In Indian-administered Kashmir, the new Vande Bharat train glides into Srinagar railway station like a kept promise made visible. Its horn cuts clean through the morning air, scattering a few birds as a curious crowd edges closer — until a policeman in crisp khaki steps forward to remind them, gently but firmly, to stay behind the yellow line.
A few soldiers stand along the periphery — not in formation, just placed. Not enough to startle, but enough to signal. A child tugs at her mother’s shawl, pointing toward the sleek silver coaches. A young vendor adjusts his cart of watermelons, eyes flicking toward the train, trying not to stare.
The train arrives. But who, really, is waiting for it?
In a place long shaped by arrivals that show up with invitation, this new railway feels both miraculous and uncertain. For some, it is the future — fast, clean, efficient. For others, it’s just another structure laid down over quiet questions, another gesture made without hearing the room. It connects places, but whether it will connect people — or simply pass through them — remains a question.
When Prime Minister Narendra Modi inaugurated the final stretch of the Udhampur-Srinagar-Baramulla railway line earlier this year, he called it nothing short of an “engineering marvel.”
The speeches were grand, the optics carefully arranged — a gleaming train cutting through mountains, waving schoolchildren, fluttering flags. In his address, Modi framed the railway as “a gift to the people of Kashmir,” a symbol of national integration, a “development push” that would finally deliver last-mile connectivity to a region long imagined as remote, restless, and unfinished.
And the numbers are impressive. Spanning 272 kilometers (168 miles), the line winds through 36 tunnels and over 943 bridges, including the Chenab Bridge, now the world’s highest railway arch, which towers 359 meters (1,118 feet) above the river. Costing billions and years of labor, it’s one of India’s most ambitious infrastructure projects in recent memory.
But in Reasi, where the iconic Chenab Bridge stands, not everyone sees only marvel. Reports have documented how families in nearby villages lost access to traditional springs and farmlands, as construction dried streams and reshaped terrain. For the state, the railway is more than transportation; it’s a story of arrival. Of technology conquering terrain, of the nation extending its reach through stone, steel, and signal. Still, beyond the blueprint lies a quieter terrain of conversations, memories, and mistrust. And there, the story unfolds differently.
In Kashmir, a region that sat at the heart of an intense military conflict between India and Pakistan earlier this year, a project like this inevitably carries layers of meaning that stretch well beyond the issue of transportation. In 2019, India revoked the region’s special constitutional status. Since then, new infrastructure has been presented as evidence of both integration and development.
For many, the Vande Bharat embodies exactly that, a chance for easier travel, quicker access to jobs and marks, and a sense of firmer connection to the rest of the country. But that doesn’t mean history isn’t at work. Mobility in Kashmir has always been tied to questions of security, surveillance, and the control of movement. That makes the arrival of a modern railway both hopeful and complicated, welcomed as progress but also viewed through the lens of a place where infrastructure has never entirely enjoyed autonomy from politics.
In Baramulla, 22-year-old Mehvish boards the early morning train to Srinagar, where she’ll catch a connection to Jammu — and from there, head to Delhi for her graduate admissions. Unlike her earlier journeys by road, this one feels effortless. A sociology graduate from Delhi University, she now travels with practiced ease. “I can reach Delhi the same evening I leave,” she says, adjusting her scarf. “Before, if the weather was bad, the highway would shut down, and the trip would cost me three times more, both money and time. For students like us, this feels like freedom.”
Quietly, she adds, “There are more uniforms than students on the platforms. And so many cameras — you just feel … noticed.”
She doesn’t sound angry, just thoughtful, as if describing the weather. The train is a gift, yes — but perhaps one wrapped in a kind of hush, where movement feels easier than speech.
“It’s better,” she says again, as if to reassure herself. Then, almost as an afterthought: “But it’s not representation.”
Sajad, a 35-year-old shopkeeper just outside Banihal railway station, has been selling tea, snacks, and bottled water since the trains began stopping here.
A father of two, he speaks with quiet satisfaction about his stall. “All thanks to God, business has been steady,” he says, wiping down the counter. “Not many places around here see this kind of footfall.”
He watches passengers come and go all day, schoolchildren with backpacks, workers with rolled-up sleeves, people lugging suitcases. “It brings people,” he nods. “That’s always good for us.”
But even as his earnings have improved, he isn’t sure what’s changed beyond the surface. “The station is more than a decade old. Trains run on time. But it still feels… distant. Like the place is moving, but we’re not being carried along.”
His words aren’t cynical, just measured, shaped by years of living between stillness and movement. “It’s good,” he repeats, glancing at the crowd. “Better than before. But I don’t know where it’s all going.”
