours outdoors during harvest season. One afternoon, after hours in the heat, he grew dizzy. \"I thought I hadn't eaten enough that morning,\" he said. \"I went home thinking some rest would make it better.\" When the dizziness continued into the next day, he went to a nearby health centre and was treated for dehydration and weakness — oral rehydration salts, medication, two days off work. Heat was never mentioned.

His experience captures a larger problem: heat illness rarely announces itself. It looks like dozens of everyday complaints.

Quiet heat

For 22-year-old Ayaan Ahmad of Namblabal (name changed on request), the symptoms were more dramatic. \"It was extremely hot,\" he recalled. \"As soon as I reached home from college, I felt breathless. When I stood up, I became dizzy. Suddenly everything went blank. I couldn't see anything. I started shivering and my heartbeat became very fast.\" Friends rushed him to the Government Hospital in Pampore, where doctors found his oxygen saturation slightly low and his heartbeat unusually fast. He was given two injections and a sublingual medicine; an ECG later came back normal. \"Later, the doctor told me it had happened because of the heat,\" he said.

Zareefa Begum, 60 (name changed), spends most afternoons tending vegetables behind her home. She dismissed her own symptoms. \"My daughter keeps telling me, 'Drink enough water, it's because of the heat,'\" she said. \"I tell her I'm simply getting older. Every summer feels harder with age. Heat is just an excuse.\" She has never sought care for the headaches and exhaustion that recur every summer, chalking them up to age.

Dr. Altaf Shah, Senior Medical Officer at District Hospital Pulwama, said the hospital has treated about a dozen heat-related cases this summer — but in Kashmir, heat usually acts as an aggravating factor rather than a standalone diagnosis. \"Symptoms are frequently overshadowed by illnesses such as dehydration, fever, headache or general exhaustion,\" he said. \"Diagnosis depends on a strong history of heat exposure and clinical assessment.\" Signs commonly overlooked, he added, include low blood pressure, a burning sensation in the eyes and face, neck pain, dry mouth and reduced urine output — symptoms easily pinned on other illnesses if recent heat exposure isn't considered. He could not point to a specific case where heat illness was first diagnosed as something else and later reclassified; more often, he said, heat worsens existing conditions or blurs into routine complaints.

Dr. Prashanth N Srinivas, a public health physician and Senior Fellow at the Institute of Public Health, Bengaluru, agreed the clinical picture is easy to miss. \"The clinical picture of heat illness overlaps with many common conditions, and frontline records usually capture only the immediate complaint,\" he said. \"Doctors rarely record heat as the environmental trigger, which is why the true burden often remains invisible.\" Early signs — fatigue, dizziness, cramps, nausea, weakness — are the easiest to overlook; if the condition progresses to heatstroke, patients may develop confusion, altered behaviour or collapse, often without obvious fever. In older adults or those with heart, kidney or respiratory disease, heat tends to trigger existing conditions rather than present on its own; even younger patients may simply collapse, obscuring the heat exposure underneath.

That gap shows up in the records themselves. District Hospital Pulwama keeps no separate OPD register for heat-related illness — patients are logged under their presenting diagnosis, not heat exposure, making the true caseload impossible to determine. Dr. Srinivas said heat-related deaths are undercounted for the same reason: the final medical event — cardiac, respiratory — gets recorded, not heat's role in triggering it. Without reliable local data, he said, health systems struggle to plan cooling measures, staffing, supplies or early warning systems.

The adaptation lag

Dr. Srinivas frames this as a lag in adaptation. \"People and health systems in places like Kashmir have long adapted to mild summers,\" he said. \"As temperatures rise, recognizing heat illness becomes harder because it has never been high on the list of clinical or public suspicion.\" Housing, clothing, work routines and infrastructure were all built for a cooler climate, he said — rising temperatures are now testing those systems as much as human physiology.

