Kashmir’s Abandoned Adams

Across a padlocked gate, Nazir, originally from Srinagar’s posh uptown locality, crouches. His eyes, peering through the iron-grilled aisle, fix on passers-by with a singular plea: “Twenty rupees.” Mind you, he is no beggar. Once a man of wealth, with property worth crores, Nazir now lingers in the haze of his fractured mind. His wife left him. His family turned away. His daughter fights in the High Court to claim inheritance. But Nazir, lost in his own world, knows none of this. Under the gentle care of Kashmir Youth Courage (KYC), he finds a flicker of warmth—a hand to hold, a meal to eat, a moment to feel human again.

Tucked in the embrace of Check, a sleepy village, just two miles away from main town of Woontepor in the south of Kashmir, KYC is a sanctuary for Kashmir’s castaways. Three rented rooms—a cluttered office, a steaming kitchen, a hall with red mattresses cradling dreams—shelter 20 abandoned and abused men.

Each carries a story etched in loss, their lives a fragile mosaic of pain and redemption. This haven is the heartbeat of Musadiq Bashir, a 21-year-old B.Tech student at the Islamic University of Science and Technology. At an age when most chase degrees or dreams of their own, Musadiq was haunted by images of the abandoned—men with matted hair, torn clothes, and eyes that held no hope. With his family’s blessing, he gave life to KYC in 2023. “We started with grooming,” he says, his voice soft but steady, “cutting their hair, giving them clean clothes, sending them home. But they’d return to the streets, broken again. So, we gave them a home.”

In the dimly lit hall, Muhammad Iqbal sits cross-legged, his blackened teeth a silent scar of his descent into darkness. Once an employee in state’s Social Welfare Department, he would be loved and respected until some intoxicant disturbed his mental framework. “My mentor made me smoke all day,” he confesses, his voice cracking like dry earth. “I’d weep throughout the night; walk from Chadoora to Budgam in winter’s bite.” His wife and in-laws turned cruel, according to him, chaining him, casting him out. He slept in graveyards, his beard wild, his body tethered to iron. KYC found him, bathed him, clothed him, and gave him a bed. When his daughters saw his story on KYC’s social media, they begged for the videos’ removal, fearing disgrace. Iqbal listens as Musadiq recounts this scary story, a tear tracing his cheek, his smile a fragile bridge between shame and gratitude. Referring to team KYC, clutching the edge of his mattress, he says, “They saved me.”

Bashir, once a top cop in Budgam, is wrapped in a velvety blanket on mattress number five, his mind fractured by the torture of militants in the nineties. His department dismissed him, his family turned away, and the streets claimed him. KYC found him outside Masjid Bilal in Srinagar, his nights on shop fronts now a fading nightmare. “His family couldn’t bear the weight,” Musadiq says, his eyes heavy with empathy. Bashir’s gaze drifts, as if chasing the ghost of the man who once stood tall and a proud policeman.

As clock ticks 10 am, the volunteers at KYC serve tea to the distressed, dejected and destitute men. One of them, Firdous, reclines on a charpoy, a beedi glowing between his fingers. A former bank helper from Pulwama, he was lured from home with a lie—a hospital visit—and left at KYC. “They gave me medicine and brought me here,” he says, smoke curling skyward. To confirm his claims, we phoned his sister.  His sister’s voice crackles over the phone: “Our father died last year. Firdous slept on pavements, turned violent. We had no choice.” Musadiq adds, “His sister is divorced, caring for their old mother. They couldn’t keep him.” Firdous exhales, his eyes tracing the mountains, a silent ache for a life stolen by his own mind.

Rafeeq, the eldest inmate at KYC, clutches a rosary, his words a fevered dance between imagined foes and buried memories. Nicknamed as Jaan Soab, he owns properties worth crores, yet was left to rot in a Tral mosque. His daughter, after fifteen years, saw him here, her tears mingling with the weight of their fractured bond. “She divorced to save the wealth,” Musadiq says, his voice breaking. Rafeeq mutters about eye drops and constipation, his mind a kaleidoscope of chaos, yet in KYC’s embrace, he finds peace.

Lateef sits masked, his story guarded but his gratitude boundless. Once a shawl seller in Karnataka, he fell to addiction and a father’s betrayal. “He threw me out,” Lateef says, his voice steady but raw. Lateef shares how her father had made his sister-in-law’s life hell in that home. For obvious reasons, the story can’t be shared. His words are a quiet fire, a promise to repay the love that stitched his soul back together.

By 1:30 pm, the volunteers call for meals. The men, ready to recharge their bellies, feel happy and rush to washbasin. They gather around dastarkhwaan, their quirks painting a scene both tender and tragic. One picks fallen rice grains from the cloth, eating them with reverence. Another lifts his glass in a diagonal dance, as if bound by an unseen rhythm. Some eat in silence, others mutter, their voices a soft cacophony of survival. When done, they retreat to their mattresses, some napping, others whispering to ghosts only they can see. In these moments, KYC is more than a shelter—it’s a family, fragile but fierce.

Musadiq, undaunted by trolls who call his work a ploy for likes, stands tall. “I had my family business and was making six figures a month,” he says, “but these souls are my calling.” With half a crore donated and a fraction spent, he dreams of a KYC for women in Bandipora, a haven for 500 more. “Come, see our record books,” he challenges naysayers. “We’re ready for audit.”  He shares all the details and documents with us as we prepare to exit the KYC premises.

As we leave, Nazir’s plea—“Twenty rupees”—cuts through the air, his beedi smoke curling like a sigh. Behind the Iron Gate, he is a man forgotten by the world but remembered by KYC. In a land where conflict has left scars on hearts, homes and hills, Musadiq and his team craft a mosaic of hope, stitching together Kashmir’s forgotten sons with threads of love, one broken soul at a time. Theirs is a quiet revolution, a heartbeat of humanity that refuses to fade.

Note: Some names in the story were changed for privacy reasons.

Tanveer Magrey contributed reporting to this piece.