The Train That Carried Hope

After seventy-five years, the Kashmir Valley has been stitched to the rest of India by rail. For most of India, it’s a headline — splashed across the front page of a newspaper. For us in Jammu and Kashmir, it’s history. Not the kind etched in textbooks, but the kind carried through years of waiting, and through promises of connection that took generations to keep. We are a family that has lived in Jammu and Kashmir for five generations — through Partition, insurgency, snowstorms, and stories that don’t always make the news. And while we’ve heard promises of connectivity before, this time felt different. For most Indians, a train is a simple thing: a mode of travel. For us, it is a metaphor for connection.

Until now, Kashmir was the only region in the country not fully connected to the national rail network. The final leg, a treacherous stretch between Katra and Banihal remained incomplete, despite decades of ambition and billions in investment. And yet this June, it happened. The train arrived. It passed through the Chenab Bridge, the world’s highest railway arch, soaring taller than the Eiffel Tower. It carved nearly a hundred kilometers of tunnels into the stubborn Himalayas. It finally gave steel to a longing that had remained, for decades, soft and unspoken.

For those of us who grew up with one foot in Kashmir and the other outside it, this railway is not just infrastructure. For us, this train carries more than passengers. It carries possibility. It opens doors for students from Shopian to study in Pune, for backpackers from Bangalore to discover Gurez, for entrepreneurs from Gurgaon to invest in Gulmarg, and for a young woman from Anantnag to board a train that takes her — perhaps for the first time — to see India as hers. It shrinks the idea of distance — not just geographical, but psychological. It also invites a deeper kind of intimacy between people who have, for too long, misunderstood each other. For many Indians, Kashmir has existed as either paradise or pain — postcard or problem. This train, I hope, allows it to be something more: a lived place. With nuance. With normalcy. With names.

But Are We Ready?

Here’s the truth: Kashmir is not entirely ready. The spirit is willing. The roads are not. We are short on trained manpower, struggling with last-mile transport, and lacking scalable infrastructure to match the incoming demand. Even today, during peak tourist season, rooms run out, roads choke, and restaurants turn away guests. We need more than pretty views. We need things to do. Cafés that stay open late. Trails that are marked. Curated treks. Many more ski lifts. Spaces for music, art, and culture to be showcased. We don’t need just footfall — but flow. Of ideas. Of capital. Of people.

There are deeper concerns too: Will this new era of access bring shared prosperity, or will it be dominated by outside corporations? Will the arrival of more tourists and investors leave space for local artisans, hoteliers, guides, and creators? Or will the Valley be reduced to a service economy, bypassing its soul? This moment brings opportunity — but it also brings responsibility.

It is tempting to view this train as a triumph. A final integration. A headline-worthy milestone in a post-Article 370 India. But Kashmir should never be reduced to a headline.Yes, this is a developmental breakthrough. But it is also — and perhaps more importantly — an emotional gesture.If it is to succeed in the long run, it must be remembered not just as concrete and steel, but as care.To quote Prime Minister Modi: “Dilli se doori aur dil ki doori — dono kam honi chahiye.” This train may be the most literal realisation of that idea. It bridges — both literally and metaphorically — not just Delhi and Srinagar, but decades of distance. But for that bridge to hold, we must do more than travel. We must listen. We must respect. We must make Kashmir feel like a place that can be entered with awe and not an agenda.

For me, and for many like me, this moment is not about celebration. It is about receiving — with grace — what our ancestors only dreamt of. It is about imagining a Kashmir that is connected, not conquered. Visited, not violated. Engaged with, not exoticised. It is about believing, perhaps cautiously, that something permanent has finally arrived. The mountains, long accustomed to echoes of longing, now carry the rhythm of arrival of tourists from around the country. Not the rumble of war, or whispers of departure — but the quiet certainty of return. The train has come home. And with it, a little bit of hope.