Training frontline health workers to recognise and manage heat illness is a standard component of India's Heat Action Plans, though assessments consistently find clinical and institutional readiness among the weakest parts of implementation. In Pulwama, Dr. Shah said there is currently no dedicated Heat Action Plan for Pampore or the district — heat-related illness is still considered relatively uncommon, and patients are managed through routine outpatient services. Those most at risk, he said, are roadside vendors and others who spend long hours outdoors with little protection from direct sun. Kashmir remains milder than much of India, but he expects rising urbanisation and environmental degradation to push heat-related risk higher in the years ahead.

Cover Image - Man splashing water to seek relief from the afternoon heat ( Photo - Parsa Tariq, 101Reporters )

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In Litter village, changing snowfall patterns are colliding with the decline of collective water management, leaving canals dry and farmers struggling.

Pulwama, Jammu and Kashmir: In Litter village of south Kashmir's Pulwama district, the canals that once carried water through most of the year now run shallow, reduced to thin, uncertain streams.

For farmers like Bashir Ahmad Kullay (56), the change has not arrived as a single event. It has unfolded slowly, winter after winter, as snowfall has thinned, melted faster, and disappeared earlier than it used to.

\"Earlier, rivers and canals had water for most of the year,\" Kullay said, standing beside a narrow irrigation channel that cuts across his fields. \"Now, because snowfall is low, water levels have dropped sharply. Farming has become difficult.\"

Last year, he recalled, the pattern itself seemed to shift. There was excess water early in the season, followed by a dry July. The snow that should have sustained irrigation into summer had already melted away.

\"Water came at the wrong time,\" he said. \"The paddy had just been transplanted. It needs standing water then. But the fields had already started drying. The crops were damaged.\"

What farmers like Kullay are describing is not just a decline in snowfall, but a deeper breakdown of Kashmir’s irrigation system, one that depended both on snow stored in the mountains and collective management on the ground. Both are now weakening at the same time.

A picture revealing the condition of the dried canals (Photo - Zeeshan Shabir)

A system under strain

Litter village is surrounded by paddy fields and orchards, with a network of narrow irrigation canals running through the farmland. These canals draw water from feeder streams connected to the Rambi Ara, a river that originates in the Pir Panjal range and flows through parts of Shopian and Pulwama before joining the larger Jhelum river system.

Residents said that the changes are visible not just in the canals, but upstream as well.

Some pointed to illegal extraction of sand, gravel and boulders from the Rambi Ara stream near Lassipora. A local resident said that the mining usually takes place at night.

“Rambi Ara flows past our area, and people extract boulders and gravel from it in Lassipora,” he said. “They bring machines like JCBs and trucks and work during the night. It’s not just one or two tippers, sometimes dozens of truckloads are taken out in a single night. Because of this, the water level has gone down.”

Residents say the reduced water level has affected the amount of water entering irrigation canals in nearby villages.

For generations, irrigation in villages like Litter functioned as a shared system. Snow accumulated in the Pir Panjal mountains through winter and melted gradually, feeding streams that were diverted into canals. These canals, in turn, were maintained both by government departments and by villagers themselves.

Before each agricultural season, residents would collectively clear silt from smaller channels, ensuring water reached fields across the village, including those at the tail end.

That system is now weakening.

Maintenance of the canal network officially falls under the Irrigation and Flood Control Department. Residents say that in earlier years, villagers would also collectively clear silt from smaller channels before the irrigation season began. But farmers say such community efforts have declined over time, leaving most maintenance dependent on government departments.

As that collective system has eroded, delays in state response have become more visible.

Kullay added that maintenance often comes too late. \"Canal cleaning is the responsibility of the irrigation department. But the work usually starts during the farming season.\"

A field supervisor in the irrigation department said: “If we clean the canals too early, they fill with silt again by the time farmers begin transplanting paddy.”

