A Sacred Space, Twice Violated
There are moments in history when a place becomes more than geography. It becomes the living heart of a people, their faith, and their identity. For Kashmiris, Hazratbal shrine has always been such a place.
Twice in my own lifetime, I have stood within its precincts and felt the ground shift beneath my feet. The first was on the freezing night of December 27, 1963, when the Mo-i-Muqaddas, the sacred relic containing a hair of Prophet Muhammad (PBUH), was stolen. I witnessed the devastation that swept across the Valley, a grief so deep it seemed to freeze the very air.
The second is unfolding now, with the installation of a plaque bearing the Ashoka Emblem at the shrine. Though different in nature, this act has stirred a similar unease. For many, it feels like yet another intrusion of politics into a sacred space; a symbolic desecration, echoing that earlier night when faith itself was violated.
Both moments, though separated by decades, form a continuum. They reveal how faith and politics in Kashmir are never far apart, and how the spiritual core of our society has been repeatedly co-opted, manipulated, and wounded by forces of power.
The Frozen Silence of Bakshi’s Kashmir
To understand the storm that broke out in 1963, one must recall the political climate of the decade before.
After the dismissal and arrest of Sheikh Mohammad Abdullah in 1953, Kashmir was governed by Bakshi Ghulam Mohammad, whose rule is remembered as Gouga Raj — a regime both paternal and punitive. Bakshi distributed jobs, contracts, and food subsidies to create loyalty, while crushing dissent with an iron fist.
Delhi allowed him to rule unchecked, for he was useful. The once-burning demand for a plebiscite was gradually smothered under layers of inducement and intimidation. A semblance of normalcy was crafted, but it was a false calm, fragile and deceptive.
By the early 1960s, even Delhi found Bakshi’s corruption and excesses intolerable. He was pushed out, replaced by Shams-ud-Din, a weak caretaker without authority. It was into this political vacuum that the Mo-i-Muqaddas theft exploded, shattering the illusion of stability.
The Night of Desecration
I remember that night vividly. The winter cold was bitter, yet the Valley seemed to tremble with a different kind of chill when the news spread
The relic was gone.
Hazratbal, the very soul of Kashmiri devotion, had been violated. As word traveled from house to house, people poured into the streets in shock and anguish. Prayers turned into wails, grief into rage.
The next day, I walked among the thousands who gathered at the shrine. There was a silence unlike any I had ever known, heavy, suffocating, broken only by cries of: Mo-i-Muqaddas waps karoo, aay Zalemo aay Zalemo.
This was not just about a stolen relic. It was about betrayal, about decades of political manipulation, about a people whose faith and dignity had been trampled upon. Kashmir had awakened from its enforced slumber.
Suspicion and Political Realignments
In the days that followed, one question consumed every conversation:
Who could commit such a sacrilege?
For many of us, the answer seemed obvious. Suspicion fell upon those poised to gain politically from the chaos, particularly G M Sadiq and his ally D.P. Dhar. Sadiq, once Abdullah’s bitter foe, had reinvented himself as Delhi’s trusted partner. Dhar was notorious for his cunning and his closeness to Nehru’s inner circle.
By discrediting Shams-ud-Din, the theft cleared the path for Sadiq’s rise. Indeed, within months he was installed as Prime Minister of Jammu and Kashmir. To our eyes, this was no mere coincidence. It was a theft of faith used to orchestrate a theft of politics.
Others whispered darker theories. Perhaps Bakshi himself, restless in forced retirement, had staged the drama to claw his way back. Perhaps Delhi’s hidden hand was at work, rearranging Kashmir’s political stage as it had so many times before. Even Pakistan was suspected of stirring the flames to destabilise Delhi’s control.
Amid the tensions of the Cold War, some even muttered about the involvement of global powers, especially Washington and Moscow, their geopolitical rivalries playing out in the shadows of our shrine.
In this charged atmosphere, truth became elusive. The theft was not just a crime; it was a mirror reflecting the tangled web of local and global anxieties that surrounded Kashmir.
Delhi’s Direct Intervention
The crisis forced Delhi to act. Prime Minister Nehru sent B.N. Mullik, head of the Intelligence Bureau, to Srinagar to take charge. Within days, the relic was “recovered.”
The official story claimed it had been found intact, and a panel of religious scholars was hastily convened to verify its authenticity. They declared it genuine. But for many of us who stood there that day, the process felt too rushed, too orchestrated.
