Suhail Dar/ Shah Hilal
Javid Ahmed Khan, a resident of Sarnal Bala, visited Rani Bagh every evening.
He had been coming here for decades, long before it was a public park, back when a historic building stood in its place—one that elders in Anantnag believed dated back to the Mughal era.
Today, all that remained were benches, dust, and the silence of a forgotten past.
“Tis was not just a park,” Javid said, watching children play where the old structure once stood. “It was a piece of our history, but we dismantled it with our own hands.”
Despite being one of the first towns in the Valley, Anantnag lacked documented records of its architectural heritage. Oral histories suggested that the structure inside Rani Bagh was once a Mughal caravanserai or a military post, but there was no concrete proof.
Later, under the Dogra rule, it was turned into a garden during the 19th and the 20th centuries. By the time Javid was a child, the structure had become the Rani Bagh School, a government girls’ higher secondary institution.
Then, under the PDP- Congress government, a proposal was submitted by senior citizens of the town to demolish the building and convert the school into a public park.
“It was decided in meetings, right here in Anantnag, i was a part of the meetings, i tried to speak it,” Javid recalled, adding, “Sarkarein vote gareebon se leti hain, sunte bas ameeron ka hai.” (The governments seek votes of the poor, but they only listen to the rich)
“Respected citizens argued that the town needed open spaces, that a school had no place inside a park. Some said the building had no historical value. Others simply did not care,” Javid told The Kashmiriyat.
The media celebrated the decision, he said, under the tag of “decongestion of the town,”, he said. Javid Ahmad Khan, who is a teacher bh profession said, “The scars of the town over its heritage are a giving of the same people who are mourning the loss of Chinars today.”
Javid remembers that the decision was made swiftly by the Mufti Mohammed Sayeed led government. Within days, the structure was torn down, and a new park was built in its place. But for many, including Javid, it felt like a loss rather than progress.
“We have watched the wanton destruction of our heritage. We have even failed to honour our own literary, political, and social revolutionaries,” he said. “What is a Chinar tree if the people of this town do not value the minds that shaped our history?”
Among the many visitors, who are thronging the park to visit the fallen chinars is Hasina Begum, a woman in her seventies. She arrived at the park just before dusk.
She had come, as she had for days, to witness what remained of the fallen Chinars—the last of the lost legacy.
Wrapped in a black Burqa, she walked toward the stumps, her fingers tracing the rough edges of a tree that had stood for centuries.
“These trees were older than any of us,” she murmured. “And yet, they fell just as easily as the old building.”
The Environmental Policy Group (EPG) had condemned the felling of the Chinars, calling it a violation of heritage and environmental laws.
The trees, believed to be over 500 years old, had stood as silent witnesses to Anantnag’s history.
Their destruction, despite the Jammu Kashmir government’s geo-tagging initiative to preserve Chinars, had sparked outrage among environmentalists.
“This is not an isolated case,” an EPG spokesperson had warned. “We have seen hundreds of Chinars uprooted for road expansions, parking lots, and official buildings. These trees regulate temperature, preserve biodiversity, and define Kashmir’s identity. Their loss is more than environmental—it is cultural erosion.”
The Narbal-Delina road project had already claimed over a hundred Chinars.
Similar incidents had been reported in Hokersar Wetland, where trees were cut to expand government facilities. Despite the Jammu and Kashmir Preservation of Specified Trees Act, 1969, which strictly prohibited such acts without special permissions, enforcement remained weak.
“The administration must be held accountable,” the EPG demanded. “If this continues, Kashmir will lose not just its trees but also its living history.”
Javid looked around—at the children playing, the teenagers taking pictures. The Chinars were gone. The old building was gone. Only memories remained.
Javid sighed, looking at the empty space where the trees once stood. “A few years from now, children will play here without knowing what stood before. That’s how we lose our history—not in one big moment, but in silence, in forgetting,” Javid told The Kashmiriyat.
The evening call to prayer echoed from the masjid nearby. A light breeze moved through the park, lifting dust where Chinar leaves once fell.
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