Paddy cultivation is impacted by the dried canals (Photo - Zeeshan Shabir)

Snow is no longer reliable storage

A growing body of research suggests that snow cover in Jammu and Kashmir has been steadily declining, with sharper reductions observed in recent years. This winter offered a stark example. During Chillai Kalan, the 40-day period traditionally associated with the heaviest snowfall, large parts of the Valley recorded a severe precipitation deficit, leaving little snow to sustain water flow later in the season. Without sufficient snowpack, whatever snow does fall now melts quickly, sending water downstream early and leaving little for the months when crops need it most.

\"Snowfall patterns in Kashmir are shifting,\" said Sanjeev Singh Parihar, a water resources engineer who works on hydrology, watershed management, and climate-linked water systems. \"A greater proportion of winter precipitation is falling as rain instead of snow, and the accumulated snow is melting earlier than it historically did.\"

Snowpack, he explained, traditionally acted as seasonal storage. \"With reduced snow accumulation and earlier melt, water availability during the peak agricultural season, especially June and July, is declining.” Warmer temperatures are advancing the snowmelt cycle, shifting peak river discharge earlier by several weeks.

\"This results in relatively higher flows in March or April, followed by reduced discharge during peak crop water demand months,\" Parihar said. \"For farmers cultivating paddy, which requires standing water during early summer, this timing mismatch creates irrigation stress.\"

The effect, he added, is a weakening of the natural storage system itself. \"Rapid melting produces short-duration high flows rather than sustained baseflow. Streams now see early pulses of water followed by low-flow conditions later in the season.\"

Residents say that in earlier years, villagers would also collectively clear silt from smaller channels before the irrigation season began. But farmers say such community efforts have declined over time, leaving most maintenance dependent on government departments. (Photo - Zeeshan Shabir)

Persistent problems

For farmers at the tail end of canal networks, the impact is even more severe.

Mohammad Altaf Paray, a 48-year-old farmer from Awantipora, said that last year, water never reached his fields at all.

\"We prepared the land, used tractors, did everything,\" he said. \"But our fields are at the tail end. When water reduced, it didn't reach us.\"

His crops dried up. \"Earlier, one kanal would give a profit of twenty to thirty thousand rupees. Last year, instead of profit, we had to bear a loss of five thousand. All the hard work was wasted.\"

Altaf and other farmers in Awantipora had submitted repeated requests to repair a government-installed pump system meant to supply water to their fields.

The pump exists, but no longer functions effectively.

\"The water level has gone down, and the pipe is above the water. It does not work.\"

Farmers requested that the pipe be lowered to match the new water level. The request remains pending.

\"It has been years. Nothing has been done.\"

This trend has pushed farmers to rely on individual solutions rather than community ones.

Across south Kashmir, farmers are increasingly turning to private borewells which is a costly shift and also encourages the weakening of shared irrigation systems.

Junaid Yusuf (30) installed a borewell on his land at his own expense, spending nearly Rs 1.5 to 2 lakh.

\"I arranged the money myself,\" he said. \"I took a loan.\"

The borewell, he said, is used for irrigation, not for paddy cultivation.

While government support exists, access to it remains uneven.

An irrigation department official, speaking on condition of anonymity, said that under schemes such as the Holistic Agriculture Development Programme, farmers can receive between 50 to 70 percent subsidy on borewell installations.

However, the official acknowledged that this support depends on available funds and application timelines.

Yusuf said he did not receive any subsidy.

\"The process takes time. There is a lot of paperwork. You don't know when the money will come.\"

According to him, even when applications are approved, funds can take six to twelve months to be released.

\"You have to spend first and then wait. Sometimes you don't know if you will get the money at all.\"

Experts say the issue is not only climatic, but also one of management.

\"Declining snowpack is a major factor,\" Parihar said. \"But sedimentation in canals, upstream changes, rising evapotranspiration, and inadequate maintenance also reduce effective water delivery.\"

Deforestation and construction in upstream areas can further accelerate water loss.