The relic had been returned, but trust had been stolen forever. Faith had been managed like a political tool, and the people knew it. If Delhi hoped to pacify the Valley, it miscalculated. The episode only deepened the chasm between rulers and the ruled.
The Rise of the Young Mirwaiz
In those anguished days, a new figure stepped forward: Mirwaiz Maulvi Farooq, young and untested, yet carrying the weight of a spiritual lineage.
From the pulpit of the grand mosque, his sermons gave voice to the Valley’s grief. But they were more than words of consolation. They were calls to action, framing the theft not merely as a religious loss but as an assault on Kashmiri identity itself.
Under his leadership, the movement gained discipline and purpose. The crowds became organized, their protests harder to ignore. In Mirwaiz Maulvi Farooq, Kashmir found a herald of defiance, blending faith with political resolve.
The Shadow of Sheikh Mohammad Abdullah
Though absent from power, Sheikh Mohammad Abdullah remained the Valley’s unspoken axis. Delhi, nervous about his enduring influence, consulted him privately during the crisis.
Sheikh responded with caution. Publicly, he urged calm. Privately, he must have recognised how the episode vindicated his long-held warnings about Delhi’s interference and the erosion of Kashmir’s autonomy.
His very absence from the scene became a symbol. While puppet leaders came and went at Delhi’s pleasure, the people’s true leader remained sidelined.
The Resurrection of the Plebiscite Demand
Perhaps the most profound outcome of the relic crisis was the revival of the plebiscite slogan: “Rai Shoomari Forun Karo!” (Hold the plebiscite immediately!)
For a decade, Bakshi’s regime had buried it under subsidies and fear. But now, the theft shattered that imposed silence. The cry for rai shoomari returned with new urgency, a reminder of promises made in 1947 and endlessly deferred.
Delhi’s deepest fear was realized: beneath the surface calm lay a simmering discontent that no amount of patronage could erase.
From Crisis to Control
Delhi’s response to this awakening was not reconciliation but tightened control.
Shams-ud-Din was discredited and cast aside. Sadiq, Delhi’s man, was elevated. Under his leadership, the slow hollowing of Article 370 accelerated. Kashmir’s special status was eroded step by step, even as the process was dressed up as “integration.”
The theft of the relic, in hindsight, marked the beginning of a new phase of constitutional dismantling, one that would culminate decades later in the abrogation of August 5, 2019.
Mo-i-Muqaddas's Expropiation to the Ashoka Emblem
As I reflect on these memories, I cannot ignore the resonance with today’s events. The recent decision to install a plaque with the Ashoka Emblem at Hazratbal has stirred unease similar to what I felt in 1963.
Then, the violation was physical - a relic stolen under mysterious circumstances. Today, it is symbolic, as a state emblem presides where faith alone should reign. Yet the underlying message is the same: politics encroaching upon the sacred, erasing our identity piece by piece.
Some defend the act as harmless, even patriotic. But to those of us who witnessed the theft of 1963, this feels like a continuation of that earlier wound. It is another step in the long process of appropriating Kashmiri spaces, silencing Kashmiri voices, and redefining Kashmiri symbols.
The Unending Theft
The relic was eventually returned to Hazratbal, but the trust was never restored.
The ultimate culprit’s name died with B.N. Mullik, taking the truth to the grave. The theft remains an unsolved mystery, its silence more damning than any confession.
Today, as the Ashoka Emblem controversy unfolds, I am reminded of that night in 1963. The forms may differ, but the pattern is unchanged. Faith is manipulated, politics imposed, and identity eroded.
What was stolen then was not just a relic. What is being stolen now is not just space on a wall. Both are part of the same continuum - a slow, relentless unmaking of Kashmir’s soul.
Conclusion
The theft of the Mo-i-Muqaddas fractured Kashmir’s spiritual heart.
The installation of the Ashoka Emblem threatens to fracture its sacred memory.
Between these two events lies the entire story of modern Kashmir. It is a story of promises broken, faith politicised, and autonomy dismantled.
As someone who witnessed the night of desecration in 1963 and now lives through this latest controversy, I can only say this: Hazratbal is more than stone and mortar. It is the heartbeat of a people. To tamper with it, whether by theft or by imposition, is to strike at the very essence of Kashmir itself.
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