A Forgotten Omen of Kashmir

When I chose to take part in the project of conservation of manuscripts, I thought I was simply stepping into a world of ink, paper, and preservation. I didn’t know I was stepping into time itself. I didn’t know I would find myself holding documents that breathed, that whispered, that carried the anxieties and imaginations of people long gone.

My love for ancient records has always been deep, almost instinctive—but it was during this project that it truly became a journey. And it was here, among fragile files and brittle pages, that I stumbled upon a document so unusual that I had to pause and read it twice.

It was a file dated 6th April 1912, issued from the Office of the Chief Minister, Jammu & Kashmir State. The heading alone felt like an echo from another era: “Re: Fall of stones from the heavens.” Not a metaphor, not an allegory—an official note implying that stones had literally fallen from the sky. In the Kashmir of 1912, such an occurrence was not dismissed with scientific curiosity. It was seen as a sign. An omen. A disturbance in the cosmic balance.

The Maharaja, clearly unsettled by the reports, had ordered an inquiry. The official handling the matter consulted Pandit Jagdisji, a scholar deeply learned in the Shastras. His interpretation, preserved in ink on the fading page, was stark: the fall of stones foretold drought, and even more gravely, trouble for the ruler himself. As I read those lines, I felt as though I was looking directly into the fears of a century past. This was no dry administrative note—it was a record of how an entire worldview operated.

But the document did not stop with prediction. The Pandit offered a detailed plan of remedies—rituals meant to pacify the unseen forces that had been disturbed. A yagya for the Moon God, the Sun, the Wind, and Indra was to be performed. Devi Shanti rites were recommended to restore harmony. Offerings of gold rice were to be made. And most striking of all, a white horse was to be given as sankalp—a symbolic act meant to realign fate and seek divine favour.

The entire set of rituals was to cost Rs. 500, a significant amount in that era. The money was to be taken from the “Foreign Miscellaneous” fund and the Dharmarth Department was entrusted with carrying out the ceremonies. Even in this administrative phrasing, you could sense the urgency. You could feel the weight of belief.

As I sat with the document, the pages slightly trembling between my fingers, I realised how seamlessly the worlds of governance, faith, and interpretation once intertwined. Modern administration depends on experts, data, and measurable causes. But early 20^th-century Kashmir also depended on the stars, the Shastras, and the wisdom of its pandits. Rulers were expected to respond not only to earthly concerns but to cosmic disturbances as well.

The more I read, the more I saw a Kashmir that was profoundly attuned to the unseen. Natural events were not random—they were messages. A fall of stones was not geological chance—it was divine communication. And leadership required the ability to read these signs, respect them, and act upon them through sacred duty.

In today’s world, where the unknown is quickly analysed or dismissed, such a document might seem quaint, even naïve. Yet, to me, it reads like a rare and delicate truth. It shows that history is made not only through battles, treaties, and reforms, but through belief. Through the ways people once understood the universe. Through the fears they carried and the rituals they turned to for reassurance.

This single file from 1912 is therefore far more than an archival curiosity. It is a reminder of how Kashmir once interpreted the sky itself. Of how communities found meaning in every shift of nature. Of how rulers felt accountable not just to their people but to the cosmos.

When I finally slipped the document back into its folder, I felt a quiet reverence. In that moment, I understood something essential about the past: it doesn’t always speak through grand narratives. Sometimes, it speaks through small, forgotten files. Sometimes, it speaks through what falls from the sky.

And sometimes, it throws stones—just to make sure we are still listening.