\"They reduce infiltration and groundwater recharge, and increase runoff velocity. Water drains out quickly instead of being retained.\"

Experts warn that growing dependence on groundwater may not be sustainable.

\"If extraction increases without adequate recharge, groundwater levels could decline,\" Parihar said. \"That could create another crisis.\"

Changing crops

For farmers, the shift is already visible in their fields. In Pulwama, Shabir Ahmad Bhat (63) said that there was a time when paddy stretched across much of the landscape.

\"Earlier, large areas here were under paddy,\" he said. \"But because of water shortage, people are shifting.\"

\"Now people are planting high-density apple orchards. For that, even less water can work.\"

Experts say such shifts can reduce water demand, but they are not a complete solution.

\"Moving to horticulture can be a rational adaptation,\" Parihar said. \"But these crops still depend on reliable seasonal water, and they introduce new economic risks.\"

In Shopian, Haris Mushtaq Mir (25) said the decline has been visible for several years.

\"Where we used to earn ten rupees, now we earn five. If this continues, we may not be able to continue farming.\"

Back in Litter, Kullay says farmers are adjusting as best as they can — changing crops, reducing land under cultivation, finding new ways to access water.

But adaptation, he says, has limits.

\"Farming depends on water,\" he said. \"If water is not there, what can we do?\"

This story was produced as a part of 101Reporters Climate Change Reporting Grant. \n\nCover photo - What farmers like Kullay are describing is not just a decline in snowfall, but a deeper breakdown of Kashmir’s irrigation system (Photo - Zeeshan Shabir)

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As migration, distance and cost reshape family life, grief too has gone digital, from Kashmiri homes and Bihar’s floodplains to India’s first online condolence platforms.

Srinagar, Jammu and Kashmir: In Kashmir’s quiet villages, where families once gathered under wooden roofs to share their grief, mourning is now finding its way through phone screens.

Across Ganderbal, Baramulla and Kupwara, families sit around kitchen tables, holding smartphones to offer prayers for the dead. What was once communal, marked by presence, food and touch, is increasingly mediated by technology.

The reasons are simple but heavy. Travel is costly, migration has scattered families, and in remote areas, even reaching a funeral can take hours or days. For many, a video call has become the only way to be part of loss.

“Flying relatives home for a funeral would’ve cost more than I earn in months,” said Ghulam Nabi Dar of Baramulla. “We held the prayer on a video call instead. It helped, but I still felt alone without them beside me.”

“I couldn’t travel to Delhi because the roads were blocked,” said Safiya (name changed), a 43-year-old of Zainpora, near the Jhelum River. “My cousin had died there. I climbed to the roof, held my phone high, and could barely catch the signal. I finally saw him on the screen. I prayed and cried for hours.”

Digital mourning surged during the pandemic and never truly receded. Tools like WhatsApp, Zoom and Google Meet now aid in hosting condolence prayers. Imams, priests and relatives join from different cities or countries.

“Last winter, the snow had trapped us in our home for days,” said Aijaz of Kupwara. “My son didn’t know a certain prayer he had to recite at a relative’s ritual in the next village. I couldn’t be there because the roads were blocked, so I recorded the whole prayer on my phone and sent it to him to memorise. Later, I watched a video of him playing the exact recording on a speaker there. I was surprised but felt like I was part of the ritual.”

“In 2021, my brother died in Dubai,” Bashir Ahmad of Kangan in Ganderbal told 101Reporters. “Doctors advised against travel. We opened a video call and prayed for him. I cried, but I also felt peace because I saw him.”

Anthropologist Dhuri Saxena said this shift is changing how communities grieve. “Mourning has always been about presence,” she said. “When it moves online, some of that intimacy is lost. But it also allows memory to travel beyond the village, reaching relatives far away.”

Platforms of remembrance

In recent years, this adaptation has led to the introduction of new players, catering exclusively to facilitating funerals digitally.