In a teashop near Anantnag, Parvez Ahmed pours steaming chai for a small group of passengers. He’s been running this stall since the days when the line was still under construction.
“There’s movement, yes,” he says, “but not much business.” The new train, sleek and swift, stops only at a few heavily guarded stations — Udhampur, a brief pause at Banihal, then Srinagar. “The Jammu passengers, especially on the Vande Bharat — they don’t stop to buy.”
He relies instead on locals: students, government employees, and patients commuting between Banihal and Srinagar. Flipping through a ledger with more blank pages than sales, he shrugs. “They said the train would bring customers. Maybe it did — just not for us.” He stirs sugar into tea. “Connectivity,” he adds, “isn’t the same as circulation.”
From Baramulla to Banihal, these voices offer no easy verdict. Mehvish boards the morning train to Delhi, scarf knotted, eyes alert. Sajad still unlocks his tea stall outside the station, stacking biscuits and waiting for footfall. Parvez still pours chai for regulars near Anantnag, flipping through his nearly blank ledger.
There’s movement, yes, trains run, clocks tick, platforms hum. But there’s also a pause: in Mehvish’s hesitant smile, in Sajad’s quiet uncertainty, in the weariness lining Parvez’s words.
Hope is here, but it shares space with fatigue. Infrastructure has arrived, but representation perhaps lags. The train moves forward. People often find themselves suspended between arrival and belonging, between speed and silence.
The questions remain, quiet, uninvited, but insistent.
Few can deny that the new railway has transformed movement across Kashmir. What once took long, weather-dependent hours on narrow roads can now be done in comfort and predictability. For students, patients, and workers, it’s not just a convenience, it’s a lifeline. Projects of this scale are rare, and this one, in particular, is being rightfully hailed as a feat of engineering and state investment.
In Kashmir, development often arrives like an announcement. From smart meters to tourism drives, land changes to this gleaming new railway, the pattern often feels top-down: decided before being discussed.
The train, in many ways, becomes symbolic of this approach. It’s sleek, efficient, and undeniably useful, but also distant. It’s something you ride, not something you asked for. Few recall being consulted. Fewer still feel included in shaping its route, purpose, or pace.
And yet, there’s a quiet question running beneath it all: Was anyone asked?
Consent doesn’t have to mean conflict. Sometimes, it simply means conversation. In a place where decisions have long arrived from outside, wrapped in the language of development but rarely accompanied by dialogue, even a train can feel symbolic: a connection built through terrain, but not necessarily through trust. Progress may move fast. Belonging and belief take longer to arrive.
“Cameras blink above the doors, uniformed personnel stand at certain stations, and commuters know better than to linger or ask too many questions.”
Inside the train, the mood is quiet. Passengers sit with earphones in, eyes on their phones. There’s no hum of chatter, no casual exchange of stories. It’s not discomfort exactly — more like caution. You notice how quickly people retreat into silence once they board.
The surveillance isn’t overbearing, but it’s present. Cameras blink above the doors, uniformed personnel stand at certain stations, and commuters know better than to linger or ask too many questions. It’s not just what’s seen — it’s what’s felt. In Kashmir, where checkpoints, CCTV networks and security patrols are part of everyday life, such measures are familiar, but they also shape the atmosphere and make movement feel closely watched. It’s not just what’s seen; it’s what’s felt.
In this landscape, even infrastructure speaks. The train moves — reliably, smoothly — but where it leads isn’t always clear. For some, it’s a bridge: to education, to opportunity, to a wider world. For others, it feels more like a bypass — a route that moves through Kashmir without stopping long enough to hear it.
What if development came with listening? What if, before laying tracks, the state sat down not just with engineers and contractors, but with commuters, communities, and voices too often spoken for?
Trains follow fixed paths. But people — like autonomy, like belonging — rarely move in straight lines. They curve, double back, hesitate. Not everything worth building moves at the speed of steel.
As dusk settles over Baramulla, another train pulls in. This one is local. A girl boards, gripping her bag, her face lit with quiet determination. A man steps off slowly, glancing once toward the hills before disappearing into the crowd. Same train. Different directions.
That’s the thing about infrastructure — it connects, but doesn’t always carry the same meaning for everyone. For some, it opens doors. For others, it closes questions without answering them.
The train runs, yes, but development isn’t just about motion — it’s about meaning. And in Kashmir, the real journey may still be ahead. It’s not about whether the train runs. It’s about where it stops. And who gets to decide the map? In Baramulla, Majid, a daily commuter, offered a quiet reflection. “The train helps us a lot,” he said, glancing at the platform. “But no one really asked what we needed most.”