Shradhanjali.com, India’s first online memorial platform, now formalises digital mourning. Families can upload photos, prayers and tributes in local languages.

“People thought we were encashing grief,” said co-founder Vivek Vyas. “We had to explain that we’re creating a business of memories.”

While most users are urban, Vyas said some rural families also use such services. “Those communities are emotionally more connected to remembrance,” he said. “We haven’t reached them deeply yet, but their need is stronger.”

For many others, accessible tools like WhatsApp remain the main link. In villages with weak networks, families climb rooftops or gather in courtyards searching for a signal strong enough to connect with distant kin. Payments to imams or priests are now made online; funeral prayers are often streamed through a single phone placed near the body.

For families separated by migration, online mourning is a bridge.

Families said digital mourning has become both a necessity and a form of connection.

“Even though we were miles apart, I could see my relatives’ faces and share our grief,” said Imran (name changed) from Kupwara, recalling a virtual condolence gathering attended by relatives from Delhi, Bangladesh and Srinagar. “It made me feel that we were still together.”

But not everyone is at ease with this change.

“In our time, mourning was not only prayer,” said Haji Yousuf (56) of Wagoora, Baramulla. “It was sitting together, sharing stories, helping the family with food and comfort. Now, boys and girls recite Fatiha on a screen. They send flowers through apps. I do not say it is wrong, but it feels hollow. Rituals are not only words, they are warmth.”

Cover photo - Image of Tasbeeh and a phone app (Photo sourced by Parsa Tariq, 101Reporters)

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At the shrine of Makhdoom Saab, offerings now include exam papers, resumes, and even notes about technology, showing how centuries-old rituals adapt to modern life.

Srinagar, Kashmir: Folded among the usual notes asking for good harvest, health, or blessings, a new kind of prayer has begun to appear at the Shrine of Makhdoom Saab, also known as Mehboob-ul-Alam, in Srinagar, Kashmir.

Job application printouts, exam roll numbers, and photocopies of ration cards now lie beside the threads once tied for good harvests and healthy cattle.

Document placed on the shrine wall while praying (Photo - Parsa Tariq, 101Reporters)

These slips of paper — called arzi, or requests — carry the everyday anxieties of a generation raised on digital forms and online submissions. In this shrine, they are handwritten again, offered with the same reverence as the old prayers for rain or livestock.

By the time the Maghrib prayer or the sunset prayer in Islam approaches on a Thursday evening, the narrow path leading to the shrine is already crowded.

Men and women wrapped in shawls sit along the steps leading to the grave — heads bowed in contemplation, clutching small pieces of paper.

The fading light catches the threads tied by generations seeking relief. Beside them flutter the newer papers, carefully folded and slid into boxes kept by shrine workers or through a small window near the grave when no box is available.

The rituals, tying threads, murmuring prayers near the grave, have remained unchanged for generations. For decades, people have come here with their most urgent worries, trusting that the saint listens through every season of need.

Abdul Rahim (70), a farmer said: “Hamare gaon mein ek dafa teen mahine tak sukha pada tha. Tab poore gaon ke log yahan aaye the sirf barsaat ke liye.” (Once, after a three-month drought hit our village, the entire village came here to pray for rain)

“Now, the children come here for jobs or education. For us, farming was everything and for the young kids jobs are everything,” Rahim added.

To place one’s arzi here is to hand over one’s worries to Makhdoom Saab himself, trusting that the saint’s blessing, spiritually “signed”, will help guide their prayer towards fulfillment.

To place one’s arzi here is to hand over one’s worries to Makhdoom Saab (Photo - Parsa Tariq, 101Reporters)

Constant amid the change

“I fill job applications everyday, but placing an arzi here comforts me,” said Uzair (22), who recently completed his BSc. “It feels like I am not struggling alone.”

Inside the shrine, a plastic box with its lid open waits quietly for such prayers. Some visitors travel miles on foot to reach it, limited by public transport or money, but they still come — men and women of all ages, carrying folded papers that hold their most private appeals.

When the box fills up, devotees slide their arzi through a small window beside the grave. The stone beneath it is smooth from countless hands pressed against it over the years.

“When we come here we just know that someone is listening,” Sakeena Bano, in her 50s, a regular visitor told 101Reporters.

Arif (18) agreed with Bano. “I wrote a note asking Makhdoom Saab to make my Wi-FI stop crashing during online classes,” he said, laughing. “I know it is funny, but I take it seriously here.”

Fareeha (25), said, “I submitted three job applications online today. Then I came here and slipped the same details on paper into the box — both carrying my hopes.”

Another devotee, Sana (22) told 101Reporters said, “I wrote a paper asking Makhdoom Saab to help me convince my parents to let me study abroad.”

“I get my results on my phone,” Danish (19) a student added. “Still, I write the number here. It’s like transferring my anxiety to something bigger than my screen.”

For the older generation, the worries were different but the instinct the same, said Hajra (age). “Only the troubles have changed,” she added.

But the way the prayers are made has not, Aisha, in her twenties, said while sliding her paper through the window.

The prayers have changed but instincts to place their faith here are the same (Photo - Parsa Tariq, 101Reporters)

“I learned this from my grandmother,” she said. “When I was little, she used to take me to shrines and tie knots for a good husband. Now I come here bringing a copy of my resume for a good career.”

Behind these individual prayers, there is the caretaker of the shrine who makes sure that the walls are clean and the area is orderly so that the devotees can find peace here.

“People come every week,” he said. “Some bring papers, some just sit quietly. This grave listens to everyone.”

The maulvi who serves at the shrine explained how the community handles the arzi.

“After Maghrib on Thursdays, we offer the khutmah prayer — a collective recitation of the Quran,” he said. “Everyone sits around the grave, recites verses, and then all the papers are collected and burnt.”

For him, this weekly ritual is less about sorting through documents and more about carrying the community’s shared worries collectively into prayer, allowing generations old and new to entrust their hopes in the same sacred space.

Cover Photo - Woman holding document and praying (Photo - Parsa Tariq, 101Reporters)

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Gravediggers live with stigma, poverty, and health risks, yet remain unrecognised by the state and society.

Srinagar, Jammu and Kashmir: “People will stop eating with me if they know I do this,” said Zubair (21, name changed), a gravedigger from Baramulla. “They won’t sit next to me.”

Zubair dropped out of school in Class 10. After his father’s death, his uncle, also a gravedigger, asked him for help.

“At first I used to cry while digging. I felt scared. But now I feel numb. I just want to be paid enough to go back to college someday.”

On a good day, he earns Rs 500 to Rs 1,000 for a burial. But he refuses to call himself a gravedigger.

The label, he said, would ruin his chances of having friends, or even of finding a wife.

Young boy watches the grave his brother has dug (Photo - Parsa Tariq, 101Reporters)

Stigma and silence

Ghulam Mohammad Dar (56), who has been digging graves since he was a teenager, explained what Zubair means.

“We bury the dead with our bare hands, wet dirt, rotting wood, sometimes even blood. No one gives us gloves, no one gives us masks. People don’t care about us, and neither does the government.”

For many, grave digging is only one part of survival. Most work as daily-wage labourers, carpenters, painters, or butchers to feed their families. Teenage boys often assist their fathers or brothers. “If I had to live only on grave digging, my children would starve,” Dar said.

The stigma pushes many to work outside their own villages. A man from Ganderbal digs in a neighbouring district to avoid being recognised. “Some people keep it quiet if they know, others make it a huge topic of gossip,” he said.

Another gravedigger from Pulwama explained why he refused to be identified: “If you print my name, people will stop inviting me to weddings. They will think I bring misfortune. Who will marry into our family after that?”

Not everyone, however, views the work with resentment.

Bilal Lone (40) from Anantnag called it ibadat or prayer.

“Digging a grave is the last service one can offer another human. Even if I’m not paid, I do it for Allah.” Still, he admitted, “People often tell their children to stay away from me. Even in the mosque, some move a little farther if they know I just came from a burial.”

A view of the graveyard (Photo - Parsa Tariq, 101Reporters)

Risks without recognition

Gravediggers, however, have more to worry about than social shame.

According to Dr Farhaan ul Hassan of Sher-i-Kashmir Institute of Medical Sciences, gravediggers face occupational hazards including falls, cuts, bruises, dust allergies, exhaustion, and exposure to decomposing bodies.

“Without protective equipment, long-term exposure leads to chronic respiratory illnesses, fungal infections, joint problems,” he said. “They should have gloves, masks, posture training, vaccinations against tetanus and hepatitis, and regular medical check-ups. But they get none of this.”

Unrecognised as formal workers, gravediggers are invisible to state healthcare. There are no medical cards, no insurance, no safety training.

Nighat Jan, a Village Level Worker in Singhpora-Baramulla, said that while sanitation workers and other essential staff received some acknowledgment during the pandemic, gravediggers remained unseen.

“There is no government support for them. Not even basic tools. Society sees them as people who bring death, as if speaking to them brings misfortune. It’s not just a lack of policy, it’s a lack of dignity,” she said.

Tariq Ahmad, president of a mosque committee in Habak, Srinagar, added: “They are not paid by the Waqf Board or the government. The family of the deceased hands over money, sometimes Rs 500, sometimes Rs 1,000, directly into their hands. They even buy their own tools.”

Unrecognised as formal workers, gravediggers are invisible to state healthcare (Photo - Parsa Tariq, 101Reporters)

Forgotten

When 101Reporters met Dar he was preparing for the next funeral. “We are always ready,” he said. “It doesn’t matter if it’s raining or snowing, people want their dead buried.”

But, once the grave is covered, he walks away unrecognised, uncelebrated, invisible, until the next death.

For locals like Fayaz (34), a shopkeeper from Hazratbal, this invisibility is disturbing. “I grew up friends with my neighbour, a gravedigger. It is strange how society treats them as if they don’t exist. Why aren’t they recognised in government employment lists? Not even an ID card. What if they get injured during work? No one even knows their names.”

In Habak, locals estimate that three to four men work as gravediggers. In Budgam and Baramulla, the numbers are similar, with each locality relying on a handful of regular diggers.

Waiting for recognition

Gravediggers told 101Reporters they have lived with these problems for decades, but poverty and lack of social standing prevent them from raising demands. “We can’t afford to leave work to protest or go to government offices,” said Dar. “We are already looked down upon. No one will fight for us.”

There is no fixed institution that pays them, and no union to represent their interests. “We tried to talk to the masjid committee two or three times,” Dar said. “But no one responded. We are poor, we don’t have connections. We don’t even know who to approach in the government.”

A panchayat member from Baramulla, speaking on condition of anonymity, confirmed there are still no schemes or budget allocations for gravediggers. “We know their condition, but without a policy from higher authorities, we can’t give them salaries or benefits.”

In a rare move, the Habak mosque committee is planning to appoint one gravedigger officially and pay him monthly. “Since each locality sees only three or four deaths a month, one is enough,” said Ahmad. “This is the least we can do for someone doing such sacred work.”

He added: “Everyone should know how to dig a grave at least once. When people see this work as holy, not shameful, maybe those who do it every day will stop being treated as outsiders.”

For many gravediggers, though, the future remains uncertain. “It is not the digging,” said Adil Bhat. “It is the way people look at me after.”

This story is part of our series, 'Last Rights, Lost Rights,' about death in rural India and what it reveals about caste, class, migration, governance, and ecology.

Cover photo - Picture of a gravedigger from behind (Photo - Parsa Tariq, 101Reporters)

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